You Won’t Grow Up?

November 16, 2008

A while back, David commented about Random Granddaughter:

I was just thinking the other day about the fact that RG was not yet three when I first “met” her via your blog. It’s weird that she talks on the phone now. It’s kind of sad, if you know what I mean. Children are children for such a short time, and grownups forever and ever once they get there. Until they revert to their second childhood of senility, that is, but that’s not nearly as much fun for observers as the first childhood is.

I am trying to be more fun in my senility than I was in my first childhood. As I lie there drooling, I hope the mommies will encourage RG to giggle at least as she spoon feeds me.

Seriously (sort of) this comment made me think about how adults love kittens, puppies, and little children. This affection strikes us so powerfully because they are still innocent, and we have lost our innocence. As John Donne so powerfully wrote, “Send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Humans are clever beasts; we are far too clever for our own good; we never know when to stop. The idea will occur to us to “freeze” kittens and puppies so they never develop into boring old cats and dogs. We are technologically close to being able to implement such monstrous behavior. (They won’t live longer; they just will never grow up.)

Once we succeed with the baby animals, we will turn our attention to our children. We will eventually create our own little Peter Pans and Petra Panettes who will grow enough to be toilet trained, but not much more.

My Wife and I Finally Meet

October 26, 2008


When I was young I was so afraid of young women I could hardly bring myself to even speak to one. I’m not quite sure exactly why that was, but probably I thought of myself as so worthless a person no woman would want to have anything to do with me. This must be one of the reasons I feel a bond with David and his tales of being harassed and bullied by other children and feeling worthless as a child.

I wasn’t bullied as a child in the same way he was, but in a sense I bullied myself.

When I was a teenager, the thought of asking a girl for a “date” seemed more terrifying than climbing Mt. Everest without a scarf. I had no idea how other boys had the courage to approach a girl. I never went on a date with a girl while I was in high school. Aside from my timidity and terror, not knowing how to drive a car, not knowing how to dance, and always being an introvert in a new school (my father worked for a defense contractor and was always being transferred to help install computers at a new Air Force base for the Strategic Air Command, so I attended six different high schools in three states) also did not help.

In college, I did go out on two very timid and chaste “dates” with young ladies I considered so unattractive that I figured they would even go out with me. I am kind of disgusted with myself when I consider my thinking at the time. I hope the ladies involved eventually encountered someone in their lives who was a little more respectful than I was, even if I was perfectly polite to them and never laid an improper hand on them.

My brother was still in high school and already had gone through several girl friends. He was far less timid and inhibited than I was, not to mention so immature he would do any fool thing that came into his head.

One day after I retreated home in disgrace after flunking out of college, my brother and I were home alone. We were bored. As an introvert, I would have just buried myself in a book. As an extroverted immature person, my brother started flipping through the phone book and decided to call people with peculiar last names and make jokes about their names. I went along for the ride, listening on an extension phone.

After the first two victims quickly hung up in disgust, he hit gold, reaching a teenage girl sitting bored at home with her hair up in curlers. Even though she was bored, and even though she was only about 15 years of age, my WTB (wife to be) was already a cautious, strait-laced person, not the type of person to stay on the phone flirting with a couple of boyish pranksters.

Nevertheless, she even laughed when we made fun of her eccentric last name. (She was quite happy to change it to my last name when we got married. On the other hand, my daughter was quite happy to change her last name to her out-of-law partner’s last name after they had been not-married for a few years and Random Granddaughter joined the conversation.)

Actually my brother quickly grew bored with the conversation, but I started to improvise a comedy routine and she started to laugh. I don’t remember exactly what I talked about, though I do remember extemporizing some sort of pathetic routine about elves living under toadstools. I am sure it was exactly as bad then as it sounds now.

The funniest thing about this exploit is that my wife is generally not much amused by my sense of humor; much less so than the typical reader of my blog. But somehow or other I got her laughing that night and she not only laughed, she agreed to talk to me if I called her again. Well, I did have her number.

Well, you already realize I was a youthful loser-dork. What was my wife’s problem? It was her bra size.

My wife’s mother was quite buxom, as is her older sister. As my wife became a teenager, her bosom never developed much bux. She apparently figured this physical handicap meant that no men would ever be attracted to her, forcing to her succumb to a fate of being a lonely old maid. Intellectually, even then, she knew this was nonsense, and in fact, another teenage boy, named Bruce had actually asked her out on a date, but emotionally she considered herself as an unlovable flat-chested reject in a breast-obsessed society.

As two people who each felt ourselves utterly unlikely to ever find love, I guess our love was meant to be.

At the time we met by telephone I was attending a junior college in the San Fernando Valley section of Los Angeles (after flunking out of the University of California at Berkeley) and volunteering in the news department of KPFA, the Pacifica listener-supported radio station in Los Angeles. My wife-to-be was still attending high school, where she took a drama class with Sally Field. However, my WTB is quite unlike Sally Field. Her real soul sister in the world of entertainment stars is Carol Burnett. My wife can do a brilliant Carol Burnett imitation.

I had gone on two tepid dates in college. My wife-to-be had gone out with a boy named Bruce. Bruce, the daring rake, planted a timid kiss on her lips at the end of a date. According to my wife, no sparks ensued, and her hormones yawned. I hope Bruce found his own true love somewhere whose fire he lit.

At that childish time in my life, I did not even know how to drive. After my WTB and I had talked on the phone a few times, I asked her to go out with me. Our “date” (which my father drove us to as I couldn’t drive) was a real dork-fest. On weekends, as a volunteer, I wrote and read a 15-minute newscast at the listener-supported radio station KPFA (part of the Pacifica network).

Probably seven people listened throughout the Los Angeles Metropolitan area, six of whom were probably confined to their beds, and one of whom had already called the radio station and asked why the news sounded so amateurish on weekends. Evidently fancying myself a fascinating and alluring media star, I asked my wife-to-be if she wanted to watch me do a radio broadcast and see the inside of a radio station.

My wife told her mother that she had met me at a party at one of her friends’ houses.

We went out on a couple of other equally exciting dates. I think we took the bus to go bowling with my brother and his girl friend of the time.

My WTB (the youngest of five children as I am the oldest of five children) adored one of her brothers, L, who lived in San Francisco and pursued a life as an artist. The rebel in her family, L stirred my WTB’s inner non-conformist, though at the time he caused me to lose her.

One day I called to ask her out. Her mother told me that she had gone to stay with her brother in San Francisco. The implication-or so I interpreted it-was that my WTB did not want to see me again. I figured love had been glimpsed and then lost forever from my life.

Working on it.

October 23, 2008

I can’t talk about it here, but David paid one of his premiums early, which is excellent.

I am working on the story of how I met my wife, but other events compete for my attention at the moment, so I don’t have an estimated time of arrival. Also, I will be taking care of Random Granddaughter next week and having a colonoscopy next week, though not at the same time, though I am sure that RG would find it an educational field trip of great interest to attend.

Suppressed Childhood Memory

October 22, 2008

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I am having too much fun. I need to get a grip. This is all about David, not about me.

David has suppressed memories of his childhood, for good reasons, I’m afraid; to protect himself against remembering terrible things that happened to him.

I remember my childhood as being terrible. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of feeling sorry for myself about how badly my father treated my mother, my brother, and myself.

Last night I got in touch with a suppressed memory. I remember my brother, my sister, and myself jumping up and down on a couch and getting hysterical. I remember our parents saying to us, “You’re getting too excited. Pretty soon someone is going to get hurt and you are all going to start crying.”

I remember my sister crying hysterically. We were indeed having too much fun.

It is incompatible with my “stance” of my oppressed childhood to recall that we sometimes had fun in my family. So I have suppressed those memories. Unfortunately, or fortunately, one of those memories broke through.

I was having too much fun with surrealist dwillings, plotting trips for David to meet truce in France, and other jumping up and down on the couch. I am suffering a hangover today. Also we have a staff meeting at work and I am very likely to mention the elephant in the room. This will not go over well at all.

However, I have to tell you about how my wife and I met. This embarrasses me hugely. Next post.

Surrealist Open Houses

October 22, 2008

David and Truce are such a cool couple, even though they are not a couple yet and are divided by a great deal of ocean. However, they are engaged in repartee about starting a surrealist estate business, an idea that seized my mind with ferocious fervor and made me all the more determined to make my Keep David Alive Fund Drive a stunning success.

I immediately became entranced with David holding surrealist open houses, and found some pictures of them. Just imagining David showing these dwelling–there has to be a better word–dwallings…dwillings…dwollings…dwullings? Anyway, just imagining David showing them fills me with such delight I can hardly contain myself.

Putting a lot of links into a comment sends the WordPress spam checker into fits like a rabid German Shepherd snarling and barking and growling and howling hysterically, so I figured I should put it into my own blog. So here it goes.

If you look at all these pictures of surrealistic houses and are half as delighted as I am, you will send David a $5 pledge before this week ends. This is serious stuff.

Surrealist Dwelling #1

Surrealist dwilling #2

Surrealist dwilling #3

Surrealist dwilling #4

Surrealist dwilling #5

Surrealist dwilling #6

Surrealist dwilling #7

Surrealist dwilling #8


Surrealist dwilling #9


For reasons I don’t understand, this turned into a really nasty post to get to work. If you look at all the pictures, I think you should pledge $10.

Well, you get a nice house out of it, anyway.


October 21, 2008

This is my second “Seinfeld” story,  that is a story about nothing, though something or other happens even in a story about nothing, so this story describes a bit of happy matchmaking.

I don’t know if I have ever matched two people romantically. By accident I once put two people in touch with each other and they fell in love and got married (which had not been my intention) but they later divorced bitterly, so I am relieved that it had not been my intention for them to marry.

Anyway, matchmaking can involve just introducing two people to each other because they will like each other or have an interest in common or can be useful to each other. I have successfully done that sort of matchmaking, and I had a good experience in this regard a couple of weeks ago.

I have talked about our friends S and B before. S grew up in Sri Lanka at a time when the terrible civil war was just getting started. As a child she saw people burned alive in mob violence. Her father had been a “rascal” (involved in petty crime such as changing currency illegally) and a Catholic, so S had attended a Catholic school where she had been taught by nuns. An older sister was already a college student in the United States. When the Catholics closed the school and sent the nuns back to Europe, because Sri Lanka had become too dangerous, S’ father decided Sri Lanka was too dangerous for his daughter as well, so he sent S to live with her sister in the United States.

S and my wife used to work together in Portland and they became good friends.

I don’t know how she met her American husband B, who works for a power company in Oregon. I will have to ask them one of these days.

They plan to retire to Washington. We hoped they would move to lot #4 (we are on lot #3) on our island. Each lot is about five acres in size because my wife and I love lots of separation from our neighbors. We love our neighbors more when we are not cheek by jowl with them.

S  and B decided not to move next door to us. S has a bad knee and can’t walk very far. They don’t mind living next door  to their neighbors as my wife and I do. S hopes to get an artificial knee to replace her failing natural knee before she retires. My wife’s other best friend has had two artificial hips installed. All of us are getting older and turning into cyborgs. My wife and I still have our original parts, though they definitely creak.

So S and B have been having a house built on the mainland. It is almost done. They will retire and move into the house in about a year.

Our neighbors on lot #1, whom I call the Friendly Neighbors for blog purposes, have been extremely helpful to us. We all garden, which bonds us together. Mr. Friendly Neighbor is a very handy person. He especially loves wood working, and makes many beautiful objects out of wood, both furniture and works of art. He is, in fact, a woodworking nerd (a term I use out of admiration, not disparagement).

He loves to talk about woodworking. He will show me a beautiful piece of furniture he is working on and talk about a joint is going to fashion and ask my opinion. He will point at a couple of other joints and ask my opinion about which to use.

I will say something such as, “That one looks very nice. But that one also looks very nice as well.”

He is a very kind and gentle person, so he says nothing unkind to me, or even cast a look of disgust at me, but it is clear I am of no use to him whatsoever in this regard. I feel like I have let him down terribly. Although he and his wife built their house together-and it indeed a splendid and beautiful dwelling-she is not a woodworking nerd either.

B, is also a woodworking nerd. When S and B visited us a couple of weekends ago, they noticed a sign in front of the Friendly Neighbors’ house advertising eggs for sale. (Their chickens are now producing eggs lustily, though probably that is not the appropriate word, as the Friendly Neighbors do not have a rooster.) They are now selling eggs to neighbors and friends such as us to help pay for feed for the “girls,” as they refer to the hens.

S said to us, “I would love to buy some fresh eggs.” She and my wife had a happy conversation about the difference between fresh organic eggs from the farm and fresh organic eggs in the natural food store. The difference is night and day they agreed.

I said, “I will walk down to the Friendly Neighbors and buy a dozen eggs for you.”

B said, “I will come with you.” S stayed at our place with my wife because the quarter mile walk would be too hard on her bum knee.

When we got to the Friendly Neighbors’ house, I introduced B to Mr. FN. “He is another woodworker,” I said to Mr. FN.

B looked at a table that Mr. FN had built. “What kind of wood is that?” he asked. I don’t even remember the answer (clueless  as I am), but within a few minutes they were deep in conversation about different kinds of wood and a few minute later Mr. FN was taking B on a tour of the house, showing him all his woodworking projects, and they were deep in  happy woodworking nerdish conversation. It was clearly love at first sight, as I had expected it would be.

Mrs. FN and I talked about chickens and gardening. After about half an hour, Mr. FN and B came up for air, and I told B, “We have to get back to our wives.” He obediently followed me, though it was obvious he could easily have spent many more hours in happy conversation with Mr. FN.

As we walked back, carrying the eggs, B described some beautiful piece of furniture Mr. FN had made. “I wanted to make something like that, but I didn’t.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“As I talked about it, S said she saw no need for us to have it. It didn’t go with our other furniture, she said. ‘Why do you want to make that?’ she asked me. ‘We don’t need it.’ She didn’t understand that I just wanted to make it,” he concluded mournfully.

As far as I can tell, B & S have a very happy and successful marriage. Yet as David has said, even in a successful relationship, one partner cannot meet all the needs of the other partner. There has to be space for other relationships even in the happiest marriage.

These other relationships do not always need to be alternative romantic relationships in every case. Probably in very few cases, though I have known some relationships where such relationships did occur.

However, David certainly needs to have at least one romantic relationship no matter how eccentric it may be. Even perhaps with someone as far away as Australia. Maybe that’s how much space he needs for a relationship to flourish. In my next post I will talk about the very high level premiums for those who contribute to the pledge drive.

Two Great Themes of my Life

October 20, 2008

Two of the great themes of my life are:

  • I hate bullies and bullying.
  • I love to play matchmaker.

My brother and I were bullied by our father. I tried very hard as a father not to be a bully toward my daughter. I am not in close contact with my brother and his children-he lives across the country from me-but I think he has made a similar effort for his three children.

My wife and I met by accident, and we are not particularly well-suited to each other, but so far we have made it work. “So far” will reach 43 years in November. Our motto is: We are too weird for anyone else to put up with, so we might as well stick together. After 42 years of marriage, we got brave enough to say, “I love you,” to each other.

When I was young, I read a science fiction story about psychic powers. I don’t remember the title (as usual), but I do remember the author’s name: Keith Laumer. (He was a talented but very tragic person, by the way.)

The protagonist develops a psychic power-he can detect people who need each other. Not necessarily romantic need-though sometimes that is the case. However, each party has some quality or characteristic the other needs. The protagonist puts them in touch with each other and something marvelous happens.

I thought it was one of the most wonderful stories I ever read.

I don’t know that I have ever matched people up successfully in a romantic relationship. However, at times I have brought people together who benefited from knowing each other in other fashions than romance.

My pledge drive for David Rochester may be my magnum opus for working on both of these themes. It’s too early to tell if I will have success on either in his case. While I am working on it, I will tell two stories, one on each theme. One where nothing happened from over twenty years ago. That nothing happened was probably good.

The other incident was quite recent. Only a little tiny thing happened, but it was good.

I will write these stories in the midst of incessant pledge drive badgering. I am eagerly waiting to hear about money coming into David’s mail box next week.

The Scheharazade Pledge

October 18, 2008

To summarize the premiums in David’s pledge drive so far:

For $1 I will ask Random Granddaughter to thank you as she eats a wholesome snack. Perhaps a sesame seed stick. And a brownie for fluffy.

I will also ask Sylvie, the universe’s most lovable cat. to purr for you as I pet her. Sylvie and fluffy purring together should create a mighty roar.

These premiums are only good until November 11, when I will be taking care of RG and visiting Sylvie at the same time.

You also get a coupon good for $1 off a Pledge product. I don’t know how long that premium will be available, so I suggest you go to the Pledge web site and take advantage of it.

On public radio pledge drives, some people actually make $100 pledges. On this drive, I doubt that David will open an envelope some day and find it stuffed with 100 $1 bills. For one thing, the postage would add up. And how many people have one one hundred dollar bill sitting around saying, “Mail me to David!” so I doubt that condensed method will work, either.

So pledges and collections will have to be based on money accumulating a little at a time. About $5 at time feels right to me, as that is what I did. (I mailed $5 to David last week.)

I figure it will take to the end of the year for us to reach a hundred dollars, and the premium will have to be collective to everyone who contributes.

Also, the premium I am envisioning depends on David cooperating. I am something of an expert on this topic. I am married to a person whose personality is much like David’s.

My wife hates having anybody else-especially her husband-tell her what to do. It seems quite likely David is similar. Though I am not his husband, but you get the point, I trust.

Nevertheless, I will run it up the flagpole.

David has been reluctant to talk to Debbie, his therapist, about his continual thinking and scheming about committing suicide. When the pledgeware contributions actually accumulate to $100, I think as a premium, David should actually talk to Debbie about the topic of his suicidal thinking.

This is a high risk premium. Instead of talking about this issue, David may decide to actually end his life.That would certainly teach his therapist a lesson, not to mention us.

While this would perhaps bring a brief, intense thrill to the rest of us, I don’t think this is an option likely to lead to long term satisfaction.

Well, there’s nothing to do but plod ahead. Send in your dollar, or five dollars to David.

The address for your contributions is

“David Rochester”

4803 SE Woodstock, #202
Portland OR 97206

David is standing by waiting to open your envelope. Consider it this way, as long as there is an expectation of an envelope arriving the next day to open with money inside, David may choose to live another day. If each person reading this has a blog and has an interesting tale to tell on your blog for David to read, that offers another incentive to David to live. Perhaps I will call this the Scheharazade Pledge.

Creeping Slowly

October 16, 2008

I have been trying to think through the “Shearwear for David” program I recently proposed.First, I propose paying David with small, unmarked bills. In my case, I don’t know David’s real name. (I think this applies to most of my readers as well.) The advantage to me is that I won’t have to worry about writing checks. I suggest you follow the same policy.

David will not have to worry about opening a checking account under an assumed name or setting up “David Rochester” as an “Assumed Business Name.” (If you insist on writing him checks, he might need to set up a “DBA (Doing Business As) account to distinguish himself from the David Rochester who is a Performance Traffic Coordinator in Los Angeles, or the Dr. Rochester who is a radiologist in Illinois, even the David Rochester one who is a not very well-known actor who performed in a movie called the Jigsaw of Life. As David has crippling stage fright, confusion here might lead for him to get calls to try out for roles in Hollywood movies.(Unless he is going to be cast as “The Elephant Man,” he would probably find such calls very stressful.)

Also, if David starts getting money in the mail, he will have to consider tax consequences. I am sure David will handle this matter properly, but the method I suggest will provide him with the greatest flexibility in this matter, which I am sure he will exercise properly.

Second, choose a frequency. In my case, I consider I easily get a dollar’s worth of value out of David’s blogs each week, so I plan to pay him a dollar a week. However, to send a dollar a week is a little inefficient, so I will probably accumulate four dollar bills and then send four bills together month’s payment. (Again, assuming he some day provides me with a post office box address.) You may want to use a different frequency. Perhaps a dollar a month. Perhaps a dollar a day. Perhaps a dollar a minute. Only you know what reading David’s posts are worth to you.

Third, I suggest indicating to David how you want him to use the money. I suggested catnip for his cats.

David is currently undergoing brain surgery with his therapist Debbie. Most of the people who read his blog have helpful suggestions for David, and may think as they make suggestions to David, After all, David, this isn’t brain surgery (for example, realizing that he is not terribly repulsive) but when your brain is divided up into a variety of personalities, as David’s is, the treatment really IS brain surgery., and the costs add up surprisingly quickly.

Helpful as everyone’s suggestions to David are, perhaps it would be most helpful to help him pay for the brain surgery. Also, the brain surgery is very painful, and at times David is reluctant to continue it. If you are helping him to pay for it, he may feel obligated to continue with the brain surgery. For that matter, if you are helping pay for his blog writing, he will feel obligated to continue writing.

Jane has mentioned that even if he ends his life, his posts may continue to appear. Certainly this is in the realm of possibility. As I mentioned, such a hypothesis is consistent with many folk legends (such as the Legend of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow) about ghosts returning to the scene of a violent death. Nevertheless, I am a cautious person, and I prefer to bet on relatively sure things, such as the author of a blog I like to read remaining alive rather than depending on him violating the usual constraints of time and energy, not to mention life and death. I’m pretty square and something of a stick in the mud in that regard.


ShearWear PledgeCreep

October 15, 2008



I am almost never serious, but I am dead serious about the pledge drive for David Rochester. I have made this the permanent post on my blog site, so you have to scroll down to see the post of the day. It will stay here until we reach our goal.

I see that David has linked to this post on his blog. Earlier, he told us the address where you should send your contributions for the continuation of his blog. (It is a matter of some dispute whether the continuation of David is necessary for the continuation of his blog.)

Send your contributions in small, unmarked bills, to
“David Rochester”
4803 SE Woodstock, #202
Portland OR 97206


This is true. This morning I addressed an envelope to the address above. I slightly bungled the address, so I hope a) it will actually get there and b) David will laugh as he opens the envelope. A affixed a 42¢ stamp. I folded a sheet of scrap paper so squirrels crawling around in mail boxes won’t infer there is currency inside. I started to put four dollar bills inside, but then thought it might be too heavy. I took our the four dollars and added one five dollar bill. I am now ahead of my pledge of $1 for this week. I am now ahead of my pledge of $4 for this month. In November, I will only send $3.
In any respectable pledge drive (pausing as any comedian would, for laughter) contributors are offered premiums for contributing. Read ahead. Or behind. Blogs are funny that way. Oldest comes first, so it’s like reading a book backwards.


Shareware is an informal system for publishing and marketing computer software. For example, software companies give away programs (such as applications that let you send unwanted email to millions of people) and let you try them out at no cost. Aside from the possibility that some shareware programs may be programmed by idiots and may destroy your computer, there is little risk involved in using this approach to test and purchase software.If you like the program, the publisher asks you to pay for it on a voluntary basis. Or if you decide after trying it you don’t like the program, the publisher asks you to stop using it.


An advantage to the company is they save a lot of money on marketing, packaging, and retail distribution, not to mention  the expense involved in developing software that actually works. A disadvantage is that many people cheat by using the software without paying for it. In the adding insult to injury department, some people use the software, don’t pay for it, and then complain about it not working.



There are many variations. Some companies release so-called “cripple ware.” Programs slide down the information superhighway to your cpu on little wheelchairs or limp across your screen on crutches, or even lie there on your hard drive not even moving at all.

My public radio station is having a “pledge drive.” Public radio and listener-supported community radio stations such as the Pacifica Radio stations in five cities across the United States and several in the Puget Sound area also have pledge drives.

Because I sometimes listen to such stations in the Puget Sound area, they ask me to help pay for it. Thinking about these request, and my wife’s and my concern about our financial future, and the value I put on the programs I get on public radio, I calculated I should put a dollar in an envelope and send it to my public radio station. I won’t even waste some volunteer’s time by calling in and saying, “I pledge one dollar.”

Romance and sexual relations sometimes work on a shareware basis. In the traditional paradigm, the man wants sex and the woman wants him to marry her first to prove he will support her and her children financially. The archetype of this type of shareware is the 1740 British novel Pamela.

This type of shareware raises many questions, such as “How many of us have an MRI machine in the bedroom?”

Actually, at least one couple does. (I am not making this up.)

You have never seen REAL pornography until you have seen an MRI scan of people having sexual relations.

On most days, one of the first things I do is read David Rochester’s blogs. For one thing, I want to see if he is still alive.

The danger is so acute; an entire university has been created just to keep him alive.

He educates me culturally. Once the University of Rochester convinced him not to kill himself, he became a culture coach for one of the largest credit unions in the country, the ESL Credit Union in Rochester, New York.

On the  World Wide Web I found:

“We hired a Member Focus culture coach to work on the front-line with our managers, helping them develop their own coaching skills.”

Obviously, David is such a dynamic and magnetic personality it is no wonder that the third largest city in New York State has been named after him.

I am inspired, tickled, amused, amazed and outraged every week by David’s creative work. What have I given back to express my appreciation or done to support him? (Except come up with a cockamamie and useless plan to mate him with a woman as crazy as he is thousands of miles away.)

I have decided to pay a shearwear fee to David. David, if you email me an address where I can actually reach you, I will mail you a buck a week to encourage you to keep up your work. It’s not much, but a dollar a week will help keep cats in catnip, or something. And if I can get a few other people to join in…

There are obviously hundreds of people reading David’s blogs daily. The latest post on his secret blog has 44 comments when last I looked.  Isn’t it worth a buck a week to you as well, not-so-gentle reader?

I’m starting a Pledge Creep for David Rochester. Creeps can send send small unmarked bills in plain envelopes. To provide greater security and privacy for David, perhaps he should open up an account at the ESL credit union in Rochester, New York. How can David set up an account at this credit union on the East coast when he lives in Portland?

I looked at the eligibility requirements. Members of the the Greater Rochester Association of REALTORS® are eligible to join. I looked at the application forms for the Association; nowhere did it say members actually have to live in Rochester. I am going to work on this. Thoughts are crawling across my brain on their little creeper boards. I will post more as soon as a thought or two actually arrives.

In the meantime, David, email me an address where I can make my $1 a week donation to support your blog.

In honor of cripple wear:

Cripple Creek


I got a girl and she loves me

She’s as sweet as she can be

She got eyes of baby blue

Makes my gun shoot straight and true


Goin’ up Cripple Creek

Goin’ on a run

Goin’ up Cripple Creek

to have a little fun

Goin’ in a whirl,

Goin’ up Cripple Creek

To see my girl


Cripple Creek’s wide and Cripple Creek’s deep

I’ll wade old Cripple Creek before I sleep

Roll my britches up to my knees,

I’ll wade old Cripple Creek when I please


Repeat Chorus


I went down to Cripple Creek

To see what them girls had to eat

I got drunk and fell against the wall

Old corn liquor was the cause of it all


Repeat Chorus


Well I married a wife in the month of June

I married her up by the light of the moon

We live down on Cripple Creek

We’ve been there about a week


Repeat Chorus


I got a gal at the head of the creek

And I’m goin’ down to see her ’bout the middle of the week

Kiss her on mouth just as sweet as any wine

Wraps herself around me like a sweet potato vine