My Lawn Gnome Has a First Name ...

I need help. I need an appropriate Victorian era dessert for my characters to cook and enjoy. It must smell nice and be recognizable by modern audiences. Preferably no trifle or orange cake or black cake or pudding ... a cookie? pastry? It needs substance.

Listening to "They'll Need A Crane" (TMBG) and drinking a beer. Tonight's Imported English Ale comes to us from Wychwood Brewery, "Fiddler's Elbow," FIERCELY INDEPENDENT. ® ™

I've defied doctor's orders and stopped taking the anti-depressant he prescribed for my supposed TMJ aka sore jaw. No blood tests. No physical. Just writes me a prescription. So I'm on strike. After three months it's not helping my jaw really and I'm still cranky and in theory I'm not supposed to go out in direct sunlight. So no more pills. I've switched to one-a-day vitamins from Walgreen's. And beer.

Each day I take life into my own hands.

Remind me to tell of my love affair
with the sweet iambic pentameter.

At the TMBG concert last night I asked the ticket takers for ear plugs. They laughed at me. Cuz I'm old, yo. It was so loud I thought I would faint on noise. The bass played the part of Defibrillator, speaking of which, only three more days 'til Kingdom Hospital.

Ha. Shuffle just brought up NSYNC's "Dirty Pop." My inner 12 year old is drunk on pop and beer. Don't knock it asstards.

The playwriting workshop this evening was excellent and has been graciously extended into the first weeks of May. I'm twenty pages into my play, half way through the first draft. I spent all night trying to remember the name of the floppy thing inside a floppy disk and I just remembered the word I wanted is mylar. And you know what made me remember? NSYNC's Dirty Pop. Genius.

A sweet song for the ladies is Daniel Beddingfield's "If You're Not The One." I'm just saying.

I wrote you ungrateful jerks a poem. If you steal it I'll cut out the hearts of your children. No joke.

Kuba-Walda

Beside the agapanthus and the dahlia
stands a red-capped warrior
gray beard foul with dust and twigs
a crude pipe dangles from his lip
thin wisps of smoke curl past
his gnarled and knotted ears 
his boots scrape slow 
against the cold, wet earth 

pale eyes damp with a crumbling thirst
this is the night he will feed
for he has seen children
lost and lonely blue with fear
wandering in his wood