More Indiscriminate Blustering

I've got too many blogs. It's the result of some mania (among many) that I've failed to reign in. Anyway, some of them are just going to disappear. Not the domains. Not my crime blogs. But, I've started some other blogs that I just can't devote my energy to. Political blogs. If I get political, I'm not going to devote a whole blog to it --at least not now. I haven't even updated this blog in nearly 4 months. And this blog, this is just a brain dump. Not that I keep all of that matter contained in one tidy place. But, I guess I'll keep this blog. But, some of those others. They've got to go. I've got domains I haven't updated in years. There's photos of me on some that don't even look like me. So, I might update that stuff someday. Or not.

I'm trying to write a novel. I started it back in 2003, maybe 2002. Then bad stuff happened. I didn't pick it up again until just recently. I was surprised at the eerily prophetic nature of some of the imagery in the chapters I had written back then. Not the plot. Not the action. Some of the scenes were just ominous in a way that scenes I have seen or pictured since have been. I know that doesn't make any sense, especially since I'm not revealing what I'm actually referring to, but it's true. I think that it has more to do with geography and other common themes than any precognition. People who grow up in rural areas live in very much the same way. Their experiences are bound to be the same in little ways. They say one's first novel is autobiographical. That may be true in some ways. I have put a lot of myself into the characters. The book takes place in familiar territory. But, it's not about my life. I'm not that great of a sharer when it comes to my life. (And, in case you know me: You're not in the book. Don't interrogate me. If and when it's published, you can buy a copy. I might even sign it. :) )

I started the Facebook thing a while back. I'm trying to be more interactive with the thing, and not be such a gadget snob. I don't understand all these apps. Flowers. Candy. Virtual stuff. I mean, I wouldn't give you this stuff in real life. And you wouldn't give me this stuff in real life. So why are people I don't even know sending me virtual gifts? I don't get it. I've also discovered that some of those that were kind enough to extend their friendship don't get that I don't get it. So, I get virtually "dumped" as a friend. It's very disconcerting. Of course, they may have dumped me because of an obnoxious joke. I do have a way of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sometimes I say the wrong thing at the right time. it really doesn't matter. It's as if I've discovered a whole, new way to be socially awkward. I can make people dislike me, even if they've never met me. It's not intentional. I'm not refusing to be social. It's just that I limit my social interaction to things I am comfortable with. Things like words. I can understand words. They're familiar. The note things. The quizzes. The other stuff. O.K., Once in a while, quizzes are actually fun. I mean the note quizzes. Not the stuff where you have to sign up to some app or something. I mean, and I can try to be friendly, but I really don't want to complicate that interaction with technology and surrendering my information to third party service providers. Paranoia? Yes...

So, now I sound all whiny and snobbish. Why would anyone bother to "friend" me on Facebook, anyway? I don't know. I'm not trying to be a snob; I'm just trying to not be someone that I'm not. I like people. That is why I do what I do. That is why I write about crime. I know that there are people out there that care just as much about what happens in this world as I do. I know that there are people that believe in justice and people that care about our children. So, while I might not send you a virtual cupcake, I'm glad that you chose to "friend" me on Facebook, and I appreciate that you thought enough of me to do so. The same goes for Twitter. I don't want to be in the "Mafia." But, I'll read your twits, and maybe you can read mine. And another thing: I don't have over 800 followers because I'm a popular, outgoing kind of guy. I followed people back and some of those happened to be twitters that were on twitter just to follow people back. So now, it's extremely difficult to keep up with the people I'm actually familiar with, as they can become lost in the jumble of marketers and gurus and web-weirdos that have accumulated due to my follow-back policy. Well, that policy is being reconstructed. I don't want to spend my days vetting twitters to weed out the porn stars and spammers.

Michael Jackson is dead. When I was a kid, I thought his music was cool. Billie Jean. Thriller. But, then he went around sleeping with little boys, and then, the magic just kind of died. I don't care that he was acquitted. He admitted that he had pajama parties with little boys. I don't care if if that's the only thing that made him happy. It's not about him. It's about the kids. And their kids. So, I'm not crying. For me, Michael Jackson died a long time ago.

Farrah Fawcett. Every boy in the world was in love with that chick. She was an American icon. There is tragedy. Life, and the people in it, can get the best of you, no matter who you are. Goodbye, Farrah.

Ed McMahon. You never did know on my door. That beware of dog sign. That was for the burglars. I guess you'll be sliding over on that sofa now, making room for more guests. Those nights as a kid, staying up to watch the Tonight Show. Those were the days.

This month also saw the death of Ko Ko Taylor, the Queen of the Blues. To me, and to many others, he was the female version of Howlin' Wolf. I bet she pitches one hell of a Wang Dang Doodle.

That's it for now. I've shaken as much loose stuff as will fall out of my cranium. The rest is still hanging on by a thread. Maybe I'll hit this blog again in 3 or 4 months.

Scary Search Strings

As you may know, I operate a true crime blog called CrimeShadows News. I like to check the performance of the site regularly and see what stories people are interested in. I use a service that logs activity and then parses it into data that I can use to analyze site traffic. One feature the service provides is the ability to view the keywords typed into Google to reach my site.

I would like to provide a few examples of the kind of things real people actually searched for. While they may not have found what they were looking for at my site, that is where they wound up. Enough chatter --let's get to the search strings.

Once again, these are keywords as they were typed into Google. The search resulted in the listing of my other website, CrimeShadows News.

1. pictures of an imbecile

Well, there are some imbeciles pictured on the site.

2. regain temporarily suspended medical licence

It might help if you can actually spell the word "license." Jerry, is that you?

3. Paster in oklahoma investagted in double homcide

I always thought paste was non-toxic.

4. is there a law against Sleeping in the same bed with your daughter in ohio

Not if they're bunk beds.

5. le blog de larry pervert

He has a blog? Mon Dieu!

That's all for now. I've seen worse before, I guess.

Jon Stewart is a Twit

Jon Stewart is a twit. I'd elaborate, but since I'm only stating the obvious, there's really no need. Of course, you might disagree. This may be because you, like Stewart, are also a twit.

In summary, let me say once again that Jon Stewart is a twit. I know this is redundant, but I really do enjoy saying it. Jon Stewart is a twit.

Evel Knievel, Monkey Blood, Scabs, and Scars

In the mid-1970s, America held its Bicentennial, a celebration of the beginning great Nation. To a young boy, there was nothing more American, nothing more Red, White, and Blue than Evel Knievel. Now, his name might be quite controversial, even infamous. But back then, we didn't know and we didn't care. He was the King of Cool. And, we wanted to be just like him.

Something about that jumpsuit, with its patriotic stripes and stars just got you right here. Knievel was sort of like Elvis, who was also a King back in the day. I remember hearing that he (Evel not Elvis) broke every bone in his body. Actually, the toll was around 37 and his broken bones were listed in the Guinness Book of World Records. I wondered back then how he was able to walk, imagining him with some sort of rubber-like flexibility. I was young, O.K., a dumb kid. I didn't realize that he didn't break all of those bones at the same time. Still, he had to be a tough guy. If he wasn't afraid to risk death and skinned knees, why should any kid be?

Of course, like any Evel Knievel fan, the toys were a big part of living vicariously through the daredevil without having to actually put yourself in harm's way. I had the Scramble Van. It was cool. It had tools and a ramp and some other stuff I couldn't identify at the time. You could load Evel and his bike up and tour around the expanse of your yard, or at least the living room. I also had the chopper, with springs for front shocks. You hooked it up to this plastic crank thing and wound it up until the gears were roaring at full force and then you jerked the crank backwards. Off the bike darts toward the ramp, with Evel clamped onto the handlebars. By posing him in different positions on the cycle, you could do different stunts. The coolest of all was the Super Jet Cycle. It worked the same way, but it had these "jets" on the sides that shot sparks out. It was also a heavier bike, and seemed really powerful, at least when you were six years old.

If the toys weren't enough to satisfy your daredevil desires, your imagination could help create something a little closer to reality --at least mine could. I remember lining up all of the Tonka trucks, a tricycle or two, and any other object that might perceivably be jump-worthy. Then I would take a plank and mount it on a cinder-block (I live in Oklahoma, they're ubiquitous around here). Another cinder-block at the receiving end, to land on. And then, the adventure began. Just how many trucks could I clear in one jump? Be sure and don't put the good trucks at the end.

Fortunately, I had friends who were just as daring as I was. Sometimes, we would do some serious stunts. Criss-cross jumps were fun, if successful. We also did head-on crashes. These were best done in a wagon, or on a Big Wheel. You could do them on a bicycle, but you would look like a retard. (We could say "retard" back then.) You could also end up getting "racked." If you don't know what "getting racked" is, the best way to learn is by experience. Getting racked was an event that pretty much ended your daredevil career, at least for the rest of the day.

Of course, all of this fun resulted in many hard-earned rewards. You wore the badges proudly --on your elbows, knees, and chin. We called them "scabs". They were usually covered with a red substance known as "monkey blood." No primates were harmed to make this magical elixir, but, regardless, its sale was eventually halted in the United States. It stung like holy hell and left stains on your skin. It was way cool. Kids these days have to wear helmets and pads and stuff. Back then, that would probably have the opposite effect when it came to your safety. Dressing up like that was a good way to get the tar beat of you.

One of my fondest memories regarding such an injury happened in an alley in Marlow, Oklahoma. We were riding dirt-bikes (BMX Bicycles) up and down the rock-paved alley-way. When I say we, I mean me and my cousins. I was going along at a pretty good pace when the front tire of the bike I was riding hit a rut in the road. The handle bars shook violently back and forth as I struggled to maintain control. No such luck. The front wheel happened to turn perpendicular to the direction I was heading, sending me flying through the air like a lawn dart. I landed, hands first into the rocks. I remember standing up and hearing a man laughing heartily somewhere about twenty yards ahead of me. I stood up immediately --to stay on the ground trying to remember your name would indicate that you were a sissy. I continued walking in the direction I had been riding only a few seconds before. My cousin, in amazement, stopped to pick up the bike that lay in the road. As I walked, I met a group of men --my Grandpa, my uncle, and a cousin. The cousin was much older than me. In fact, he was the father of my riding companion. I had thought of him as an uncle at the time. I looked up and found that he was the one laughing. My pride hurt, and being deeply embarrassed, I directed him to "Shut up!" He said, "You're bleeding!" I looked down to see blood dripping from my right hand. "I don't care," I said, and kept walking. I can't remember where I was headed, only that I felt like a big fool for having lost control of the bike on such a well-maintained path.

I washed my wound out in the sink. Later, my Grandpa would pour the magical monkey blood into the wound. Had my Grandma seen it, I probably would have been taken to the emergency room to receive a few stitches and a tetanus shot. Grandpa, however, didn't see the need for such an over-abundance of caution and care. Monkey blood worked just fine. It was a deep cut, and I wasn't exactly silent during the treatment. In the end, though, the care proved to be quite satisfactory. I've still got the scar on the palm of my right hand. It's just under an inch in length, a suitable size for a badge obtained at such a young age. Never having broken any bones, it's one of my favorite injuries.

As I grew older, I would graduate to skateboards and then motorcycles, building ramps for both types of vehicles. I never was a pro or anything, but I had a lot of fun. I did a lot of stupidly fun stuff as a kid. Jumping off of rooftops, coaster braking into ice patches, riding a ten-speed without any brakes, and many other stunts that I or some other dumb neighborhood kid could imagine.

I know these escapades may not seem like much to kids of today, with their half-pipes and video game heroes. But back then, it was all kind of new.

Thank you, Evel Knievel, for showing kids that it's o.k. to get hurt sometimes. (Don't try this at home!)Broken bones will heal. Cuts and bruises fade away. Scars can be cool sometimes. Concussions, skull fractures, --well, maybe kids should wear their helmets and pads. Anyway, I know I had a lot of fun doing crazy stuff back then, and I'm sure I'm not alone. We didn't end up on YouTube for all the world to see, but I think it was probably better just the way it was. Can you pop a wheelie?

New & Improved -with Extra Cudgels

I have deleted the other spew that was here before. It was a lot of pointless ranting. I also failed miserably at keeping it up to date. I believe that if you're going to write that type of tripe and hack that it should at least be fresh. This space will still contain pointless ranting and low-quality verbiage, but the content will be new and improved. Sort of like putting a nice, spiffy shine on a crap-ass car.

Before, when I wrote stuff, it was sort of the equivalent of standing out in the backyard and screaming --but not so loud that the neighbors might call the cops. That would be ironic.

Now, when I write, I plan on taking my audience into consideration. I do this to prove that a person can be considerate of those whose lives are so dolorous that they may not only waste server space in this manner, but also find themselves among the lowly creatures that read this type of bilge. I can look at them and say to myself, "See, if Maureen Dowd can do it, so can you."

You know what I think would be neat? If walking sticks became in fashion again. It would be sort of cool to stroll about with a stick like in the "good ol' days." A stick that wouldn't break when it met the back of one's neck. Sumac. Not that I want to harm anyone, mind you, --but having the option would be most delightful.

I've always thought it was kind of prissy for a man to carry a stick to ward off a dog. I do understand that there are some unfortunate curs out there that would not hesitate to maul a man's leg, or if he were small in stature, perhaps cause some fatal harm. But, having walked to school through several blocks of loose and free-roaming canines as a spindly youth, I seem to have managed. A grown man can surely do better. The stick would be more gainfully employed upon the dog's master or the uncaring bastard that left him abandoned in the street.

A cane for the purpose of defense against a human of aggressive nature, on the other hand, would be a pleasant device. When approached by some grinning band of hoodlums looking for sport, the notion of lobbing one of them about the face with an ash stick has a certain nostalgia all its own. One might even say something British, like, "How's that for you, old chap?" Of course, what happens after that momentary bit of satisfaction might not be so pleasant. For whom it is unpleasant, though, depends on other variables outside the scope of this little imagining.

Having a good portion of Irish blood coursing through my veins, the shillelagh also comes to mind as a choice affectation. Can you imagine making your way about town with a cudgel? That sounds so cool, there just has to be a law against it. Now, I'm not expressing an inclination toward violent resolution, but sometimes it's the only thing some fellows understand.

At any rate, it seems the days of the gentleman and his cane are long since gone. Perhaps, it is for the better. After all, it would be sort of unsightly to see a couple of brutes on the corner engaged in a stick fight. Their knives and guns would soon become neglected. Eyes could be extinguished. Someone could even get a splinter, which might get infected.

I think it was Theodore Roosevelt that implored us to "speak softly and carry a big stick." Then someone said to "walk tall," instead of speaking softly, while carrying the big stick. Then someone said "walk hard." Then someone invented the Segway. I bet that could pack a wallop.

There's really no cause for alarm. I'm not itching to beat the devil out of anyone. That is, anyone in particular.