Rebirth

Ok.

After an extended and unanticipated dormancy, the dump is back online. I wish to allay any fears in the minds of my faithful readers (both of you), by assuring you that I have not been in prison or otherwise involuntarily confined within institutional walls during the hiatus. I must report that I have been distracted by a *new* addiction which I shall mention later, but I fully admit to being lazy and shiftless about blogging. Perhaps uninspired.

Actually, I was willing to let this idea fade into well-deserved obscurity. But some of you have nagged me into rethinking the need for this oasis from rationality, this theme park for refuse and junk thoughts.

Thus we re-open the gates of the Dump - a throwaway place where I can use my family, friends, fans, detractors, pets and persons-in-the-news as foils for cheap laughs and/or pithy insights.

Yes, I have softened the name of the blog. In the interests of opening the gates to a wider audience, the board felt that some artistic selling-out was needed. I like to think of it a compromise - you may call it 'pandering'. When you start paying admission, perhaps your opinion will matter. (Meanwhile you are invited to go f*ck yourself if you don't like it.)


Shall we begin?
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Here in New England we always get snow in March. It happens every year around the ides. The daffodils by my side door have not figured this out, which makes you wonder about the so-called wisdom of that old whore we refer to as Mother Nature.

Every year, with the inevitable mid February thawing, I notice these same hopeful green shoots thrusting up through the exposed dark soil of the herb garden. Heat from the sun catches in the rich brown earth, fooling the bulbs into thinking: Spring. Then comes the blizzard and blasting arctic air. The shoots turn gray and dead. Stupid plant, I think to myself, as I head out for work.

When I arrive at the FEMA Trailer that I call my office, the crew is taking one of their frequent, sometimes perpetual, coffee break. The guys are sitting around the Franklin stove with their feet up and chairs tipped back, like I tell them not to do because it makes holes in the new linoleum flooring of the trailer.

"Hey d*mpfucks," I yell at them jovially - acting as if I really am glad to see them after not showing-up for such a long time.

Lardass looks up from the book he is reading. He scowls at me, pretending to be exasperated by my intrusion, but I know it is just his way of letting me know that he does not like being shelved for 6 months without a good explanation.He is annoyed that he is still in the dump lineup. He was hoping to evolve to a better blog, or maybe get a better name.

This is what happens when you let your imagination get out of hand. Sometimes, you invent a believable character and pretty soon he wants to be a real boy. Like Pinnocio, they begin to dream about things that they shouldn't be dreaming about. Getting ideas. Trying to take over. [I have a theory that writers who are possessed by multiple personalities can be very good at writing dialog. But I digress. ]

Lardass bookmarks the page he was reading by dog-earing the page with a greasy finger. I can make out the title: The Secret. Crap, I think to myself, if I give him that sort of reading material, LA will be trying to change the universe by thinking positive thoughts. This would not be the Lardass we know and love.

I decided to change his reading material to a book titled Degunking Windows. I recently took that book out of the library (It's about getting rid of all the unwanted crap the comes with Microsoft Windows software). I thought it would be appropriate and droll to have dump worker reading a book about cleaning things, even windows.

But LA was not going to cooperate - I told you he was still pissed at me.

"You misplaced the star thingy."
"Eh? I just got here. What are you talking about?" It was my turn to scowl.
"You know, when you said hello, you stuck it in the wrong yew."
"Is this going to be some kind of sheep joke?" I wasn't in the mood for crude animal sex jokes on the first day back online.
"Asterisk" Growled Clooney. "You bleeped the wrong vowel."
"Oops,"

>>I backspaced and fixed the error. Then I marked this entire section for deletion, since it would make no sense once I fixed the typo. A writer needs to be in command of his tools, I always say. <<

Clooney, our resident wordsmith, is happy that I finally changed his name. He does crossword puzzles in oils using his artists' paintbrush. He is so confident of his answers that he always uses indelible inks and pigments. Even when he gets one wrong, he refuses to change it, claiming that it was a puzzle designer's error. Such arrogance demands a full season of mockery and derision. (Any similarity to a guy you know named George is purely coincidental. )

The rest of the crew will be returning anon. But now I must go take a nap. This is the most blogwriting that I have done in ages. Cripes, what's that stench?

Oh, and Welcome back.