Hello Dear Readers,
Anyone up for a cute story about man-cat relations? Me too! So, my feline friend, Sasha, has lately taken to hiding in my closet, usually for a quite awhile, often springing out when the wombury least expects it, which produces in me a female-like shriek. This was the case last night, only the womby wom had already hit the sacky sack and was nearly asleep. Since it's warm these nights the door to the Cave can only be opened a crack. Sasha pops out of the closet, figures she's stuck in the cave, and decides what the hell, let's jump in bed with the wombury. This is the cute part, a picture of interspecies bliss: wombury, in his skivvies, lying on his stomach nearly unconscious and Sasha, on her back, arms akimbo, and putting her little oval cat paw in my man paw.
We fell asleep holding paw. A couple of lovebirds.
Until then,
The WOmbury
Friday, June 6, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Fucked Up Post, Fucked up Poster
Hello Dear Readers,
It's Wednesday night, around 10 pm, and the Wombury is a little tipsy after throwing back a few beers and a complimentary shot at the roadside tavern located at the foot of the last stop on the Bronx-bound 4 train. The Wombury took to the links with a few co-workers from school. Did you know there are 4! golf courses in the bronx? Fuckin' crazy, considering the stereotypical image of the bronx as a bullet-ridden ghetto. Anyway, earlier in the day the wombury rode the 4 train down to Brooklyn where he picked up his bicycle from a sports gambler with an impressively huge loft down at the corner of 3rd and Dean. After picking up the bike the Wombury embarked on a long-planned journey from Brooklyn to the Bronx. He is the "Traveling" wombury after all!
The entire trip was conducted in muggy, cloudy weather, with jeans and army boots, and save for one major traffic blunder was a totally satisfactory 2 hour bike trip. That blunder? riding my bike over the Manhattan bridge. Apparently bikes are NOT allowed to traffic over the bridge. Who knew? The other 471 drivers of the cars and trucks who gave me the finger and who clearly wanted the wombury to steer his road bike into the East River knew. Fuckers. Like I enjoy being surrounded by semi-retarded New York fuck faces with a taste for honking and yelling mother-based curses. Dipshit turd lickers, all of them. Just as I pulled into the bronx, a few guys from school were loading up for 9 holes of golf, so the wombury joined them. Nice fellas.
In other news, I have no idea what happened to the rest of the Shaker Way post. It was finished the day I sent it. Technology is a mysterious thing, what can I say? The point of the posting was that I intentionally did not cover a class at school because the AP did not explicitly ask me, and I thought, fuck it! If she doesn't ask me, then I won't assume I'm supposed to cover it. Not very Shaker.
Finally, I will not be posting about this nice gal I met from Las Vegas.
Until then,
The WOmbury
It's Wednesday night, around 10 pm, and the Wombury is a little tipsy after throwing back a few beers and a complimentary shot at the roadside tavern located at the foot of the last stop on the Bronx-bound 4 train. The Wombury took to the links with a few co-workers from school. Did you know there are 4! golf courses in the bronx? Fuckin' crazy, considering the stereotypical image of the bronx as a bullet-ridden ghetto. Anyway, earlier in the day the wombury rode the 4 train down to Brooklyn where he picked up his bicycle from a sports gambler with an impressively huge loft down at the corner of 3rd and Dean. After picking up the bike the Wombury embarked on a long-planned journey from Brooklyn to the Bronx. He is the "Traveling" wombury after all!
The entire trip was conducted in muggy, cloudy weather, with jeans and army boots, and save for one major traffic blunder was a totally satisfactory 2 hour bike trip. That blunder? riding my bike over the Manhattan bridge. Apparently bikes are NOT allowed to traffic over the bridge. Who knew? The other 471 drivers of the cars and trucks who gave me the finger and who clearly wanted the wombury to steer his road bike into the East River knew. Fuckers. Like I enjoy being surrounded by semi-retarded New York fuck faces with a taste for honking and yelling mother-based curses. Dipshit turd lickers, all of them. Just as I pulled into the bronx, a few guys from school were loading up for 9 holes of golf, so the wombury joined them. Nice fellas.
In other news, I have no idea what happened to the rest of the Shaker Way post. It was finished the day I sent it. Technology is a mysterious thing, what can I say? The point of the posting was that I intentionally did not cover a class at school because the AP did not explicitly ask me, and I thought, fuck it! If she doesn't ask me, then I won't assume I'm supposed to cover it. Not very Shaker.
Finally, I will not be posting about this nice gal I met from Las Vegas.
Until then,
The WOmbury
Friday, May 30, 2008
It's Not the Shaker Way: Ethics in Teaching
Hello Dear Readers,
So the kids are partaking in "Independent Reading," one of the many pieces of the post-modern curriculum puzzle. Kids are "empowered" to select any book they want, provided they can find it among the 8 titles displayed in the classroom library, and by displayed, I mean face down on the floor, under a student's desk. The Wombury is a fan of Indie Reading. And he's reading quite a number of books as well, including A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck. It's all about Robert growing up in Vermont, living on a farm, dealing with life, death, and the Shaker Way. The Shakers were an oddball extremist sect of puritanism that eschewed all things frivolous, great and small, up to and including sex. (Is sex frivolous? Or just foreplay?). There's this collective ethos that forbids accepting payment for services rendered if said services are deemed to be what any good neighbor should be doing in the first place. "No thank you, brother Josiah, can't accept that sack of potatoes just for deliverin' your newborn daughter; I'd just done what any good neighbor would do."
I'm thinking of the Shaker Way because, as the Wombury types this posting down here in the teacher's computer room, ("the sweat box"),
So the kids are partaking in "Independent Reading," one of the many pieces of the post-modern curriculum puzzle. Kids are "empowered" to select any book they want, provided they can find it among the 8 titles displayed in the classroom library, and by displayed, I mean face down on the floor, under a student's desk. The Wombury is a fan of Indie Reading. And he's reading quite a number of books as well, including A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck. It's all about Robert growing up in Vermont, living on a farm, dealing with life, death, and the Shaker Way. The Shakers were an oddball extremist sect of puritanism that eschewed all things frivolous, great and small, up to and including sex. (Is sex frivolous? Or just foreplay?). There's this collective ethos that forbids accepting payment for services rendered if said services are deemed to be what any good neighbor should be doing in the first place. "No thank you, brother Josiah, can't accept that sack of potatoes just for deliverin' your newborn daughter; I'd just done what any good neighbor would do."
I'm thinking of the Shaker Way because, as the Wombury types this posting down here in the teacher's computer room, ("the sweat box"),
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Day After Insomia
Hello Dear Readers,
Insomia last night. Went to bed at 10:21, tossed and turn, found this online radio station called Illinois Street Lounge, with the running theme of Classic Bachelor Pad. it's like elevator music on Jazz steroids. And I was thirsty. But I didn't want to leave the cave, since that would've necessitated a stop and chat with Ed and Lisa, who sounded like they were having some kind of intimate discussion, which made dropping off even more difficult. So as the hours whittled away I listened for Ed and Lisa's conversation to die down. Around 1 am I woke up and made myself a drink. At 4 I awoke again and spent an hour listening to Motown and collecting 37 confessions on Craigslist.
Until then,
The Wombury
Insomia last night. Went to bed at 10:21, tossed and turn, found this online radio station called Illinois Street Lounge, with the running theme of Classic Bachelor Pad. it's like elevator music on Jazz steroids. And I was thirsty. But I didn't want to leave the cave, since that would've necessitated a stop and chat with Ed and Lisa, who sounded like they were having some kind of intimate discussion, which made dropping off even more difficult. So as the hours whittled away I listened for Ed and Lisa's conversation to die down. Around 1 am I woke up and made myself a drink. At 4 I awoke again and spent an hour listening to Motown and collecting 37 confessions on Craigslist.
Until then,
The Wombury
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My Therapist Says I Have a "Regulatory" Problem
Hello Dear Readers,
First, the Wombury wants to wish you a happy summer full of hand-holding and bathing suits and lake swimming and dewey grass clippings and meat grilling and tomato picking and lilac sniffing and the wombury's favorite: sandal wearing. The WOmbury truly loves sandal wearing. not his own sandal-wearing, (although for a man as rugged as the wombury is, he does have rather shapely dogs)-but no, of course I speak of the ladies. love the ladies in their summer clothes. The breezy linen numbers, the backless numbers, the Ellie May numbers with the gingham top and the skin-tight jeans fastened with a clutch of rope. In homage to the sartorial splendors of the season, the wombury has posted Mr. Bruce Springsteen's fine track, "Girls in their Summer Clothes" from his most recent album. One note: if it's summer why does it look so damn cold along the jersey shore? Why is Bruce wearing a pea coat? Or is it Pee coat? or is it P Coat? Must look this up.
IN OTHER news, the Wombury's mental therapist told him he has a "regulatory" problem. She says, "You go too far, too fast," She didn't give any examples, as this was pretty much the last thing she said before the session was finished. (Isn' t that a freqently spoofed stereotype of analysis? "And our time's up and by the way you're a latent homosexual. See you next week!"). Even though she didn't illuminate her comments, I assume she's referring to the Wombury's penchant for asking women to marry him after one date, especially when drunk. She's probably also referring to the way he starts huge projects and then doesn't complete them.
While it's a kind of relief to have a name for a problem, it's a little lame, don't you think? Like searching in vain for the Easter Egg with the 5 dollar bill and finding the one with a plastic rosary instead. Why couldn't it be bi-polar disorder or clinical depression or the old standby, "manic-depression"? I even tried to convince her I had 40 percent of the characteristics shared by sociopaths, which she summarily denounced. Later she mentioned OCD, and before the words left my mouth she said, "you don't have it, and you aren't 'it'".
The wombury is fairly positive Dr Z just sort of pulled "Regulatory" out of her Freudian ass and made the ad hoc decision that "Regulatory" is a psychological problem.
Until then,
The WOmbury
First, the Wombury wants to wish you a happy summer full of hand-holding and bathing suits and lake swimming and dewey grass clippings and meat grilling and tomato picking and lilac sniffing and the wombury's favorite: sandal wearing. The WOmbury truly loves sandal wearing. not his own sandal-wearing, (although for a man as rugged as the wombury is, he does have rather shapely dogs)-but no, of course I speak of the ladies. love the ladies in their summer clothes. The breezy linen numbers, the backless numbers, the Ellie May numbers with the gingham top and the skin-tight jeans fastened with a clutch of rope. In homage to the sartorial splendors of the season, the wombury has posted Mr. Bruce Springsteen's fine track, "Girls in their Summer Clothes" from his most recent album. One note: if it's summer why does it look so damn cold along the jersey shore? Why is Bruce wearing a pea coat? Or is it Pee coat? or is it P Coat? Must look this up.
IN OTHER news, the Wombury's mental therapist told him he has a "regulatory" problem. She says, "You go too far, too fast," She didn't give any examples, as this was pretty much the last thing she said before the session was finished. (Isn' t that a freqently spoofed stereotype of analysis? "And our time's up and by the way you're a latent homosexual. See you next week!"). Even though she didn't illuminate her comments, I assume she's referring to the Wombury's penchant for asking women to marry him after one date, especially when drunk. She's probably also referring to the way he starts huge projects and then doesn't complete them.
While it's a kind of relief to have a name for a problem, it's a little lame, don't you think? Like searching in vain for the Easter Egg with the 5 dollar bill and finding the one with a plastic rosary instead. Why couldn't it be bi-polar disorder or clinical depression or the old standby, "manic-depression"? I even tried to convince her I had 40 percent of the characteristics shared by sociopaths, which she summarily denounced. Later she mentioned OCD, and before the words left my mouth she said, "you don't have it, and you aren't 'it'".
The wombury is fairly positive Dr Z just sort of pulled "Regulatory" out of her Freudian ass and made the ad hoc decision that "Regulatory" is a psychological problem.
Until then,
The WOmbury
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