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Dear Mole, Pancakes


Oy, indeed.  Drawing the curtain on unanswerable existential questions is just what the doctor ordered.  But I wouldn’t know where to fish for the monkey-faced eel and despite my former status as a hallucinogenic connoisseur, I’ve never been able to get my hands on peyote.

Tuition is paid and I’m enrolled in the Santa Fe Community College veterinary tech program.  However, the online curriculum is rather useless until I receive my textbooks in the mail, so I have another day or two of exquisite inactivity to enjoy.

Yesterday, I filled some of that time by watching a few episodes of The Sarah Silverman Program.  This is what I learned:

Aside from a deeper understanding of canine and feline anatomy, this might represent the sum total of acquired knowledge needed to see me through the rest of my life.

I’m also hoping that it may serve to compensate for my lack of substantive commentary about food in my last post.





Dear Mudge, I’m a Martyr

Dear Mudge,

Only years later did I understand my mother’s words when she told me—all throughout my childhood, “You’d cut off your nose to spite your face.”


Oh, you mean I’m a self-righteous fool who would rather fall on his sword than give you the benefit of a false victory over this obvious injustice? Well, yeah, pretty much.

I mentioned a while back about certain challenging circumstances at work. Let’s just say there’s this person, we’ll call him Prick, who was hired about the same time as I, but, for whatever reason, (certainly not his technical skills) hired two company levels above me. Prick and I never got along, still don’t; we never say good morning; never even allow our eyes to meet during uncomfortable juxtaposing hallway encounters. Prick gets twice my salary, and can’t even deign to acknowledge one of the company’s critical software developers? Maybe it’s my strong opinions contradicting his own? Maybe its the fact that he forced a number of good people to leave, people with whom I worked and valued.

So, in the secrecy of night I… No, no that’s not what I meant to tell you.

Last week the whole IT department was rearranged, by Prick and others, regarding seating. You know the drill: this cube vs that one, that office vs this one, who has to sit close to to the noisy printer, who gets a view out the windows into the attractive grounds around the building—petty shit like that that represents the pecking order of a corporate office. The software team was reorganized as well, all except me. The other six programmers were nested together in a cube row while I, who has maintained the same Amsterdam whore-on-display seat since I started, gets to remain where I am. (I’ve petitioned to be moved and have been quashed at every attempt.)

So be it, Prick.


A great place for deep mental activity like programming.


I’m not sure where this capacity to endure discomfort came from. I will say that I tend to gravitate toward isolation, attracting scorn and self-deprecation. Why? I truly don’t know. My mother recognized it early on. It may be hubris but I’m certain I can identify injustice more often than most.  But to intentionally endure an injustice, perhaps in an attempt to call it out, hoping *someone* might acknowledge the situation and correct it? That’s one strange behavior.


Regarding the attempt to leximize “leximize” and the recent realized recognition of your bizarre feat of digital flagellation, aka Notes from the Avalon, I have to point out that both seem to be indications of the need to leave a mark on the world.

I Exist and Here is Evidence.

I submit that such endeavors are ever more evidence that DNA controls our destiny. For in such a world as ours, social notoriety is culture cash. This admission chaffs at my purposefully distant and haughty sensibilities, but you have to agree, receiving those NFTA emails and notifications felt pretty good, no?

The more we delve into this Absurd Universe the more absurd it becomes.

Chin held firmly up, nose directed into the shit-smelling breeze,

Apocalyptic Scenario 3.a.i

Listen, I’m going to tell this tale. But you need to understand something… Hold on, I’ve got a primitive alert system rigged across this hillside and one of my alarms is jiggling something bigger than a ground squirrel.

Denton breaks open his double-barrel and drops in a pair of blood-red #6 duck-shot, the only type of shell that remains in his collection. He pockets two more, clamps the ammo can shut and slips out the uphill door of the cabin.

This time of the season, corn fit to reach the sky, squash and beans resting while they wait for first frost, I see vandals come up the valley from that cesspit of a town. I hate to waste shot, but if I don’t, they think they can come back with a mob.

He heads across the slope avoiding the sight of anyone trekking across his fields toward his house. His gardens are below in a broad swale that stays naturally moist throughout the summer; the dry heat elsewhere burns crops to desert bones. His wide descending arc brings him to his plot, this end showing rows of peppers, deep green, crimson and gold. A woman is walking oblivious, straight through his gardens.

Would you look at that. Talk about brazen disregard for your own safety. She’s not stopping to steal or to even marvel at my work. What she going on…

… continued over here


Dear Mudge, Giving Thanks

Dear Mudge,

The corptocracy hijacked holiday, Thanksgiving, is nearly upon us. Is Black Friday now the celebration and not the humble acknowledgment that our prosperity stems from both luck and the hard work of ourselves and those around us? Do we now give thanks for Amazon Prime? One of conscience must feel sickened by such cultist display: the tribe of greed and avarice. How to combat this distasteful trend? More on that below.

Oh, ‘Mudge, politics & religion are two subjects that are rarely discussed here. I’ll admit, I have recently been watching Rachel Maddow and delight in her delight. She just can’t stop smiling these days. But the way of things, the indefensible, dogmatic loyalty to that reprehensible IBI (incoherent bloviating imbecile) In Chief, and the backward-thinking, blind-eye behavior of that ancient tortoise leading the Senate makes me feel like I’m witnessing an agonizingly slow train wreck: the demise of democracy.

All things pass. I suspect this one will too. What the U.S. will look like on the other side of being shat through the ass of that Asshole, who’s to know.


I’m learning about Thumos. It’s an ancient Greek term which has no equivalent in the English language. I’d relate it as being the spirit of pursuing self-honor, where head and heart align. I’d qualify the discussion of such terms in that they can only now be freely debated as we’ve identified the N-1 philosophical belief layer and have decided to exist here, at least for the time being. I’d care to know your feelings on this assumption.

In your appeal to choose a pursuit post-fantasy, and having lit upon delivering kindness, I say, why the hell not. There’s so much godawful misery in this world, if you pull-off a Valentine Smith and succeed? (Even in attempting to be kind, would you not also succeed?) At least you’d have found your Thumos and that, in and of itself, is a noble feat.

How can I help?


I leave you with this: Sans stone, silicon is a metalloid into which, I would submit, we are etching our legacy. So, with keyboard-hammer and chisel-like wit we’ll leave our marks upon the box canyon walls of the internet.

Were you to enjoin your altruistic ideal and spread compassion, and this coming Thursday may provide you an initial step, volunteering at some banquet supporting the disenfranchised and dispossessed, you may also leave a legacy of kindness. And that would be an honorable pursuit, indeed.


Duke’s: A Song in Your Mind

tin hats

love comes from many things, people, moments

it’s like rain falling

silent snow, nights one after another … breath held until you black out

all of it pushing you underneath

lost in those towns, those voices, inside bodies holding you, wanting you, most trying not to die

you finally wake and it doesn’t matter and then you are in water, moonlight and everything has ended and the ocean speaks in dark languages … and the current lifts you with every wave … gifts from a helpful hand

For A. Mole

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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.)

Little Fears & Anonymole

Here’s to LittleFears and his tenacious passion for puns and evocative art.



The sight of the beast, the woman’s partner said, provoked childhood fears the likes of which he’d suppressed — through therapy — and would care not to have them resurface.

The DI placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “But we need your statement.”

The fellow shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the detective. “This is going to haunt me forever. My little fears, they grow huge at night. You don’t know what I…”

“Without your help, Chastity’s death will go unpunished.”

At six am, the station had just started to buzz with activity. The smell of coffee and sweat drifted through the corridors. The heatwave continued unabated.

“Fingers like knives, blades extending from every angle of its body and a… a snout like it had descended from some primeval creature. And its eyes, lover’s eyes. Hungry lover’s eyes, that consumed me. Then it nosed down and began to… to feed.” The lad leaned forward and gripped his face, his voice muted. “Chassie’s b… blood, black in the streetlight, dripped…”

“Good,” The DI interrupted, pulled his phone out, tapped it and set it on the table. “Now again, from the top.”