Shrek Rehearsal Continues Apace

Getting there. We're about a month away from the premiere.

Dog Walk In The Rain

 

Rainy all day, but they need their exercise.

The park, emptied of everyone

except me and the dogs—

tails up, noses down,

Bella with her tug ball,

oblivious to weather,

or maybe made for it.

No voices. No cars.

Just the soft drip of water meeting earth,

and the rhythm of paws

in soaked grass.

We got wet.

We didn’t mind. Nothing a car towel can't fix.

The world had stepped out,

and left the silence to us.

BB Gets Attacked. A Bad Day At The Park.

It happened too fast.

My little dog Beatrice—BB—was ahead of me, doing what she always does in the park: sniffing, patrolling, trotting just slightly too far, like she’s got her own errands to run. I was trailing behind, letting her be her scrappy, independent self.

Then I heard it. A scream. High, sharp, unmistakable.

It was BB.

I ran. Not thinking, not planning. Just running. The kind of sprint your body invents when you hear someone you love in pain.

Two larger dogs had gotten her. I don’t know what set them off. I only know they backed off when they saw me barreling toward them. And their owner? Said nothing. Did nothing.

No apology. No concern.

Just… silence.

I had to yell—really yell—to get her to leash her dogs and put them in her car so we could have a “chat.” And we did. I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that what happened was not just unacceptable—it was burned-into-my-memory unforgivable. The owner is older than I by about 10 years. I'm not proud of what I said, but it could have worse. "You're too old to be this dumb! YOU are responsible for your dogs behavior. What the fuck is the matter with you". I felt like throwing a rock through her window. 

Let’s just say: I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again. If I do, it won’t be a quiet reunion.

This is the second time BB has been attacked recently. And Bella—my other dog—was hit by a pit bull a few months back. So yeah, I’m thinking about carrying bear spray now. Not because I want to use it. But because I don’t want to be helpless again. And, as bad as it sounds, I believe in retribution.

BB is moving gingerly today, a little slower, a little sore—but she’s here. Still wagging her tail. Still showing more grace than I’m capable of.

Dogs are like that.

They forgive faster than we deserve.

Nana and the Elephant. A Story and an Instant Podcast.

 

I decided to test out some of Google’s newer AI tools—specifically, NotebookLM. I was curious about their podcast generation feature, and figured: why not throw something personal into the machine and see what comes out?

So I uploaded a story—one I’d written about a conversation I once had with my grandmother, Nana.  A quiet memory, dusted off and given a slight narrative shine.

I fed it into NotebookLM, clicked the “generate podcast” button, and waited. It took about 15 minutes.

Below is the story.

And then—what the AI did with it.

Playing Ukes With The Ladies For Valentines Day

I love getting together to play ukuleles with this group of fun people. For Valentines Day we met as we usually do at our local toy store and sang torch songs together. Bella loves going there too, especially since the place doubles as an ice cream shop (she's fond of vanilla). Look for her. She's partially obscured. I'm in the santa hat. (For Valentines Day ???)

Lattes & Loitering, Episode 51: What Passes for Bliss on a Tuesday Morning

There's a particular cup at my favorite café in Quincy, Brew haha.




It's not just a cup, it's the cup—the one they always seem to hand me, even if I don't ask. Red on the outside, patterned like someone took the time to make something decorative just for the joy of it. Thick-walled. Just the right heft. It fits the hand like it knows the weight of slow mornings and second chances.




And the drink? Always the same.




Not out of habit, but because this one is just… so. It lands perfectly in that narrow gap between bitter and comfort, with milk frothed into silk and a leaf—or a heart, or a flame—floating in the center like some caffeinated mandala.




I come here often. Same corner. Same chipped glass table. Usually with my fur babies. Same invisible rhythm of espresso, milk, and steam.




It's not profound. It's not life-changing.




But it's mine.




And in today's world seemingly wired for chaos and strife, there's something revolutionary in returning to a small ritual that asks for nothing but your presence and your gratitude.




Some days, this cup is enough.

Ogres!

Well, it happend, I’m back in another production at the West End Theatre in Quincy, CA.

This time it’s Shrek: The Musical—a tale of love, layers, and swampy redemption—and I’ve landed a small but mighty role as Papa Ogre. That’s right, I’ll be kicking off the show as Shrek’s dear old dad, paired up with my longtime friend and frequent stage partner, Michelle Pfingston, who’s playing Mama Ogre. In this go 'round, we have the dubious honor of sending off our 7 year old son (Shrek) alone into a hostile world while celebrating it in song. Ain't show business somethin'!

It’s a brief appearance, but it comes with something I don't mind doing: singing. In front of people. On purpose.

The show opens in May, just in time for Mother’s Day, and it’s packed with adorable characters, fairy tale chaos, and enough heart to fill a whole swamp. I’m keeping my time commitment light this round—just dipping my green toe back in the performing waters—but I couldn’t resist the pull of the stage. Especially with this cast, this crew, and this story.

Sometimes the best way to keep the joy alive is to take a small part in something big.

Back On Stage (Maybe)

 

So… I’m auditioning for some kind of role in Shrek the Musical.

That’s right. Community theater has pulled me back in—this time with ogres, dragons, talking donkeys, and musical numbers that are catchier than they have any right to be.

I’m going for a small role. Nothing too demanding. Something fun, something weird, something I can do without torching my calendar or my sanity.

Why? Because the stage still calls, even if it’s just whispering now. And because saying yes to small things can sometimes keep the big parts of life moving.

I’ll share more once I know who I’ll be playing (and whether or not I have to wear green face paint). 

Cue the fairytale fanfare.

She Moves

This piece began as a dream, or a half-song, back in 2009. A character emerged and never quite left. I didn’t know what to do with her until now. So here she is—in her own rhythm, her own night, driving into something new.

---

She Moves

She wakes at three a.m.

Blinks to clear her head.

No sound.

The house is still.

Dark.

Silent, decisive footsteps—

in seconds she’s at the door.

Grabs her keys.

Her bag.

Doesn’t bother with the bed.

She hesitates

on the back porch.

Shaking, but sure.

She must.

She has to go.

Lets the door shut

like a closing chapter

then slips into her car.

And the road ahead

is an unknown life.

When there’s nothing left to do,

and no one left to blame—

hard times get harder

when you have to change.

When all you’ve got is the sound of blue,

you play a whole new game.

‘Cause no one ever

stays the same.

She drives.

Thinks back on the years

she just made do—

Empty men.

Empty jobs.

Bottles that went nowhere.

That first time in the mirror—

the ache in her aging face.

She broke down,

right then,

and knew:

This can’t be it.

She moves, she moves.

She knows what she’s gotta do.

Pomp and circumstance—

graduate to a whole new school.

Learn to win

with a brand new set of rules.

Use your heart.

Make it work.

Make all new friends.

Push down the fear.

Believe in the end.

‘Cause staying ‘round here?

It amounts to nothing

in the end.

Hello, Blob.

In a world not governed by the usual laws of physics, there exists a realm of abstract entities known as Blobs. These Blobs, born from the whispers of the cosmos, dance their existence away in the boundless void of the universe.

Each Blob, a unique ensemble of radiant colors, throbs gently, their forms constantly undulating, pulsating to the rhythm of the cosmic symphony. They are the children of randomness, their forms ever-changing, dictated by the celestial dice roll of probability.

As they float in the space, their paths occasionally intersect, creating an ephemeral fusion of colors, a fleeting moment of unity before they drift apart again. These moments, though transient, are a testament to the interconnected dance of the universe, a nod to the underlying fabric that weaves all existence together.

When a curious traveler from our world, armed with the power of the human attention ventures into their realm, the Blobs react. They sense the presence of the traveler, their colors changing, glowing brighter as if acknowledging this strange visitor.

As the traveler moves, the Blobs follow in a playful dance, their paths mirroring the whims of the traveler's gesticulations. For the Blobs, the presence of the traveler is a break from their routine, a chance to interact, to perform for an audience. It's a symbiotic relationship, an unspoken bond formed in the cosmic dance floor.

In their fleeting existence, the Blobs embody the beauty of randomness, the serenity of unity, and the joy of interaction. They represent a microcosm of the universe, a spectacle of endless possibilities, a dance of abstract forms in the grand theatre of existence.