(Whining)The State of the Entropy

door kitten

The State of the Entropy


or … the continuing Entropy of the State. And whining about it.


Whining? the usual: i complain, no-one listens, gettin’ more and more tired (whuddelse izz gnu?). In part due to THE HEAT. i don’t know about you, but when the temps hit 80, then 90 (today) i fade. doin’ the yard chores at a pace which varies between a zombie-shuffle to the occasional medium-shuffle.


i’ll spiffify this happy post with CAT PIXURES, and when Betty flew away two daze ago to be GrandMa in Portland, she lamented she might miss her flowers bloomin’. so the cat pixures will be interspersed with flower-pictures.

gate milli

burgundy lilies

and a pict. of a kitten (well, heez a BIG kitten, small kitty now) with harmonicas.

seriously (really!) i had set the two instruments of destruxion out to photograff, and “kitten” decided he’d get in there, and

yeah, i “auditioned” tonite at a club in Fruita (check http://www.cavalcadefruita.com)
with the gist (or izzit speld “jist”?) of my plan of attack being
and they said “you’re on” for the next monthly show.
and that’s not all …
Betty and our “old band” is also playin’ Cavalcade “talent”! and someone wants to re-start up the banned! our ‘musical life’ temporarily looks optimistic. don’t worry, it’ll pass …


the annual José Puede Ver? occurred last weekend, with Friday being one of my worst performances and Satyrday i ratcheted it up and think i performed ‘somewhat above average’. (“José Puede Ver” is what i call my annual playing of the National Anthem with blooz intro and some banter at the W. Colorado H.S. Track (& Field) Championships.)

cat foreground dogs

betty’s complaints, my fault: her flight to Portland was delayed, twice. THAT was, somehow, my fault, for purchasing those particular plane tickets. and when she got there, her cell-phone wouldn’t work. That too, was my fault. ’til her daughter TURNED THE PHONE OFF, and when it turned on, the phone knew where it was and calls have been coming and going.

granma eddie
bein’ granMaw, with grandson, Eddie

Ah, the Whining: sometimes i think i ‘pen’ something which WerdPress might “take notice” of. profile. push to front and center (they call it “Fresh Pressed”). deafeningly not this!, but … i figgerd “tormented souls”?? — my previous post, which was the first serious not-totally-off-the-cuff post inna while. by that i mean i axually THOUGHT about it. edited it intensely. yeah, you probably can’t tell …
and, how about FICTION CATEGORY: they didn’t pick up ERIK/DYLAN snow cave camp? or Cry Kwakiutl? ? or Uggedda Buggetta??? Seminal short stories, people!
and Japhy ryder? — an intradimensional epic!

arch inuk

Perhaps WerdPress ought-a have ANOTHER, ‘renegade’ category, Pressedly-Frest, with the symbol being, oh, a bl(e)ak hole — or some weird outdoor demented rock sculpture, for categories hitherto unthinkable. un-label-able. just plain outside of definition.

arch inuk snow
You know, it somewhat recently SNOWED here, and now we’re in the 90-degree temps …

and T Pynchon (“Against when the sun is out”) (w)rang a chord recently:
Heading once more over the bridge, into the smoky orange sunset, he felt the sadness peculiar to the contemplation of recent time unrecapturable. Anything earlier, childhood, adolescence, they were done with, he could get by without any of that — what he wanted back was last week, the week before.
Hmmm… and i thought that was so significant when i read it a coupla daze back. Oh, well …


B ‘n me are entered into the local (low key?) Triathlon in a few weeks, as a team! She will swim, and i will split personas, one to ride, and (Rosco, i think) will run. The distance is such that i could easily have done the whole thing some 20 years ago. A mere 16-mile ride, followed by 3.5 mile CC. Heck, about 20 years ago i briefly held the (w)record for the local Duathlon (Citizen category), which was smusht the following year by REAL athletes.
The main race had departed, and all whom remained was us citizens. One fellow in particular, swaggeringly clad in lycra (there was a time when THAT was somewhat unusual) came up to me and asked what i’d do the 5k run in (the CIT du was a 5k run, 30k ride).
“Oh, i’ll try for 20-some.” That sounded good to him and he announced he’d hang with me, then take off.

rosco running

I ran the 20-some, finishing in the first 5 or so of our race-within-a-race. Mr. Lycra was maybe a minute back, but overtook me at mile 5 or so during the bike. Seeing his aero helmet, disk wheels, tri-bar, I (mentally) conceded immediately. (I didn’t have those then, nor ever have, since).
Much to my surprise I saw him again at about mile 16. Unbeknownst to me, I also passed the leader in the ‘team’ category. I couldn’t tell as we were moving up through the slowest riders in the “real athlete” category. They’d have to run another 5k, whereas when i finished the ride, i was done. And won.

o r c c
THAT GUY to the right … LOOKS TOUGH? — okay, don’t laugh, too much. Rosco with his son-in-law and grandson in-&-out of law

This year we hope to finish with enough energy to stay alive enough to go to the Cavalcade that night and be rock stars. Wottaday, for old weigh-overTheHill folks, huh?


Lets go to Hoobity-ville & Wankett some Boobideebapps


Yes.  As the man said, driving the Interstate thru’ Pendleton, Oregon over 30 years ago, the Suruasooraboob was seen crossing the road.  I’ve been on a mission ever since.

Basically — don’t look for what is there.  Keep searching for what isn’t there.  Not long after, I formulated and internalized a kind of dictum-operandi:  it’s THE GLUE BETWEEN THINGS.

You don’t have to live in an area with big rivers to contend with the bridges …

We cross the bridge between day and night.  Between sleep and waking up to begin the day.  The job and what you do after the job.  What may seem ridiculous; what is actually sublime.  Dreams, wallowing in the mud.  Recently, many of my dreams seem to involve mud-wallowing.  Could it be I might find a diamond or gold while mucking about in the mire?


one of the WEIRDest

discoveries was, after    working for a fellow  named BEN BULBOUS  for a few years (and not knowing we worked for him)  was the chance stumbling upon a picture of W B Yeats’ gravestone.

“Cast a cold eye

on life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!”

From Under Ben Bulben (“Last Poems and 2 Plays” 1939).  And yes, it seems most of my friends are, in more ways than the merely corporeal-dispatched, expired in other aspects of “gone.”

Oh, poor lonely dino …  wandering the landscape seemingly alone.  But few things are as they seem.  You are never, really, very, alone.

I was part of a close-knit group of compahdres for most the teen-aged and early twenties years.  As we didn’t exactly have a mentor, considering ourselves more-or-less equals, we invented an entity whom we named BEN BULBOUS.  Little did we know, that perhaps Ben Bulbous, in a sense, invented us.  Below, Ben and his muse frolic at ocean’s edge …

Professor Bulbous re-entered our collective lives a few years later.  Aspiring psychology students, all (well, most) of us, we acquired research positions based in the Univ. of Colo. Muenzinger Psychology Center studying a fledgling and cutting-edge project tentatively called “Amphetamine Psychosis.”  The lead researcher was, to our surprise — Benjamin.  (At first we all were mind-blown.  Later some of us claimed that this wasn’t a ‘surprise’ — that Prof. B had, behind the scenes, arranged for this juxtaposition of serendipity and continued joint exploration all along).  Well, I was surprised.

Below, some of our research subjects on a rare supervised trip away from the facility.  They had to be chained together, as if not, they would wander off and cause trouble in three different places.  This way, if they shambled off, the trouble was usually confined to just one location, and we usually could find them fairly easily.  Before they got into more trouble.

We can’t verify this with a high degree of certainty, but we are darned sure a couple movie-writer/producers were aware of our work with Delmar, Everett, and Pete and based the main characters in a big budget movie they made many years later on them.  Everett had an obsession with hair gel, it was either Pete or Delmar who considered gophers and other ground-dwelling rodents a delicacy when roasted on a stick, and the other guy frequently thought he was in danger of transmogrifying into some sort of reptile.

Our work with Delmar, Pete, and Elliot was mild compared to the ever-elusive and seldom-seen Dopey.

And I thought we had endured enough dumpster-diving while previously unemployed as starving under-grad students.

After a few months of amphetamine-psychosis research, we were prepared for what Professor Bulbous called “the next steps.”

“Look for the energy vortexes.  You might actually see the lines connecting many different life forms.”

Watch the river.  But, remember, that is but a small part of what is going on .

The river is watching you.  And there’s no way you can even begin to think you know what it’s thinking.

It might be safe to say that “Pete” (or whoever this is, below) is not only fascinated by the river, hypnotized by it, but

about to surrender part, or all, of his life-force to it.

Under Ben Bulben?

Or is Ben Bulben under everything?  W B Yeats was no light-weight …

Okay, this doesn’t have much to do with anything, but Everett, having briefly come home for a visit,

presents an ichthylogical present to his not-too-obviously-excited mom.

Delmar, temporarily free from the toadal and/or froggy influences, has a message which hopefully will deter Gort from destroying the whirled: