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There’s something a little bittersweet about closing the door on Blogger—like leaving a well-worn café where the barista knew your order and didn’t mind if you stayed too long. It was easy, forgiving, and quietly reliable for years. But the world shifted, as it does, and I found myself packing up the archives and moving into something leaner, sharper, more… alive. Now the blog runs on Hugo, hosted on GitHub—pages snapping into place at the speed of thought, the whole thing humming like a well-tuned instrument. It feels less like publishing and more like building. And maybe that’s the point. The writing hasn’t changed—but the stage has. And suddenly, it’s lit for the kind of future where humans and machines improvise together.

Joseph and the Sky That Broke: Masterpieces of a Different Sort - #7

 

I found this one at the dump. I reminded me of my great-grandfather, Joe and his eldest son - my grandfather, Forrest. The painting is real and the story is true-ish.

They say it started with the wind. Not the kind that passes through, but the kind that stays. Hangs in the air. Gnaws on your skin. Teaches you how to live small.

Joseph York was a farmer in western Oklahoma. The kind of man who didn’t waste a word or a meal. He and his wife had five children, and they all lived in a house that leaned a little too far to the east—like it, too, had started to give in.

By 1930, the sky had turned mean. Rain stopped visiting. The crops died with their roots curled like fists, and the dirt began to lift—at first just a haze on the horizon, then something closer to judgment.

One day, Joseph saw the sky fold in on itself. Dust boiled up across the field like smoke from a fire that hadn’t started yet. He called for the children. Told Forrest, the eldest, to pack what they could into the truck. Told the others not to look back.

But Forrest—he did.

And what he saw stayed with him for the rest of his life:

His father, standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other shielding his eyes as the land he had worked his whole life became a memory he couldn’t hold onto. The dust didn’t just take the farm. It took the years that built it.

That’s the moment this painting captures—or seems to.

It’s not signed. Not dated. Just left behind at the dump like a story someone didn’t want to tell anymore.

But I think it’s Joseph.

Or maybe it’s every Joseph who stood still just long enough to lose everything but the will to keep going.

We Did It!

 

We made it.

Shrek the Musical opened this weekend—and somehow, despite all the chaos, all the costume changes, all the quick cues and frantic prop swaps—it came together.

And it came off almost without a hitch.

This show is big.

Big cast. Big voices. Big green prosthetics.

A fairytale circus on a stage held together by choreography, backstage whispers, and an unreasonable amount of faith.

I have the smallest of parts—just a moment, really.

But even from the wings, I’ve never been prouder to be part of a cast.

Everyone showed up. Everyone shined.

Opening night is behind us. The story lives now.

And I’m thrilled I got to help tell it.

Lucky Me.

 

Lucky me.

It only cost $25 this time. And three hours of my life I won’t get back.

Every spring, the house reminds me who’s boss.

A new broken pipe. Or two. Sometimes more. Always outdoors.

The indoor plumbing is mostly civil.

The yard, though?

It’s a calamitous, confounding, concatenation of shallow-buried pipes laid like a drunken game of Tetris over decades.

The frost heaves the ground.

The ground breaks the pipes.

The pipes break my resolve.

Back in winter, one line froze and started gushing.

I ran to shut off the main outdoor valve—just in time.

The valve stem sheared off as I turned it.

Good thing it happened after I got it closed.

If it hadn’t, this post would be about a flood.

I left it like that for months. Let the problem hibernate. It was too cold anyway. The ground was frozen.

Now that the frosts are gone, I went out to assess the damage.

I thought I’d be digging deep, replacing the whole mess.

But somehow—miraculously—I managed a workaround.

New tool. Bit of pipe.

And now the valve turns on and off slowly, and with some trepidation. And that's good enough for me.

For now, anyway.

Lattes & Loitering, Episode 52: A New Book (with a twist)

It started, as these things often do, with a book.

Not a new book, exactly—just new to me. One of those titles that practically taps you on the shoulder from across the digital aisle:

13 Things Mentally Strong People Don’t Do.

Catchy, right?

Enough to make me hover over the “Buy Now” button for a moment.

But then I pictured it—the sorting facility, the barcode scanner, the box making its journey across three states and four highways just so I could sit in a café and feel slightly more emotionally fortified. And I thought: maybe not.

So I let the AI do the lifting.

In a few minutes, I had a clean, thoughtful summary. A clickable mind map. A podcast voiced by two eerily calm digital humans, swapping insights over a topic they technically can’t feel.

And honestly?

It was enough.

I didn’t burn any fuel. I didn’t wait three days. I didn’t add another object to the great domestic archive of unread personal development literature.

I got what I came for. And then I lingered.

Because sometimes strength isn’t about doing more.

Sometimes it’s about knowing when not to.

And loitering with a latte, apparently, still makes the cut.

Here's some clickable stuff:

• PDF summary 

• Simulated podcast

Mind map of '13 Things'

Oh, and speaking of loitering:

Red Hats, Cold Feet

Meet MAGA Mick

Something new is brewing.




I’ve started work on an animated cartoon—limited animation, to be honest. We’re talking slow blinks, head tilts, awkward shuffles. The kind of movement that mirrors the mental gymnastics of a man caught in a moral midlife crisis.




His name is MAGA Mick.




He’s a dyed-in-the-flannel Republican. Trump voter. Used to shout at the TV. Used to own more flags than shirts. But now… something’s shifting. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But enough that you can see it in his eyes.




The man’s starting to wonder.




The cartoon is satire, yes—but it’s not a hit job. It’s a portrait. It's short and punchy. A study in contradiction. A bit of absurdity laced with humanity, because that’s the most honest way I know to explore what’s happening in the bones of this country.




Mick is fictional. But his story? It’s everywhere.




The project will grow slowly, the way real doubt does. A still photo is the one above. No voices or narration, just a lot of cards that, one after the other, probe the unsettling issues gnawing at Mick. This is my attempt to speak to a fracture in our collective story using the only tools I’ve got: humor, pixels, and a deep love for asking inconvenient questions.

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. (A Brief Encounter With Abstract Life)

Out in some math-born corner of the void, the Blobs float.

They spin. Pulse. Change color like they’re listening to music only they can hear.

Once in a while, a presence enters their realm. A viewer. A traveler. You.

The Blobs notice. They shimmer, respond.

They spin brighter, move with more purpose, like they’re dancing just for you.

This little animation started as a whim. I wrote it in Python with Processing. Just a way to make something move, something abstract.

But once the Blobs showed up, they didn’t want to leave.

And if you watch long enough, you might feel them watching back.

A Little Black Dog Plays in the Snow. An AI story.

There once was a little black dog named Beatrice who had spent most of her life living in a shelter. She was a sweet and gentle dog, but unfortunately, no one had ever come to adopt her.

One cold winter day, a kind man named Barky came to the shelter looking for a furry companion to keep him company. As soon as he saw Beatrice, he knew that the little black dog was the one he had been looking for.

Barky brought Beatrice home and gave her a warm bed by the fireplace, a cozy blanket to snuggle up in, and all the love and attention she had always wanted. Beatrice was overjoyed and couldn't stop wagging her tail with happiness.

As the snow started to fall outside, Barky wrapped Beatrice up in a warm sweater and took her outside to play. Beatrice had never seen snow before, and as she ran and chased after the snowflakes, she felt more alive and free than she ever had before.

She ran and played until she was tired, and then came inside and snuggled up close to Barky as they watched the snow falling softly from the sky. Beatrice knew that she had finally found her forever home and the love and happiness she had always dreamed of. And Barky knew that he had found the perfect little companion to share his life with. 

The end.

A Chilly New Years Ride

 

I've been wanting to go biking for weeks, but the weather has beaten us back to the interior of the house. Until today. Sunny but chilly, I took advantage of the break in the weather. The next 5 days look awful for biking, so it had to be today. 

I moved all the e-bike components to the new bike I bought for $20 at a local thrift store because the frame was better I think. I also added a solar panel. The idea is to charge the e-bike while I ride it. That panel isn't going to make it so that I can ride indefinitely but it does extend the range.

Dog On It at the DB

 

We're Dog On It, Johny McDonald, Ken Cawley, and myself. And we've been asked to play at the Drunk Brush on Fridays recently. Some good ol' fun going on! Trying new stuff, new sounds as well as some old ones, of course. Why Dog On It? Because between Johny and I, we own 7 dogs.

The illustration I got from DALL-E, after a lot of prompting: Illustration of an Australian Shepherd dog sitting on a pile of broken instruments, including drums, guitars, fiddles, etc.

Grumpy and Cold

I asked ChatGTP and DALL-E to generate a story and illustration about an old man being grumpy about it being too cold and snowy to go out and ride his bike.

It was a cold, bitter Winter day, and old man Barky was feeling particularly grumpy. He had been looking forward to going for a ride on his beloved e-bike, with his trusty sidekick Beatrice, but the weather was just too darn cold.

As he sat in his cozy living room, sipping on a mug of hot cocoa, Barky couldn't help but feel a sense of annoyance towards Winter. "Why does it have to be so cold?" he grumbled to himself.

He tried to shake off his frustration and decided to take matters into his own hands. He rummaged through his closet and pulled out his warmest coat, gloves, and hat. "I'll show Winter who's boss!" he declared.

But as soon as he stepped outside, the icy wind hit him like a ton of bricks. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted, trying to make his way back to the warmth of his house.

Despite his best efforts, Barky just couldn't seem to get warm. His fingers and toes were freezing and his nose was running like a faucet. "I give up," he said, defeated.

With a heavy heart, Barky trudged back inside and curled up on the couch with a blanket. "I guess I'll just have to wait until Spring to ride my bike," he said, sighing.

Oh well, at least he had plenty of hot cocoa and Beatrice to keep him company until then.