http://isplotchy.blogspot.com/2008/12/son-of-son-of-story-virus-v3.html

Here are the rules of the story virus: Take the ongoing tale, continue it, and pass it on. Simple, eh? Here goes:

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The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I hunched down to see what it was, but as I did, the bus violently veered to left. I was thrown up against a heavyset Asian woman with blond hair. I pardoned myself, but she faced forward with no reply. Just then, a man wearing a jumpsuit of silver and gold stood up at the front of the bus. He was holding a megaphone and a box of graham crackers. He held the megaphone up to his face and began to speak... (Some Guy)

"Ladies and Gentlemen...please do not be afraid! I am here to help you" he said in a mighty booming voice. As he began to step towards me I felt a hand creep its way around my throat and all of a sudden I was pressed against the mighty bosom of the Asian woman as she she hauled me to my feet. She began to back away from the costumed crusader all the while holding me, feet dangling in the air. I panicked and my eyes searched the bus, hoping to connect with someone, anyone who would be able to help me. My eyes met those of the hero in gold and just as I began to gasp for air he yelled...(~E)

"Put her down and no one gets hurt", he yelled at the Asian woman. All the passengers turned to see what was going on and, as they did, I noticed they were more panicked than I was. A small bespectacled man closest to us hissed at my captor and said in a low voice "Take me, just don't hurt her." My fear gave way to curiosity. Who were all these people, and why were they so concerned for my well being?

The Asian blonde's back was now pressed against the back of the bus, and she increased her grip on me as the megaphone man crept slowly towards us. As he passed through the bus people started getting up, and now they formed a small army behind him. He raised the box of graham crackers above his head and put his lips to the megaphone... (That Damn Expat)

...and emitted an earthly high scream. I was blown away, for I did not know I was in the presence of such being."Ar-are," I stammered. "Are you.... Rah-r-rob-robert Plant??" He gave me a sharp look, as if he knew that I am really bad at stammering."Did you let the dogs out, miss?" He asked, in a clipped tone."Wh-what?" I asked, trying to keep up the stutter, but failing quickly."The dogs, your chihuahua and your minature pincer. Before you left and got onto this most dangerous of public transportation vehicles, did you let your dogs out so that they could relieve themselves?"I was flabbergasted, as I thought back, and gasped. Had I? (Morgan the Muse)

I had to find out, and FAST. After realising that I did not have any home-automation in place, and so did not have any cameras to log into. There was only one option. I quickly grab my laptop from my bag, and use my uber 1337 skills to hack into the brain-chip of the driver, causing him to turn around, and break every road law, and several other laws, back to my house. I briefly wonder whether this is ethical, or even moral, but there is no time to decide, because...(Scutterman)

With the screech of brakes, and the hiss of hydraulics, the bus was back at my house. The Asian woman, stunned at the force of Plant's vocalizations, had released me, and I stumbled off of the bus in a haze. The bus lurched back into traffic, when I realized what had happened. I don't even own any dogs! Robert Plant doesn't live anywhere near me! Either something is desperately wrong with my version of reality, or I am having a deeply psychotic nightmare. (Innocents, Accidents...)

My feet were cold and wet. I was standing outside my door, trying to fit my cell phone into the keyhole. Of course, I was not very successful, but I was getting increasingly frustrated and I threw the phone against the door and grunted in displeasure. The sun was out, but the light wasn’t quite right. I assumed that perhaps I was still asleep and began to jump and scream nonsense noises to try to rouse myself to consciousness. I was shaking my head vigorously and started spinning. That is when the real nightmare began and I realized that there were three squad cars, lights flashing, converged on my lawn; and half a dozen horrified police officers watching me with their guns drawn. (Kali's Temple of Doom)

*****************

I tag:
http://nickbrowne.coraider.com/


Update: Sadly, Nick can't play right now, so instead I tag http://jeffd.vox.com
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I was bingeing on one of my favorite shows the other night, on one of the free streaming services. It was late night and I was surprised to see my local assemblyman staring back at me from my TV.

There are familiar elements I revisit in my dreams when I am feverish. The house I grew up in is larger (probably the way I saw it as a kid), and there is a non–existent set of stairs that look remarkably like the entrance to the basement in the house at Storms Avenue in Jersey City.

Last night my dream landscape was drawn and partially scripted by Hal Foster. My brain animated it just as it did when I was a little girl and the stories of Prince Valiant in the Days of King Arthur came alive as I sat on my grandfather’s lap and he read them to me.

< commence rant >

Earlier this week, heartless assailants shot a young transgender woman to death in Puerto Rico. They literally hunted her down and killed her. They recorded it and posted it on social media, taking hatred, prejudice, and bullying to a whole new level of assholery.

Working as a freelancer means my commute is out of bed, down the hallway—with one stop in the bathroom and another in the kitchen, and back to the room—sometimes to my home office, depending how “formal” I feel that day. It’s convenient, but I do miss the daily commute.

January is National Thank You month. Personally, I’d never heard of it, but I find it interesting, especially because it seems like the little niceties that help shape a community—and a civilization—have been eroded in so many ways that they barely exist, except in fiction and poetry.

I wanted to finish the year on a good note, so I am leaving you with a little gift... Enjoy!

We wish you all a happy and healthy year full of good fortune and good food.

The last few years have become contentious on almost every level of existence. Tribalism has become a way of life. People take sides and firmly stand for their way and no other.

Perspective is everything. Gratitude depends largely on our ability to recognize the blessings in our lives. I don’t mean this in a dogmatic way, I mean literally good people and things one ought to be grateful for; something or someone that bring us joy, the affirmation of life, and well-being . .

I just found out from her niece that my first grade teacher passed away a while back. We used to write each other for some time, but between one thing and another, we stopped doing that. She kept abreast of my life through Mami (my maternal grandmother) and I did the same.

When I started sketching again earlier this year (some 250+ sketches ago), and a friend suggested a curvier, more realistic body type for some of these, I gladly added a plus-sized 

model. In fact, sometimes it is the plus-girl that gets the hotter, sexier outfits.

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There is a wonderful anarchy in the pursuing of passions. You need not commit to only one and you may jump from one to another without consequence—other than experiencing joy.

The last time I stopped by here I was waxing poetic about the return of one of my early loves: fashion sketching.

I have been doing fashion sketches since I was ten or so. I liked drawing but never had any formal training, nor did I possess the extraordinary talent that naturally flowed from my uncle’s hand.

This is the longest I have gone without writing on the blog since I started back in 2005. I tend to interact with those who follow my writings here almost on a weekly basis in other ways, so it’s not like I have completely abandoned you. But it does feel like I’ve abandoned myself.

This past year saw a number of relatively horrific floods, hurricanes, nor’easters, tornadoes, mud slides, fires, and even a volcano eruption. On any given day some 60,000 families with children are homeless. In 2018, that number has probably tripled if not quadrupled.

“Hey, baby!”

I don’t particularly like being called that (my own mother rarely calls me that and I am her baby). So when I see this on social media, I know it’s a stranger addressing me. I find it insulting, frankly.

Today we trekked to Downtown Brooklyn and spent a couple of glorious hours at Trader Joe’s. Not only was it a fun excursion, it was, as it always is, pure joy to shop there. The staff is always helpful and friendly. I cannot praise them enough in that regard.

1

I have not been writing for the blog in ages. That was not the plan. But then, I had very little material.

Sometimes you ride life. Sometimes it rides you. I was doing neither for a bit, more being a reluctant witness to the passage of time.

Mom has been collecting pink Depression Era glass since the 1970s. Our everyday “china” is actually pink glass as are our wine glasses.

Her collection goes beyond the kitchen too.

I think of 2011 as a landmark year. I was still getting used to life without sleep apnea and my body was slowly returning to what it had once considered normal. I wasn’t there yet, but I was on my way.

Last year at around this time, I was fully immersed in proofreading and editing a couple dozen essays with a hook about alcoholism. The process took about a week and it had my full focus: long days packed with nothing but this project.

I was always aware my maternal grandmother had a younger sister but was not exposed to her much throughout my childhood.

I met Doña Aida on February 7, 1982. I know because the day merited an entry on my diary. Rereading it I seem to remember details that aren’t written, but the emotional resonance of that day still rings deep within.

The last few weeks of summer went from their easy, festive norm to a horror show as the Caribbean and the panhandle got hit with powerful storms (category 5 hurricanes that devastated almost everything in their path).

Immersing yourself into a genealogy adventure is like a sweet drug. It has no side effects, thankfully, other than robbing you of tons of time spent on research and daydreams.

The last time I went into the deep was 2011. And it was exhilarating!

I’d love to do one of those DNA tests.

2

The world has become fragmented and fragile. Offense is taken so easily by so many over so little. Keeping track is ridiculous and, frankly, exhausting.

There is nothing to report. It has turned into a lazy summer where the main goal is to survive each new heat wave with as much grace as humanly possible.

[This piece was meant to appear in the Food Goddess blog. Suffering from heat-related insanity, it ended up here.

We’ve just emerged from our second heatwave, and it isn’t even officially summer yet.

This year, we are approaching heatwaves proactively—if still without air conditioning. New fancy fans create a lovely cross breeze to make it all relatively bearable.

I love May. It is a fun month. It vacillates between cool and summery. Color explodes all around us and even the air smells pretty! May promises adventures to come.

We had quite an eventful Mother’s Day here, with a medical emergency in the house.

It is 2017 and it is time we completely abandon the use of a laugh track. 

Is this the way it's done? 

We are approaching a century of broadcasting, so that we live in a society that is media savvy.

I sometimes epitomize the B-movie version of a ditzy broad, the very personification of the phrase hot mess, and in the words of P!nk, “I’m a hazard to myself. Don’t let me get me.”

Last week, I managed to pinch a nerve on my left arm. It hurt.

Today is Langston Hughes’ birth date. Brother Langston was a formidable poet and one of the shining stars of the Harlem Renaissance.

I can say plenty about the artist and the man, but you can do your own research, and I suggest you begin here.

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This year has had a veneer of surrealism from its early days. In less than one hour it will be a new year, and with it our hopes rise for a better reality.

Will 2017 be a better year? People will continue to die, of course. The economy will fluctuate.

I was proofreading some articles and essays that dealt mostly with alcoholism in literature. Over a week of nothing but drunks! We haven't broken the seal on the emergency Jameson yet, but work-wise, it has been an alcohol-fueled week towards a paycheck.

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