Out Damned Spot

And no, this is not a real dry cleaner. I'm suprised there isn't one with this name. Or at least I'm suprised that I Googled it and couldn't find one. But there should be.

This is, of course, is another visual pun. To get it, you must have a rudimentary knowledge of the most common lines from Shakespeare's Macbeth.

I know it is wrong, but I often think in puns. Someone says something and my mind immediately starts racing to think of a pun for it. Or I think of a double entendre (which is just a puffed up way of describing something that has another meaning that is dirty [i.e. A woman walked into a bar and asked for a double entendre and the bartender gave it to her]). A double entendre is often based on innuendo (which is another puffed up way of implying something dirty without coming right out and saying it). The latter word skills are useful in the politically charged world in which we live and work.

I'm not sure why I think in puns, double entendres and innuendo. I have also been know to mess with people over literal interpretations of phrases that aren't intended to be taken literally. For example I remember being asked to pass the butter to my father as a child and chucking it across the table onto his plate. I only did that once. I also would torment him when he would ask me what was on the television and I would reply, "a lamp and lots of dust." I was an annoying child.

My fascination with word play very likely led to my desire to be a writer. In college, I was one heck of a headline writer for the school newspaper. For the uninitiated, headline writers are the punsters of the journalism world. I remember writing a headline for a review of the movie Cat People that read: CAT PEOPLE DESTINED FOR THE LITTER BOX. I thought that was hilarious at the time.

Unfortunately puns are considered the lowest form of humor. Thus my writing career has remained dramatically unstellar. But blogging has channelled my base punning skills in a new direction. With the new ability to merge words and images at the click of a mouse I have been able to add this new dimension to word play that annoys more than one sense at a time.

So I think a new word for visual puns should be created. Perhaps they should be called PUN-TOS or PUNTOGRAPHS. I could be the father of a whole new field called PUNTOGRAPHY. I could rule the known universe.

Nawwww....sounds like too much work.

Snake eyes

Snake eyes (slang) "Because this is the lowest possible roll, and will often be a loser in many dice games, the term has been employed in a more general usage as a reference to bad luck."
--Wikipedia

I'm not sure I really believe in good or bad luck. But I do believe in the routines or rituals of everyday life we create just on the off chance that luck exists. I admit it. I am a creature of habit and I get a little sideways when my routines are disrupted. Today is one of those days.

Every morning, Tess' alarm goes off at 5:40 a.m. She gets up and gets in the shower. At 5:50 a.m. I get up, turn on the television to listen to the news and stumble to the shower to change places with Tess. I shower while she gets ready for work. When I get out of the shower to get ready, she is heading downstairs to make coffee. It is our ritual.

For some reason this week, Tess has been edging her wake up time a few minutes later. Yesterday she was almost 10 minutes later than normal and everything in the routine was shifted. I felt out of sorts most of the day (which would explain the Melancholy Dane post).

So this morning I popped awake at 5:40 a.m. and went and showered first. Tess came stumbling in at 5;50 a.m. disoriented completely by the change in routine. We spent the entire morning tripping over each other, trying to get ready.

Everything began to ripple out from there. I drove to the train station in a daze and other people were in the spot where I wait for the train. The train even stopped slightly ahead of the spot it normally stops. Sitting on the train, I became even more aggitated when I saw people acting differently than they normally do. On an average day, I watch the same security guard walk through the train car at the same time and stop to open up the restroom door and check it for some reason (apparently train terrorists enter through the lavatory). Today a different security guard walked through at a different time and didn't check the restroom. I began twitching.

The entire commute was that way. The train slowed down at the wrong places, it made odd screeching sounds I'd never heard before and the scenery didn't seem right. Plus the sun is shining in Seattle. What is that all about?

I firmly believe that by showering before my wife this morning I created a tear in the time space continuum and have launched myself into a parallel, bizarro universe.

By now, you have probably begun to wonder if this boy is eating with only one chopstick (I made that one up myself...pretty neat, huh?). But I'm only trying to illustrate that it is our routines that ground us. Changing up things makes us perceive things differently and can be disorienting. I believe this is why sports figures often have rituals they follow religiously before and during every game (and I'm excluding steroids here).

I think this starts in childhood (the rituals, not steroids). Tess is a grade school teacher and trust me, she is a firm believer in structure. Nothing causes chaos in a classroom like a change in routine. And I can remember having lots of little routines as a child that I was convinced made good or bad things happen (like stepping on cracks or not walking on your shadow).

But I'm also convinced that sometimes you have to break out of that rut (which is why I showered first this morning but probably won't ever again). I think the different perceptions you get by mixing things up a bit is also what stimulates creative thinking.

Which leads me to a minor digression:

I read a comment the other day someone had written on another blog in reference to my entries about Thornewood Castle. They declared they had been there and never seen a ghost. They followed that with a statement that essentially said, "There are some pretty scary blogs out there." SCARY? Me? Scary, as in 'he should work for the post office' scary?

Now personally, I find blogs with cute little Hallmark quotes and photos of kittens (not attacking things) as scary. So this could be the gist of the problem. At least I'm publishing original material and not just publishing crap somebody sent me in an e-mail or a diary documenting the challenges of learning how to play the banjo.

So cut me some slack. SCARY? Okay, maybe a little, but in a cute, offbeat kind of way, don't you think? End of digression. That's just been bugging me.

Bottomline is, I think it is okay to wander off the path now and then, but after stumbling through the bushes, it is always comfortable to find a paved road again.

It's just a thought. A scary one to some, but just a thought, nevertheless.

Melancholy Dane

HAMLET:

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that.
--William Shakespeare

I had to memorize this soliloquy from Hamlet when I was in high school. It was an Advanced Humanities class and we were studying the play. And for some reason the teacher had us pick sections and commit them to memory, punctuation and all. To this day I can still remember standing in front of the class and reciting, "Alas (comma) poor Yorick (exclaimation mark) I knew him (comma) Horatio (colon).

There are lots of interesting things about this soliloquy besides the punctuation. For one, most people misquote it as, "Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well." More importantly, it is a reflection on death.

Hamlet is mucking about in his family cemetary while some grave diggers accidently dig up the bones of Yorick, the court jester, while they are digging another grave. Hamlet picks up the skull and begins meditating on the fate of all of us. If you are familiar with Hamlet, he spends most of the play agonizing about one thing or the other and can't make a decision for the life of him. Eventually he ends up getting everybody in the played killed, including himself. So the play is kind of a downer from that standpoint.

And my point? The older I get, the more I think about death. And I'm not talking in a morbid kind of way. I'm talking in a matter of fact, we are all going to eventually die kind of way. Oddly enough, thinking about it that way gives me comfort. For me, it helps me live. It's an absolute, so why should I waste energy standing on a rock shouting about the unfairness of it all.

I'm pretty much convinced that the only reason organized religion exists is to try and hedge on the inevitability of death. Religion is that safety net that you hope will help you bounce back after you die and land in a better place. Obviously I don't buy the heaven-hell scenario. I've been a bureaucrat too long to believe that anyone, even a god, could keep track of the paperwork that would determine who goes where after we die.

I do believe something lives on after we die. I think the psychologists call it the collective conscious or unconscious. Basically we are born with certain knowledge that is shared by all. Logic just dictates that humans would never have evolved if each person starts from scratch when they are born and none of their knowledge or experience lives on after they die.

In a sense, blogging seems to be an organized way to tap into and put things back into the collective conscious. This would explain why millions of people seem to arrive at the same topics to blog on, including, I'm sure, this one.

Anyway, this all started because I thought it would be funny to put a Great Dane's head on Hamlet. After all, it is the Year of the Dog and Hamlet was known as the Melancholy Dane. That makes this a visual pun for those of you keeping track of such things. Plus it is unofficially animal week at Dizgraceland.

I don't think I'd like to be a penguin

I like penguins. So don't flame me because I say I don't want to be one. It's just that I saw the film, March of the Penguins and frankly, their lives sort of suck.

I mean, what do you have to look forward to if you are an Emperor Penguin? You spend the first few months of your life with your father sitting on top of you. You eat regurgitated fish several times a day. As you soon as you are old enough to waddle, you take a forced hike to the ocean in subzero weather. You basically are on your own swimming and fishing for a couple of years and boom, you trudge 100 miles through the snow back to the barren tundra where you were born.

When you get there, you take part in a penguin version of speed dating with a thousand other penguins who look exactly like you. You mate, the female lays an egg, shoves it at you and then she runs off to a Penguin Club Med while you freeze your tail off sitting there on the ice waiting for the thing to hatch. When the egg hatches you then have to regurgitate what's left in your belly into the baby's mouth until the female returns. If you are lucky enough not to die in the process, you get to turn around and do it all over again in a few months.

So I repeat, I really don't think I'd like to be a penguin, especially a male penguin.

But they are kind of cute.

The sequel...

Cats gone wild!

Ode to a Leaf Blower that Sucks

MY driveway is covered with seed pods and muck,
My senses, are bound in a mindless funk,
Good thing I have a leaf blower that will suck,
And an extra long extension cord or I'd be sunk:


’Tis all because of my neighbor's tree,
And it's constant dropping of this organic mess,—
That thou, light-winged leaf blower will suck right up,
In some mad and endless cleaning spree
Of sucking and raking, such mindlessness,
And with all of the noise, my neighbors will wonder whazzup.


O, with suction great you sweep the ground,
A flurry of seed pods fly in with some dirt,
All the while making a terrible sound,
Filling the bag, so I must be alert!
O if that tree next door would stop dumping this crap,
I would love to cut it down with a saw or an axe,
Then I'd be inside relaxing not out in the yard,
Sucking up seed pods like some big, dumb sap;
Whoops I sucked up a rock, I shouldn't be so lax,
Oh well, at least it's some exercise, I could get rid of some lard:

Ah, the seed pods are gone, I can stop pitching a fit,
For I have what men with simple leaf blowers never have known,
A leaf blower that sucks really helps quite a bit,
And all I have to do is empty a bag with a groan;
But the wind keeps blowing, so who really cares,
And the seed pods will keep coming until that tree finally dies;
Although I am done for now, I'm still full of sorrow
It's an endless task that feeds my despairs,
When I look here in the morning, I won't believe my eyes,
Because I know the damned seed pods will all be back to-morrow.

Want to see something really scary?

Did you ever have a frightening dream that was so elaborate, bizarre and scripted tighter than a Hollywood horror flick and then wake up and ask yourself, "Where the hell did that come from?"

Obviously, I have. And I will be the first one to admit that I watch too much television and Netflicks. But it is not like my dreams seem to incorporate any of the fiction I watch on television (though I did have one particularly bizarre dream about Dog the Bounty Hunter that I don't want to talk about).

I have never really been frightened of traditional, Hollywood monsters. I respect Boris Karloff and Bela Lagose (Frankenstein's monster and Dracula) but I have seen scarier people on the bus on a daily basis.

What really frightens me are the things you can't see. The creatures in the dark that jump out at you. It was those things in a dark closet or under the bed that terrified me the most as a kid. So to me, the most frightening dreams I have are of hiding, knowing something is looking for me and I never know when it is going to jump out at me.

So where does this fear come from? Now I went through enough therapy to know that the Freudians amongst us would claim there is very likely something in my subconscious that is the real boogeyman waiting to jump out and yell, "Boo." And I've watched enough of Penn and Teller's Bullshit (their program name, not my opinion of them) to acknowledge that it could just be a chemical reaction in my brain to the Brussel sprouts I had for dinner.

If the truth were told, I'm more apt to believe that my nightmares come not from being frightened by a stuffed bunny as a child or from undigested vegetables. And I don't think they are spawned by the late night creature feature either. I think the real culpret is....

....the evening news.

Breakfast at Dizgraceland

A few cards shy of a full deck...

There is an art to insulting stupid people. You can't just can't just say to them, "Hey, you're stupid." That's about as original as those roadside diners that use catchy slogans like, "FOOD AND GAS AHEAD."

No, when you encounter a stupid person you have to look them in the eye, shake your head and say in a slow and deliberate voice some choice description about how stupid they are such as, "Boy. You are a few clowns short of a circus, aren't you?" Then you turn and walk away while they try and figure out what you just said.

There is just something pleasantly pleasing about a well-crafted idiom about an idiot. Food comparisons work well:

That boy is a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
Sir, you are a few noodles shy of having chow mein.
I'd say you were a few peas short of a casserole.
I'm sorry, but you are a few beers short of a six-pack.
Son, you are all foam and no beer.
He is a few croutons short of a chef's salad.
Hey, I think your cheese has slid off the cracker.
You don't seem to have all of your corn flakes in the box.

And related to eating we have:

I'm afraid you are about one plate short of a tea set.
That idjit doesn't have all the chairs at the table, if you know what I mean.

Structural analogies work well, too:

I would say he has a leak in the skylight.
I can see that there's a light on but I don't think anyone's home.
That boy's driveway doesn't quite reach the road.
I'd say there is a vacancy sign on his penthouse.
I think his chimney is clogged.

And transportation themes:

I don't think you would know if you were on foot or horseback.
You sir are not pulling a full wagon.
I can see that the gates are down and the lights are flashing, but there is no train coming.
Boy, your boat is floating, but someone stole your sails.

Let's not forget animals:

Son, I can see that the wheel is spinning but I believe your hamster is dead.
You are a few sheep short of a flock.
That boy doesn't have all of his dogs on one leash.
He is a few feathers short of a whole duck.

Technology and science lends itself well to putting down twits as well:

I don't think your satellite dish is picking up all the channels.
Son, I believe you are missing a few buttons on your remote control.
You are as useless as a Windows OS on a Mac.
Boy I think somebody slipped some metal in your microwave.
Hey, you should have held off donating your brain to science until you were done with it.
I think someone forgot to pay your brain bill.
His cell phone is a few bars short of a clear signal.
It baffles me that you beat 100,000 other sperm to the egg.
You may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but you do blink once in awhile.

As does sports:

I think there is too much yardage between that boy's goal posts.
Son, you are playing soccer without a ball.
He is a few shots over par.
Boy, you are surfing in Nebraska.
In the pinball game of life, your flippers are a little farther apart than most.
That kid was left in the Tilt-a-Whirl too long.
He hasn't seen the ball since kickoff.

Sometimes it is just fun to point out lack of intellectual ability:

If I had to give you a penny for your thoughts, I'd get change.
Boy, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.
When your I.Q. hits 50, sell.
I'd say you don't know whether to scratch your watch or wind your butt.
He couldn't hit the floor if he fell on it.
Son, if your I.Q. was any lower we'd have to water you.
If you had another brain, it would be lonely.
Well, I can see that some village is mourning the loss of its idiot.

And finally, just basic comparisons to everyday things:

That boy's a few threads short of a sweater.
I think he is knitting with only one needle.
He's a few colors short of a rainbow.
His belt doesn't go through all of the loops.
Son, you are a few bristles short of a broom...

...and you are as sharp as a river rock.

Reinventing Tim

"I'm tired of being Elvis Presley."
--Elvis Presley

"I'm tired of being Tim-Elvis."
--Tim-Elvis

We are who we think we are. That was the premise of an article I was reading about memory the other day on Psychology Today's Web site. In it, the author suggested that our conscious and subconscious minds reinvent our past and in the process, our futures. It's a memory thing. We sometimes remember things the way we want to. That in turn reshapes who we are or want to be.

I don't think it is a bad thing. It helps us rewrite that screenplay of our lives in hopes we'll have a happy ending.

I think the Web is the ultimate illustration of how easy it is to reinvent ourselves, at least in the virtual world. I read all the time about people in chat rooms and on dating sites presenting themselves as completely different people (including fake photos). Of course, this is not really the type of reinventing one's self I had in mind. That is just lying. If you really are trying to connect with someone, presenting yourself as single, HWP and well adjusted when you are married, obese and majorly messed up, is basically just wrong. But it happens all the time.

It's the blog world that really allows us to reinvent ourselves. I get a kick out of the names people pick for their blogger identies. Some use nicknames. Some pick names that represent a fantasy. And some just use their own names or hyphenated versions thereof. Because in the blog world, the user name becomes who we are.

Which brings me to Tim-Elvis. It started as a joke more than 10 years ago. It was the mask I put on when I ventured out onto the Information Highway and stuck out my thumb. And it was fun being Tim-Elvis. But I am kind of tired of being Tim-Elvis. So I've dug out my tools and have begun to tinker with reinventing myself as myself (or myselves).

This is not to say that I will now only refer to myself as Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent (which is catchy, but kind of a mouthful). I'm just going to start embracing my inner multiple personalities and break away from Tim-Elvis as my sole Web personna. Because being Tim-Elvis is very limited. For that reason you will very likely see my blogger profile shift randomly according to my varied whims. What won't change is the name of my blog. Dizgraceland will always be my home.

Now this is also not to say I'm changing the types of things I post on my blog (including Photoshop enhanced images which I create because I like to). And this is not a whiny gimmick to try and get more Web traffic or solicit more comments. I, Tim, just feel like I need to let go of Tim-Elvis (odd as that sounds). I'm not even sure why I feel compelled to explain something as ridiculous at this other than the fact that not everyone accepts even the slightest change in our sometimes dysfunctional little virtual community.

So ladies and gentlemen, Tim-Elvis has left the Blog and the King is more or less dead.

And long live Tim Edwin (at least for now).

The Thornewood Fairies Project: Earth Angel

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF SOUND AND IMAGE RECORDINGS FOUND ON DIGITAL CAMERA ON THE GROUNDS OF THORNEWOOD CASTLE, MARCH 2006

8:09 a.m.

Thank god it's morning. I was awake all night listening to running water coming from somewhere outside and I had this tremendous urge to get up and go. But there was no way I was going to get up in this haunted castle and relieve myself in the dark with some ghost watching.

That sound…I must go to bathroom.

8:10 a.m.
Wow, ...that's weird, I don't remember this urinal being here, whatever...Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….(sound of water)

8:11 a.m.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….(sound of water)

8:12 a.m.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh…that’s better...whoops...hey, wait a minute. This isn't a urinal. It's a sink. Oh well. A drain is a drain.

8:17 a.m.
While Tess is still sleeping. I'm going to go out and check out the garden. I’m heading down the hallway now.


8:18 a.m.
Oh god, another orb and some stupid arrows pointing at them. How yesterday…yawn.


8:19 a.m.
Okay, I'm opening the door and going outside. Cool, I love these big knockers.


8:20 a.m.

Damned fountain. Now I have to go to the bathroom again. Hmmm...no one is around. A fountain is essentially an outdoor urinal isn't it? What the heck... Ahhhhhhhhh......

8:21 a.m.
Whoops, the lions are watching. Hey, lion, hey...don't cause an upROAR…you look stoned, anyway! Ha, ha, ha…


8:22 a.m.
I’m approaching the secret garden now. The legend tells us that this garden was built on the site of an ancient fairy mound. Fairy mounds are places where fairies live. Considering the satin pillows we found stacked on the love seat in our room last night, I think a few of the fairies live in the house, too…I crack me up.


8:23 a.m.
Oh my god…what is that? Is it a fairy? Naww..it’s just a statue. I believe it is a statue of a fairy archer, though. I’ll take a picture of it. Hey dude, you look stoned, too! Smile so I can take your picture! Ha, ha, ha, ha....


8:25 a.m.

Hey, check out the chick standing in the cement pond. She’s holding a Grecian urn. Hey momma, whazzzup? What’s a Grecian Urn around here? Minimum Wage? Ha, ha, ha, …somebody stop me.

8:27 a.m.

Gross, that cherub is picking his nose. Hey dude…what are you doing? Digging for clams? What’s with the plastic owl strapped to you? Ahh, you don’t give a hoot, do you? Ha, ha, ha, ha….

8:29 a.m.

Whoa…check out the angel. Hey, Sweet Thang, it must have hurt…you know when you fell to earth from heaven.

8:30 a.m.

Hey, don't turn your back on me, baby. I'm winging it here, but you must be an angel. And is it hot out here or is it just you?

8:32 a.m.

Wait a minute…what gives? Are those fairy lights?

8:33 a.m.

Holy mother of god, what is happening here…

8:34 a.m.

Help……what are you doing…no, no...argghhh....

THE NARRATIVE ENDS HERE BUT THERE WAS ONE LAST PHOTO

Coming soon to a Blog near you!

In March of 2006, an blogger disappeared in the garden of Thornewood Castle near Lakewood, Washington while snapping digital photographs...

A few days later, his digital photos were found.

What critics are saying about The Thornewood Fairies Project:

"Why are the photos so blurry?"

"I've read more interesting plots on the back of a cereal box..."

"It's rare that a generation is able to witness work of such magnitude (and this generation is still waiting."

The graphic images are coming soon to Dizgraceland...

.... but not tonight...Lost is on...I mean Scrubs.

The Orbs of Thornewood Castle (or I think I saw dead people)

What is fear? It's just a word. You take the "f" out of it and all you are left with is "ear." And that means absolutely nothing.

Thornewood Castle is haunted. It's a fact. I read it on the Web. Chester Thorne and his wife Anna (and potentially their son-in-law) have never left the castle they called home. I knew this going in yet I have always been compelled to meet a ghost...or a celebrity...or a celebrity ghost. So as we stepped out of the car and walked toward the massive wooden doors of Thornewood Castle I felt a certain sense of uneasiness mixed with excitement. And just as we were about to knock on the door (with very impressive knockers I might add) it creaked open.

"You can't park there, you need to move your car to that open space over there," the housekeeper/cook/desk clerk told us sternly, pointing toward the horizon. I looked at Tess and she looked at me and we knew that our adventure with the supernatural was about to begin (just as soon as we moved the car).

After moving the car we walked back to the castle and stepped through the doors. The first thing we saw was a massive stairway winding its way up to...well, we could only assume the second and third floors. I snapped my first photo (any experienced paranormal investigator knows that the only real way to see spirits is to randomly snap photos and capture them with their astral pants down).

There. Can you see it? Right out of the chute I captured my first spirit photo -- a distinct orb if I ever saw one. I believe this is Chester, but I can't be absolutely certain. Take a closer look.

Yes, I believe that is Chester Thorne, the castle's builder. I snapped another photo of the nearby dining hall and boom...

Yes, another orb. I believe this one is Chester's wife, Anna. At this point, both Tess and I were giddy with anticipation. We climbed the stairs to the second floor and put our bag in the Blue Room and quickly ventured out to explore. We gasped as we entered a small room obviously trying to give us a sign of some kind..

I'm not sure what the owners were trying to tell us, but we quickly crossed the hall to the library and made a startling discovery.

There in a bookcase containing oddly enough a crown was another orb, hovering over a TV Guide promoting Stephen King's mini-series Red Rose, the exact same mini-series that had been shot in...Thornewood Castle.

We backed out of the library and walked down the hallway. And for some reason I kept thinking someone was watching us.

Despite my fear I kept snapping photos. And then I snapped the most horrifying photo of all.

The orb is distinct, massive and obviously supernatural. After brightening it up in Photoshop, I make an even more startling discovery.

This is the first orb photo I have ever taken that obviously shows the spirit taking on its more corporal, human shape. It's hideous yet compelling at the same time.

We returned to the Blue Room to face the long night ahead. That's when we found even more evidence of a force in the castle that was trying to tell us something.

All of the pillows that had been piled on the bed were now on the loveseat in the room. Who or what had done this? Why? And why so many pillows?

Ice water flowed through my veins (along with some pretty decent red wine) as we crawled into bed to face the long night ahead. As Tess slipped off to sleep, I could hear her gentle snoring as I lie awake listening and wondering. I couldn't help thinking about the movie Sixth Sense and the scene where the little boy gets up to go to the bathroom and the hideously disfigured ghost scuttles past the doorway while he relieves himself (obviously dead people have no sense of decorum). So I lay there holding it in, praying for the morning light because I no longer wanted to see any dead people and I really had to go.

Tomorrow I continue my strange and fantastic journey into the unknown and take you on a tour of Thornewood Castle's secret garden where the fairies are supposed to dwell.

King to castle

Tess suprised me on my birthday by taking me to stay at a castle. What made it even more suprising was that she hadn't been reading my more recent blog entries about my obsession with being a king or at the very least, a knight.

I had heard about Thornewood Castle in Lakewood, Washington and have been wanting to stay there even before I began my quest to become a king. For one it is supposed to be haunted and two, it was the set for the 2002 Stephen King mini-series, Red Rose (and don't think the irony of me staying at a castle Stephen King has used in a movie escapes me either).

This one was built between 1908 and 1911 by a wealthy Washington financier named Chester Thorne. Many of the materials used to build this 27,000 square foot mansion were canabilized parts from a 500-year old English mansion Thorned had shipped over at the turn of the century.

Although Thorne died in 1927, apparently he decided to stay on. The current owners, who operate the place as a bed and breakfast have apparently seen him and his wife Anna at various places within the house and in the garden (which is described as a "fairie mound" by some...not that there is anything wrong with that). Thorne's son-in-law also shot himself in the castle and some say he has been seen as well.

Anyway, we stayed the night in the Blue Room on the second floor. And tomorrow I'm going to chronicle our haunted night in.....DUM-DAH-DUM.....

Thornewood Castle.

You'll change the way you look at bed-and-breakfast's (and very likely your underwear) after you hear my strange tales.

ohhhAHHHHH....HA, HA, HA, HA, HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Oh Brother...

Time it was

And what a time it was
It was
A time of innocence
A time of confidences
Long ago ... it must be
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They're all that's left of you

"Bookends Theme" by Simon and Garfunkel

As I've been sifting through the photographs I've been scanning as part of my family tree project I've run across quite a few shots of my older brother Dan and I. That's him on the left in the photograph above.

Dan's birthday is coming up tomorrow, the day after mine. This always confused me as a child. He is my older brother yet his birthday was the day after mine. In my toddler brain, that should have made him my younger brother.

I can imagine me being born the day before his birthday pissed him off. He was the 4-year old baby of the family and boom, I came along and messed up his birthday celebration and moved him up into the middle child slot. I don't think he ever really forgave me for that.

I marvel sometimes how different my brothers and I grew up to be. Ted, my oldest brother ended up in a near nameless small town in Oregon working for the highway department. Dan stayed in Boise and became a teacher. I ended up Seattle and by default, marketing. And in this era where you reach out to someone on the other side of the world in the blink of an eye, my brothers and I rarely talk.

I sometimes wonder if it is because time creates distance that can't be bridged with small talk. It's hard to share hopes, dreams and disappointments in annual visits on holidays. I know the Cliffnote versions of my brother's lives, but that is about all. We share common parents, but not opinions or paths.

And it is not that I don't love or care about my brothers. I look at the photos and realize that they may not be part of my day to day life, but they will always be in my memories and in my heart.

So to my big brother Dan, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday and tell you I'm proud of you. I have always kept the newspaper clip that the Idaho Statesman ran about your first year teaching and I think you produced a couple of amazing children (though I don't think they realize how lucky they are to have an uncle like me). And I wanted to remind you, that just like at your wedding, I will always be the best man.

I had to get that shot in. He's my brother after all.

My Lucky Charms...

Orange, stars, yellow moons, they're always after Tim's Lucky Charm! So, in honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'm going to teach you an old Irish phrase I learned long ago:

WHALE OIL BEEF HOOKED!

Say it quickly and say it proud and everyone will think you are Irish today!

(after consuming an appropriate amount of Guiness)

Happy St. Patrick's Day anyway...

You can run but you can't Ides....

Yesterday was the Ides of March. It was the day Julius Ceasar was assassinated by the Roman Senate. The phrase, "Beware the Ides of March," was made famous by William Shakespeare in his play about Julius Ceasar. It now tends to have a connotation of doom. But as with many of those types of phrases, I doubt many people know or care where it came from or even know what it means anymore.

This would probably explain why I got odd looks yesterday when I randomly went around saying, "Beware the Ides of March." It really freaked out these Girl Scouts selling cookies outside the Safeway. I thought for a moment their mother was going to dial 9-1-1. That's what I get for trying to interject a little sophisticated humor in people's lives.

I was born near the Ides of March on March 18. I try not to read anything prolithic in that. But I usually do have a feeling of impending doom as my birthday nears. I used to celebrate it on St. Patrick's Day until I started doing my family tree and made the horrific discovery that it is highly unlikely that any of my ancesters originated in Ireland. So I'm back to celebrating on March 18 (which is just as well since that green body paint is a pain to wash off).

It's not an age thing, either. I stopped fretting about becoming middle aged after hitting 40 (which was celebrated by my friends taking me to a Hooters restaurant where I had to stand on a table while the waitresses threw chicken wings at me...it's a long story). I just have never really liked my birthday. For one, my mom wasn't big on us celebrating birthdays. Her interpretation of Christian Scientist teachings was that, since our material body didn't exist, birth and death were an illusion and birthdays didn't make sense (try explaining that to a five year old who really just wants cake and presents). Oh, she still made us a birthday cake and we did get presents, but each year she tried to tone it down a bit. By the time I turned 13 she just wrapped up a package of jockey briefs and tossed it to me on the morning of my birthday.

I have since switched to boxers (too much information, I know).

Another thing I've never really liked about birthdays is being the center of attention. I know this is very difficult to believe about a man who has superimposed his face on quesadillas, kalamata olives and more recently a Timber Wolf, but I am really quite shy. I never know how to react in a restaurant when the servers run out with a cake, slap a lobster bib around your neck, pop a bedpan on your head and sing happy birthday while beating a bass drum. It's even more embarrassing when it is your birthday.

Okay, maybe the whole age thing does tweak me a bit. I just think that whole "walk into the light" thing they associate with your soul leaving your body is very likely the candles on your last birthday cake. That makes it very hard to make a wish.

On that happy note, I'll leave you with Ceasar's last words on the Ides of March, "Etu, Brutus?"

Keeping the moon at bay

The lunatic is in my head.
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear.
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.
--Roger Waters, The Dark Side of the Moon

“Promises are like the full moon, if they are not kept at once they diminish day by day”
--German proverb

It was a full moon yesterday. I could feel it before I confirmed it with the calendar. Nothing seemed quite right and I couldn't blog for the life of me. Which is a bummer, because I'm really trying to write every day.

I did feel like howling if not writing. So perhaps I was just moonstruck. But I suppose thinking a full moon makes us looney is just an undocumented myth like the evils of secondhand smoke. All I know is that the full moon leaves me feeling a bit discombobulated. That and knowing that I very likely will not hear back from the Queen of the UK and won't receive my knighthood.

Which leads me to another big downer: I finally did find several sites online where you can get a title of nobility. The cheapest-- Peerage Confirmed, Authentic Titles of Nobility -- allows you to send in an application to be a Knight, Duke, Duchess, Count, Countess, Marquis or Marchioness. Once accepted (and you check clears), they will send you a genuine certificate stating you are whatever royal title you paid to be. The title is conferred on you by "Prince Douglas" who was "raised from the Rank of Baron to that of Prince in 1991 by the Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch (Jacobite Rite) The Lord Alexander II." That sounds pretty darned impressive to me. Becoming a Knight costs $150 U.S. And it costs $1500 to become a Duke. It doesn't say what it costs to be a Squire (sorry Mickey, The Incontinent).

Okay, call me a lunatic, but I'm thinking this deal falls into the same category as buying Sea Monkeys. I'd send in my check to get my titles and I'll end up with brine shrimp.

To top that off, I discovered the United States doesn't recognize any titles of nobility, so even if I got my certificate of authenticity from Prince Douglas, the nasty little bureacrats at the DMV wouldn't let me call myself Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent on my driver's license anyway.

Sigh. I'm going back up on the roof and howl. I think the neighbors are starting to get used to it.

But I think it still kind of freaks Tess out.

Everyone has their quirks, though.

Nine out of ten monarchs recommend a Crest!

In preparation for Knighthood and eventually Kinghood, I have begun to develop a family crest that best represents what the soon to be Sir Tim Edwin, the Fair and Flatulent stands for. Here are three potential Coats of Arms:

1) Three extended fingers stand out on a shield of royal blue, crowned by noble lion donning a gas mask in the face of all enemies.

2) The universal symbol of the gas mask floats on a sea of royal blue, crowned once again by a noble lion protected by a holy clothespin as he farts in the general direction of all who would oppose him.
3) A single match burns brightly on a shield of royal blue, crowned a third time by the royal and most flatulent lion wearing a royal gas mask.

I've begun shopping for royal furniture as well. Here's a throne I found in the Knights and Kings Shoppe at Sam's Club's Web site:

I'm picking out some new clothing as well...lots of white satin. Because everyone has heard about Knights in White Satin...

Sorry.

I'm just feeling giddy about becoming a knight.

In the service of Her Majesty

(Continued from Postcard)

Sorry about that, Ma'am, I wanted you to see my postcard so you know I already have a country to rule. It is Dizgraceland. But you probably have read my blog, so I won't go into it.

But as I was saying, I would like to be a knight and it seems the only way to become one is to be knighted by you. I did a google search to see if there was any online place where I could be knighted, but apparently it isn't like becoming a minister or getting a college degree (you can get those certificates online). Maybe you could talk to some of your people about selling knighthoods online.

I did find out that I could become a Knight of Columbus, but I would have to be a member of the Catholic Church, be at least 18 years old and pay dues. I'd just as soon you knight me if the truth were to be told.

Anyway, as I said, I would like to be a knight so I can work my way up to king. Don't worry. I don't want to be the King of the UK. I know Charles is in line for that (though I think I am actually better suited for the position than Charles...at least I have a beard and much smaller ears). I would really just like to be king of Dizgraceland and being a knight gives it tad bit more credibility (once you have knighted me maybe we can talk about the UK recognizing Dizgraceland as a sovereign state...I refuse to convert to the Euro, however).

Now I know that you normally only give out knighthoods to citizens of the UK (except for Bill Gates...excuse me, but what was that all about) and technically I was born in the United States. But I have never really bought into the whole American Revolution thing and if you look at my family tree, everyone came from England at one time or another. So basically, I'm British. I love the Beatles. And you knighted Paul McCartney, didn't you?

I also know that you generally look for knights who have done something worth being knighted for (like Paul McCartney). I have thought about this a long time and I think I am worthy of becoming a knight because:

1) I would look really good in armor (see my artist's rendition below):

2). I was a Cub Scout and almost made it to becoming a Webalo (I'm not sure what that was either but it was one step up from being a Lion and not quite an Eagle Scout).

3). I received a medal on a ribbon once from Commodore Cruise Lines (now bankrupt) for cruising aboard their cruise lines 25 times (I actually only cruised with them three times...this elderly lady who had cruised 25 times and already had one medal gave it to me...I think she thought I was kind of cute...I do want to note that Commodore Cruise Lines did make sure all of their burned out light bulbs were replaced...long story).

4). I am reading Don Quixote and he was dubbed a knight by a fat Innkeeper.

5). I chopped an entire cord of wood by myself once.

6). I am recognized worldwide as a master of the Claw Machine.

So that is the boon I seek from you fair You Majesty (see, I am already talking like a knight). I would also like to suggest a few titles I've been bouncing around to go along with my knighthood. It has been suggested that King Tim or Sir Tim isn't royal enough. I have admitted that my middle name is Edwin and would be willing to be known as:

Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent (one of the medications I take makes me gassy, but as an added bonus, pull my royal finger and I am able to fart a pretty fair rendition of "God Save the Queen.")

Sir Tim Edwin, Duke of Earl (I can fart that song as well)

Sir Tim Edwin the Nearsighted, Fourth Earl of Blogdom

Sir Tim Edwin, Royal Clawmaster and Slayer of Stuffed Animals

If any of these grab you, let me know.

Anyway, I know you are pretty busy picking out royal china and stuff so I won't keep you. But please let me know ASAP about the knighthood. I need to order stationary and stuff and start working on a coat of arms (I think the flatulent theme will figure heavily in its design).

Thank you, your majesty.

Your most humble servant,

Soon-to-be Sir Tim Edwin

Balls: Don't go near the Alley

Tess and I were invited to a bowling party last night. It is apparently the trendy thing to do these days. Make it a combination bowling/karaoke party and you pretty much know you are going into something very wrong right from the get go.

I don't know about most people, be we bowl maybe once a year and only when we are invited to a bowling party. So I don't exaggerate when I say I suck at bowling. I know everyone says that and then get all competitive when they slip on the old bowling shoes and start tossing balls. But I mean it, I really suck at bowling.

First, it affects my brain. For some reason , the minute I set foot in a bowling alley, I revert to my 14-year old self and start telling "ball" jokes. I mean, how many times can you say, "Stop touching my balls" or "I hate playing with other people's balls" and not be branded a social leper.

But let's face it, bowling is all about your ball(s). And not being a "bowler" I don't own a bowling ball and am at the mercy of the house balls (I'm sorry, but that just cracks me up). So after slipping into your rental shoes (and I'll spare you the stale bowling shoe jokes) you spend half an hour trying to find the right ball, shoving your fingers into holes where thousands of people bowl have shoved their fingers after using the stainless steel trough urinal and playing pulltabs. I'm not even a germ-a-phobic person, but this grosses me out.

My main complaint is that I never really know what to look for in a bowling ball. Should it be light or heavy? Should my fingers slide easily in the holes or should they fit snuggly (regardless, for some reason the house balls always seem to be drilled with finger holes only ET could use). Finally, what color ball should you bowl with? I refuse to bowl with a pink ball. And blue balls set me off on a whole other set of sophmoric jokes that I can't control. So I generally try to find a simple black or burgandy ball.

So we take our balls to our assigned lanes and spend another 20 minutes trying to program the computerized scoring machine with clever names like Pinhead, Alley McBeal and Guttermouth. Finally the humilation begins. Traditionally, my first ball is always a gutterball. I generally follow this with another gutterball, just to even out that first frame. Tess bowls after me and will at least hit the pins. Then the jokes begin about how much better we will all get after drinking more. But this is a trendier, catered event so we are drinking red wine and eating Won Tons and chocolate covered strawberries. Nothing pisses off the bowling gods like drinking wine and not beer at a bowling alley (though I'm pretty sure this wine came straight from a box).

Bottomline is that I broke my own record for gutter balls and people around me were kindly suggesting they bring in the bumper guards that little kids use. After two games, we had had enough bowling and I'd run out of ball jokes. We sat in on a few minutes of karaoke, but I couldn't take it any longer after an overly long and particularily bad cover of "Total Eclipse of the Sun" sung by a guy. We left and breathed a sigh of relief that our annual bowling outing had been fulfilled.

So, if you comment on this blog, please don't give me bowling pointers. When push comes to shove, bowling is one sport I'm actually pretty proud to suck at. I've concluded that becoming a good bowler is like giving up on life and just wearing sweat pants every day.

Screaming

A Screamer Discusses Methods of Screaming
by Jame Schevill

We all scream, most of us inside.
Outside is another world.
A neighbor fills her television dinner
With too much pepper and screams.
One woman stabs her door with a sword.
Another, overweight, steps in the shower
And screams, 'Fat! Fat! Fat!'
A man who takes flying lessons
Soars high in the clouds to scream.
Another dives to the bottom of his pool
Where he screams underwater.
A friend cleans his gun, screaming 'Assassin!'
I like an interior, smiling scream.
When you walk past me on the street
I nod my head to you and, smiling, scream.
You never hear me through the smile.
The inside scream has no echo.

Like Schevill, I like an interior, smiling scream, too. I find the people around me prefer that I employ that method of screaming as well.

I think about Schevill's poem sometimes when I walk through downtown Seattle, particularily in the rain. Sometimes I encounter people who scream on the outside. And in a way, I envy them.

Let's face it, screaming is pretty much programmed out of us by the time we reach adulthood. Oh, you are allowed to scream at sporting events and maybe if you are bungee jumping (or plunging off a cliff without a bungee), but screaming per se is discouraged in public places...say on an elevator for instance.

I found it ironic as a child that my father would scream at my brothers and I to shut up when we were shouting and playing. To this day, I do believe he made more noise yelling at us to be quiet than we ever made playing.

I understand, however, the need for quiet. I did, after all, work in a public library for several years while I was in high school and college. I also appreciate not screaming out in church, at funerals or while standing in a peaceful meadow or other pastorial scene (though I do believe yodeling is officially sanctioned screaming in Switzerland since anyplace that echos is exempt from screaming bans).

But I think we have lost something by being civilized and supressing our screams. Once again, I turn to great literature like Horton Hears a Who to help emphasize this point. If you don't know the story you have been living in a cave, but basically, Horton, an elephant with exceptional hearing, can detect a small civilization living on a dust speck. They are the Who's who later become famous in How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Horton hears the Who's and everyone thinks he is crazy. They decide to snatch the dust speck (perched on a sprig of clover) from him and boil it. The only thing that can save the Who's is being heard. They collectively scream their primal scream, "We are hear, we are hear, we hear." But it isn't until the smallest Who, Cindy Who, chimes in with her own yelp that the Who's are heard and their civilization is saved.

So I guess this is a metaphorical cry for everyone to scream...even it is for ice cream. Because every voice matters (even that inner child or those other voices in your head).

It would be good to be a king

Delusions of grandeur - a delusion (common in paranoia) that you are much greater and more powerful and influential than you really are

Since I will very likely never be famous, I've been thinking I could settle for maybe being a king. Having a Web site called Dizgraceland and calling myself Tim-Elvis, you would likely think that I would like to be the King, i.e. Elvis. But no, there can only be one Elvis (regardless of what countless impersonators in Las Vegas would have you believe). And I would never really want to be Elvis anyway. Because, although Elvis was and is famous, he is also dead.

That aside, I just think it would be kind of cool to be a king and sit on a throne wearing a crown and proclaim things. Occasionally, maybe I could whip out a sword and randomly knight people. Oh and servants could feed me grapes...ones without seeds, because it wouldn't be kingly to spit.

But I guess there aren't really too many kings left in the world anymore. That kind of makes me sad. So I guess I can't be a king either.

Crap.

Want to be famous?

I must admit that I have wondered at times what it would be like to be famous. I watch the Academy Awards and think about walking the red carpet and standing there posing while the Papparzzi snaps photos of me. Then I think about people hiding behind bushes, waiting for me to take out my garbage so they can sift through it. And I cringe when I think of all of those tabloid headlines screaming, "TIM-ELVIS EATS OWN HAND IN BIZZARRE TWINKIE BINGE."

So, it is probably for the best that I'm not famous.

My writes!

Snapshots

I spent Sunday afternoon scanning photos. Most of them were baby photos of me. It is part of my family tree project. I scanned all of the photos in my baby book (which documented my life through about age 3 1/2).

Scanning and editing photos, especially black and white snapshots is a mindnumbing process. And it is odd trying to bring your own past into focus...literally.

It dawned on me though, how some in some cultures, people demand some compens