A tentless hobo

The 1993 gold Saturn that was stolen Monday, recovered Thursday morning, is back in its spot from which it was abducted, worse for wear in that the tiny geode is forever lost.

That and $311 bucks and a whirlwind trip to fetch it out of hoc.

Oh, did I mention that we gained a few things in the deal? Yeah:

  • 1 hobo tent
  • 1 empty duffel
  • 1 weed pipe
  • 1 uneaten taco
  • 1 bag of miscellaneous clothing
  • garbage and crap and cigarette smoke

It seems that whomever stole the car took it to get from point A to B and picked up his crappy gear along the way. He slipped a slimjim ribbon steel down to unlock it. Then took a filed down jimmy key and wiggled and wiggled the key until he could crank it over. Done.  Drive away and sleep in the back and abandon it and his stuff in a wooded area outside of Portland.

The car is sitting back where we expect to sit. But now, the battery has been pulled out and we’ll put it back only to drive it, rarely, or to the auction where we’ll get rid of this beloved albatross. Someday.

What a week.

Cops and Robbers (towing)

Good (maybe) news!

Our 1993 gold Saturn was recovered, externally undamaged, by the Portland Police and towed by a towing company to its impound area.

Now, for the privilege of having our car stolen, we get to pay $300 (today only) for the honor of having our car returned to us (and towed from there back to our residence — for additional cost).

Sounds like a racket to me.


A thief in the day

Yesterday, between seven and nine pm, the old 1993 gold Saturn I bought new when my son was born was stolen from the covered spot right in front of the apartment in which my wife and I live. We could look out and see it there. California, Utah, Oregon—26 years old.

The sun hadn’t even set. People walked their dogs and kids around the place. Someone with balls the size of grapefruit had the audacity to steal that old, nearly worthless car.

God Damn It.

And the only thing of value in the whole car was a geode I’d saved from a dig with the family back in 2003 in Delta, Utah. The size of a robin’s egg, this geode represented the “thing” I was going to save until my last breath when I’d say to my kids, “let’s see what’s inside this, shall we?” It had rattled around in the ashtray for 16 years.

The Universe is absurd, indifferent and oblivious.

Yup, it sure is.


Writer’s Log: 2051 Names

For whatever reason, I put considerable thought into names of characters, places and things in my stories.

When you read a name, you say it in your mind and if it’s wrong for the character, then I find myself stumbling over it every time I read it. When a name fits, you know it.

Finding a name can be challenging. Baby names from various countries have often been my go to source for characters. Scanning google maps for location names works for places. But these often feel generic. For fun, I created a Python script that combines letters in roughly random fashion to create jumble names. The script is below.

But to give you an example, I’ll print 180 names, randomly generated. Tell me if you don’t see a few names that speak to you. Remove a letter here or there and pow, there’s the name for your next villain, love interest, pet seal, seedy uncle or dying grandfather.

Aya Casype Eee Nevtega Vaa Meike
Timy Kkyaa Eemo Kuo Dhagehy Pihmya
Iyyge Jia Kmyhi Eanabu Kadea Aoe
Wnahybi Iyfae Hivto Iau Eoa Oneso
Efaa Dpiaby Bapwi Dobi Ayqe Auna
Ubuuu Ufuau Pydeve Nuve Faedo Hmuda
Ntea Aayme Iypihme Idbougi Vsqae Setocy
Eucu Miwiu Uaasqy Ayhmyje Tyu Iguy
Eeoa Hqao Yeguqu Cahmy Rtagudy Zneohmy
Bcosqe Eomycu Gjifipwe Rboakja Rhya Sinumy
Ataqygu Esey Mbituo Ntehmyfa Yhyna Rofa
Esqacu Bygcy Byca Hefaa Jkacu Bapi
Bahyfo Fwuey Jpegcuo Ahmaydbe Ewisqemy Geed’a
Cpehmaso Nfofu Ktevy Ejoe Ctekai Fiunfa
Qjawoy Cykai Uyy Jvave Pue Deyga
Ouae Acao Edbiqe Eqekadbo Vwyga Vkofia
Rseeo Yasqe Bpanase Bhmioy Eetea Miteko
Fqei Mvtuco Case Vdoe Psutey Sisuhy
Emaja Yhaae Jbasqyqe Jbete Msqege Mydowo
Adejite Oeqevu Niata Vvui Yaivo Puyje
Coou Fovaja Adaea Wica Evui Keyca
Oaa Iya Wya Dsoje Niu Udicuqi
Muqe Jhmyai Woee Piey Kiifa Onoda
Ruu Tapi Aceo Fhyyvy Ooeo Qimea
Gjuve Vavtey Gaa Kawe Eua Kaeu
Hwiay Ddbuky Dkjamy Ihmaa Gsyeva Tvteje
Eumo Afaqe Dohua Obopwi Qveio Yaovte
Dnobige Jvepwo Cyhmy Cuta Fdavte Baojy
Wkypwena Coda Tmiho Jeve Mbue Giony
Yeia Foymi Bvtewaa Ryyu Fboe Ceofy


import random
# Main program entry point
def main():

 words1 = ["a","u","y","o","a","e","i","e","'"]
 words2 = ["d","g","h","k","n","s","p","v",""]
 words3 = ["'","c","m","j","f","q","w","t"]
 words4 = ["d","g","h","k","n","s","r","p","v","z","e","i",
 print ("Starting...")

 f = open('.\output.txt', 'w')

 triplet = []
 for a in xrange(0, len(words1) - 1):
  for b in xrange(0, len(words2) - 1):
   for c in xrange(0, len(words3) - 1):

 for x in range(1, 51): # number of names
  l = random.randint(3, 4)
  s = words4[random.randint(0, len(words4) - 1)].upper()
  for i in range (1, l):
   n = random.randint(0, len(triplet) - 1)
   a = random.randint(0, 2)
   if (a == 0):
    s += words2[triplet[n][a]]
    a = random.randint(0, 2)
   if (a == 0):
    s += words3[triplet[n][a]]
    a = random.randint(0, 2)
    s += words1[triplet[n][a]]
  print >> f, s

 print ("Done")

if __name__ == '__main__':

(The reason the lists are called “words” is because I first used this to create random book titles using different words.)

Your Favorite: a stand-up round

Where I’m working, we have morning stand-ups: a quick meeting where 10 -/+ of us round the room explaining yesterday’s and today’s tasks. Everyone takes a monthly turn at leading. June is my month. So, first off, I built a spinner to pick who goes first:


Then, I provided a list of topics that each person could volunteer their favorite. Each day a different topic:


  • Media
    • Movies
    • Books, stories, games
    • Media star or fictional character – hero, villain or
    • Fictional location – in what fictional land would you care to live or visit
    • Meme/genre: sci-fi, fantasy, time shift, horror, dystopia, CSI, medical, cops/crime
  • Food
    • A meal or food you’d eat every day for the rest of your life
    • Beverage
    • Sweet or treat: childhood or now
    • Least favorite food
    • Haven’t tried but would like to
  • Travel
    • Prior vacation spot
    • Desired vacation spot
    • Live the rest of your life
    • Would never travel to, worst placed you’ve lived
    • Where would you take the entire team?
  • Misc
    • Favorite science meme: fusion, space elevator, Moon/Mars colony, robots, AI, etc.
    • Music, do you play an instrument, can you dance, are you in a band?
    • Unknown skills (art, maker, cooking, crafts, etc.)
    • Pet, childhood memory, hobby, best/worst job
    • Bucket list: anything

So far the answers have been fun, strange and entertaining.

(Who knew that some folks don’t like shrimp, sushi, liver & onions, cilantro, bean sprouts? Odd people, these.)

Writer’s Log: 2048 Disturbing Content

All of us can dream up some pretty ugly scenarios.

Depraved, disturbing, deranged. I’d wager you could come up with some horrific scenes with some downright criminal activity. Stuff you’d feel you could never put to paper. So, how is it that some authors can actually write that stuff and not be thought of as insane?

For my latest work in progress I’ve decided to abandon some of my social constraints and write of gawd-awful acts and heinous behavior. Immolation, horse stomping children, murdering a pregnant woman, soon the dismemberment of a “bad dude.”

Holy Hell Batman! That’s some nasty shit. Are you sure you want to have your name associated with such wickedness? Are you sure you want your editor/mother (78) to read of such unspeakable cruelty? What will she think of you now? Disturbed? Perverted?

Frankly, I don’t know. But, I figure if I can visualize it, then so can others, and if it fits the story, then so be it.

But, day-yam, that’s some corrupt sewage leaking out of my brain.

Have you written content you know others would find disturbing? Did their consternation and potential ostracization influence your writing?



Masturbating cockatiel

Enrique permanently dropped off his pet cockatiel, Perrico, a lovely male with an exceptional attitude.

I lived with Tom, my twenties’ mentor, in a house in Marin County. Enrique worked for Tom and, for the time being, so did I. Tom never married, owned a Cessna, mined California gold, hunted in Montana and lived to adventure. Life with Tom was a blast.

Meals were a crap-shoot with Tom. Often, I’d make a batch of popcorn over the gas stove — I got very good at its production, nary a kernel went unpopped. Perrico loved popcorn. The cockatiel would wait for an offering and hop down on the carpet to eat. Later, we’d find him inside the wide pot, pecking at the remains. He also loved to play.

Tom would carry him back to the far bedroom and toss him into the air. He’d fly around the house looking for me, finally landing on top of my head when I was located — often hiding to challenge him.

He’d rarely sing. No, that’s not true. He’d often sing but, only on special occasions — right after he finished masturbating on your thumb.

During the evenings, he spent little time in his cage, often just sitting around on top of us or things while we read our books. However, if you held him on your index finger, with his butt positioned over the knuckle of your thumb, he would begin the strangest dance. He’d start to rub his hidden dick on that bump. He rub and rub until, with an arched back, he’d cum. A tiny wet spot would materialize and he’d start to sing as if he were an opera star.

If you interrupted him, he’d become mighty cross and attempt to bite your hand and would squawk a raucous noise.

I left in autumn, headed back to school. In November that year, Tom opened the front door to go to work, having forgotten to cage Perrico the night before. The bird went for the bright light, flew up into the foggy morning and was never seen again.