Party On!

Trans and Drag Queen are hard at work with their New Year's extravaganza. Eunuch is stressed, it will have to play several instruments, handle stage lighting and sets. The eunuch is use to sitting on its fat ass to play its flute. But Trans will have none of that, she has instructed Drag Queen to smack the eunuch when its lazy ass falls behind the fast pace schedule that Trans has in store.

Jihad Party Boys love the beat of disco. Jew tunes for their dancing feet. They will have nothing else for the New Year's celebration. They are fat with egg yolk, their beards sticky and they want to dance. They want to wiggle and shake booty. And these fat Party Boys have lots of junk-in-the-trunk to shake.

Trans has booty too but she also has tits. The miracle of modern surgery has given Trans the biggest tits in the hood and in order for her to balance those boobies she needed ass cheek implants. The bitch is one big transplant implant. She is gonna shake that thing. In fact, she is gonna shake a whole lotta things. Drag Queen is desperate. No tits and one big ass but she has a plan. She's going to make that prodigious butt boogie. Boogie on Drag Queen. Drag knows how to stick that ass of hers right into the face of the Jihad Party Boys. She knows what they want, a quivering crack doing the boogie. Boogie on Drag Queen. shake that booty Trans.

Oh yeah, shake. Shake that thing. Huh huh. Shake it girl. Yeah that's right, huh-huh-yes-yes, shake it.

Eunuch's fatty teats are in an uproar, it has a banjo and tambourine. it has bells and whistles. Its pudgy fingers are stringing disco lights and mirror balls. Yeah. That's right you lazy-ass eunuch, party. Party on.
The patio is sleek, the wine is sweet and Jihad Party Boys feet want to dance.

Party on Jihads. Party on Trans. Party on Drag Queen. Party Eunuch. Party on.

But Wait. There's More

The Jihad Party Boys are fat and sassy. They lay about with bloated bellies full of rich yolk from Mean Queen's eggs. Mean Queen is very depressed. She has not shown her face for days. Her daughter has gone out to do errands using Daddy's V.W.  Mean Queen knows that few, if any, eggs will be left with this new storm coming.

So many were ate in the last deluge. Now, those Jihad Party Boys that did not eat their fill or have made room for more eggs are about to climb the walls of the bunkers and search for what is left of Mean Queen's eggs. It will take a miracle to rescue any from the foul bellies of the Party Boys.

Already there is talk among them of a dance to celebrate their great fortune. They desire Trans and Drag Queen to ply their arts for the amusement of the Jihad Party Boys. So great have their bellies extended. Never in many many years have they ate so well. They cannot see their cheap black shoes when they stand. They cannot see the zipper of their cheap, slick black pants. Buttons pop like popcorn on the stretched cheap white shirts they wear.

Eunuch has taken its comb to the encrusted dried yolk in their beards. It has tried to lick the yolk to soften it some from the wiry hairs, only to have the Jihad Party Boys push it away. The eunuch waits though until the Jihad Boys are asleep and then sneaks up to lap their beards some more of the tasty dried egg yolk left on the Jihad Party Boys beards.

The eunuch takes the dried bits of yolk from the comb and mixes in the milk from one of her teats. It's an elixir. A powerful potion to smooth wrinkles. Trans and Drag Queen will pay dearly for the potion for it will erase years of debauchery from their bodies.

The Jihad Party Boys Return

Back from the hunt of Mean Queen's eggs, I saw in the alley a parade of the most fat Jihad Party Boys yet to be seen. So fat that three of them astride blocked all access to pass in the alley. They found the coveted eggs of Mean Queen and fed throughout the storm, and since the storm lasted days this year, they came back filled with fatty egg yolk.

They had smiles as they waddled to the East Bunker, these fattest of all Jahads. Their beards glistened and bellies,covered by  cheap white shirts, burst at each button. So fat and round, they will last two winters at least from this latest frenzied feeding.

And it was astounding, a woman was with them, not  Drag Queen but probably a Trans that they were escorting to the East Bunker. With their larders full, their bellies brimming with yolk, they are content. They must have found a Trans to entertain the Jihad Party Boys in the Eastern section. Now they too, can delight in swiveling, gyrating hips of Trans, the ultimate woman.

The Fat Man Pays a Visit

The bastard landed on the roof with all his fucking reindeer and sleigh. Thanks Santa, now I have another leak in the den.

Sunny Side Up

It looked a good day this morning when I woke and saw that the sun, for the first time in over a week, had come out to shine. The lawn had mist rising and it sparkled with dew being bathed in sunlight. Birds were singing, dogs were on walks and though for myself, with a cold beginning to settle in, was feeling good about the day. The girls had laid enough eggs to have a breakfast of melon with eggs Benedict.

I've perfected making Hollandaise sauce. I swear it can only be done well with fresh yolks for the sauce thickens in no time ever since I've used yolks from the girls in the hen house. The sauce wasn't on English muffins and it wasn't with Canadian bacon, but the whole grain toast and leftover ham worked very well indeed with the fresh poached eggs and a wonderful Hollandaise.
And what a pretty plate it was that I served to Wally and me.

After two bites, Wally began to choke. I mean serious choking and it was quite apparent that his air passage was blocked. He had a frantic look in his face to match my ashen one.

"Wally. Wally!"  panic set in quickly, he stared up at me with eyes that pleaded for rescue.

I did what I could of the the Heimlich maneuver, then slapped his back a number of times hard. He would get the food up in his mouth but because of the dementia, would try and swallow it again.   He was in a panic and so was I with my fingers I tried to pry his mouth open but he clamped down making it all the worse.

More of the Heimlich and more beating on his back until the food came up again and he chewed it, even though I pleaded for him to spit it out.

He's okay now. I'm not. I'm a nervous wreck. My cold feels worse, I'm afraid to leave him alone for a second and I desperately need to take a nap.

So much for a sun shiny day.

Ya Gotta Get On Facebook

That's what I was told for a long time. So I did, and guess what? The world didn't open like a big fat oyster. It stayed the same fucking way, same fucking friends I have now only a new one that wants me to join him in selling some shit type of  product. He's a, 'god-bless you' jerk.

I mean, it's not as hot as craig's list. All I see are a bunch of stupid baby pictures of friends with grand kids. It's not as interesting as gaytube.com, where I lounge with a drink in one hand and, well--never mind.  Nothing like that on Facebook.

No wonder the Chinese don't want it. I'm with them. What the fuck, exactly, is it for? My friends are just as dumb acting on it as they are when I'm with them. Even worse actually, they don't post the shit I find out about them after a few drinks. Boy, now that's in your face Facebook. I mean they all are so well mannered on Facebook it's like that god-damn E-harmony shit.  Nothing but a bunch of damn lies about how goody two-shoes they are. Not the shit I hear.

"Hey, Mexican Monkey, have another beer, I got lot's of them. " I fill his glass to the brim with some cold dark ale. "Now what was that about you and Mom going out in search of dick the other night?"

Do you see that on Facebook? Fuck no.

The Eggs Are Ravaged

The chromosomes of the Jihad Party Boys go back to a very ancient time. They are caught in the throws of evolution where those who wear shawls with tassels and tie wooden boxes to their head are at a evolutionary dead-end.  They are compelled, nay, driven with hormonal rage to act out this ancient primeval hunt.

At the height of the rain, when in their primitive rain forest they first ventured out to find something to fill their empty bellies in the dead of winter they throw off their blankets, the wooden boxes already shattered from their heads. In a massive rush, they throw themselves at the bunker's gate. Some can't wait for it to open, they vault over and begin their frantic search for  the precious eggs left my the minions of Mean Queen.

When they find one of the eggs, they immediately break them open and consume the sticky contents, leaving the shells on the ground in search of more. They have until the storm overhead is no more. Once the  clouds pass, they must return to the bunker, empty or full to wait out the remainder of the winter. Some Jihad Party Boys will die of starvation before winter's end, many eggs will be found and consumed but some eggs will go unfound. Those eggs, if left undisturbed could become another Jihad Party Boy. Hatched with their first pair of cheap black pants, they begin to search out for other Jihads. And once they form a group begin to build a bunker and wait for an egg laying mean Queen and Daddy.

Drag Queen has seen it all before and is willing to satisfy the lust of Jihadist Party Boys. She knows that eventually, possibly even with the advance pace of global warming, the days of the Jihad Party Boys are numbered. But until then, she will dance the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers. She will gyrate her big fat ass and shake her tiny tits to the beat of eunuch's enchanted flute.

Mean Queen Emerges

She has rested from her egg laying. Her hips now are wide once again to spew eggs in the vast warren of caves under the Palace. I saw her waddle from her car the other day, she looked full  and fruitful. Her wide splendid hips moved with grace to the Palace gate where she entered.

The Jihad Party Boys have stopped their dance. They no longer Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Their blankets are smeared in sweat and saliva. They bang at each other's hat boxes.  Their heads down, they paw the ground and run into another Jihad with his hat box lowered and crash. Once they pick themselves up from the ground, they again rearrange the blanket with tassels at the end over their shoulders and hat box hit another Jihad Party Boy.

Drag Queen sits in the corner with a joint that she shares with the eunuch. They pass the roach back and forth until it's sweet smoke has gone out while they watch the Party Boys head butt.  Drag Queen knows that they will soon topple the gate in their haste out into the wild of the alley where the Jihad Party Boys hunt begins.

The hat boxes tied to the Jihad Party Boys heads are beginning to break with the head butts. Soon the wood boxes will only be splinters splayed across the cement of the Bunker's outer courtyard. Their blankets will be thrown off and they will vault the wall of the Bunker in a desperate search.
The rains are coming, the event is drawing near. Drag Queen lights another joint and scratches  her armpit before she passes the joint to the sleepy eunuch.  Soon she will be rid of the Party Boys and go back to sleep with her eunuch massaging Drag Queen's tired feet and ass. Her job done at last.

Palace Eggs

Their job is done. They have scattered Mean Queen's eggs to the furthest point they could reach by car and now, the Palace is back to normal, whatever normal is for the Palace. The Jihad Party Boys dance day and night to the Eunuch's oboe and Drag Queen's gyrating hips. They have turned to the most primeval form of Jihad Party Boy.

Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. The bellies are now thinned of baby fat. Their beards are course and they have only the desire of some ancient ancestor. Drag Queen flips the rabbit fur butt flosser at them, letting their nostrils catch its scent from the long days of dancing since the last full moon. The heady aroma of Drag Queen's rabbit fur butt flosser has captivated them. Has put them in a trance that is just as primitive as when the first Jihad Party Boy covered his shoulders with a blanket that had tassels at the end, and tied a hat box to his head. They ready themselves for the hunt and the kill.

Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-kill. All day, all night while the minions of the Palace dispersed Mean Queen's eggs. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. It goes on now in steady rhythmic beat.

The storm is ready and laying wait  at sea to come inland. To come and wake the eggs of Mean Queen, to send the Jihad Party Boys on a murderous quest.  Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt.

Tempest Fidgets

Storm clouds are massing out at sea. Dark and ominous with a good chance of days of rain to come soon. This is why the Palace is so busy elsewhere. Again, when I awoke and looked out the bedroom window this morning at sunrise, not one of the Palaces cars were in sight. That doesn't mean that there wasn't someone there on guard duty. It does mean, though, that every available worker of Daddy and Mean Queen were busy placing Mean Queen's eggs not only in Los Angeles but all of the South West. I'm sure of it. And why?

A storm is coming with the promise of rain to last into days. Perfect weather for Mean Queen's eggs to hatch and spread colonies of Jihad Party Boys everywhere. Oh, they think I'm not on to them but Millie and Great Horned Owl have watched them as they, in the dead of night, brought vast quantities of eggs from the warrens beneath the Palace. They place them in the cars for delivery, and now that they have spread her eggs further away from the Palace, it takes longer for them to return to have the cars filled once more.  These eggs are no ordinary eggs either.

They are long and cylinder in shape with rounded ends. Like gelatin capsules made of ivory shell, only about two feet in length with a good ten to twelve inch diameters. That's not all, Drag Queen's dance has changed.  She now wears fur butt flossers and has tied antlers to her head. Her eunuch stopped playing the flute for the oboe. Very ominous indeed for the music is dark and moody and it makes the Jihad Party Boys quiver and salivate. They swoon to the eunuch's enchantments on the oboe while they watch the fur fly on Drag Queens Butt flosser.  Her antlered head dips now and then while her hips and ass gyrate in a slow grinding motion. Drag Queen's hands dip in a granite bowl, she lifts her hands above her face and watches the blood from the bowl smear down her arms and drip to the floor.

The Jihad Party Boys grunt. Their fat bellies are smacked to the beat of the music. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. The Jihad Party Boys' gums look red and swollen, their teeth stick out from them sharp and pointed and their eyes have sunk into dark pools mixed with love and hate.  They wear over their shoulders, blankets with strings that hang from them. They cloak themselves in this blanket while they balance little hat boxes tied to their heads. Just like Drag Queen has her antlers tied to her head. These hat boxes are receivers for instructions from Mean Queen and Daddy.

Storm clouds are coming, the sky will darken, the air--grow cold for the sinister work of the Palace. Woe and wretchedness is coming. Millie and the Great Horned Owl with the camera for a brain are on guard for the calamity that may befall the greater South West.

The East and Western Bunker of the Jihad Party Boys have been dancing each night since the full moon. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt.

Where Do They Go?

The Palace has several cars at any time but not all at once and there is at least one car, not necessarily parked in front or in the driveway, but near the Palace at all times.  The other night I woke because of the wind. It was blowing pretty strong and I looked out the bedroom window and noticed a vacancy in cars. Usually Mean Queen is parked across the street directly from our house and then a lesser car, a car that needs paint parked directly across of the Palace, one or two other cars parked in front of the Palace and Daddy drives a new VW. Well, not new, but not an old VW.

Now, why are there no  cars there at three in the morning? None. Not one. Zip for the first time and it is three in the morning?  Santa Helpers? I don't think so. I think Mean Queen's eggs are beginning to hatch. They are spreading her eggs across Los Angeles. Across Southern California and probably across the entire Western Pacific.

Mean Queen's hips are vast and strong. She looks like a fertility goddess come to life. Big ass, big tits and probably a vagina that could take Daddy's VW. She lays eggs in a warren labyrinth beneath the floor boards of the Palace. They're taken care of by minions, those who yearn to be Jihad Party Boys and entertained at night by Drag Queen and her eunuch. But what of the eggs? What comes from these capsules jettison between the legs of Mean Queen? And why were there no cars in front of the Palace at three in the morning?

This mystery must be solved, the future of the hood could be at stake. I have sent Millie to explore the outer perimeter of the Palace estate and Great Horned Owl with the camera brain high in the sky to let me know what this all means.

It is our only hope.

Culture Shock--A Bit of Gay History

Back in the revolutionary days of the sixties, I lived at a place owned by a gay man born in 1906.  Ernie was his name and he looked like any ones grandfather from that time.  It was a real refuge for me, I had been thrown out of the house for being gay, looking at sleeping in my car until I could figure it all out and went to the beach that day. The known gay beach at Will Rogers where I met someone that very day and when he asked, "Your place or mine?" I said, "I don't have a place, so I guess it's yours."

We're still friends, Daffney and me,  he let me stay with him that day and I guessed talked it over with Ernie and I could stay in the den, Daffney rented one of two bedrooms. It helped, I'm sure, that I was pretty damn good looking back then, not hard on the eyes at all and it saved my ass.

For it was there that I began to feel like a normal person, not a sick parasite of society. My mom, had told me, just before showing me the door, when it was discovered I was gay, (a love letter sent to me and read by the entire family before confronting me with it) that she could accept me as a murderer, but not a homosexual.

So, I had a place to live with people like me, I found work and later, my own place, all because of, literally, the kindness of strangers. They didn't know me, I could have been a murderer, like my mother wanted me to be, except I'm not, just a gay man who abhors violence and wanted, very much, to be accepted and loved. I was.

Ernie told me stories of what life was like for him as a young gay man in the twenties and thirties. It's interesting because gays and lesbians have been marrying each other for a very long time all over America.  It's just recently that they have been able to marry the one they loved however.

Back then, in order to survive, if you were gay, you would find a lesbian willing to marry you or vice-versa. People met each other through parties, you could be arrested and sent to prison if you were a known gay in the company of other gays. People would have parties, you would escort the opposite sex to the party so that neighbors would see mixed couples, going into and out of a house. The girls would take one side of the house and the boys, the other and all have a hell of good time. And that's how you would be introduced to others through these parties of married couples.

Ernie married a dyke from the drip-less candle fortune. She provided the house in Panorama City for Ernie and when either was needed for family affairs, they would show up together, as a loving married couple who, unfortunately, could not have children.  His wife was a wonderful gal that I met later, she had a condo at the beach for her and her girlfriend.

A lot of gays and lesbians did this and actually still do, though not as much. I still see now and then, ads looking for a marriage of convenience. Someone desperate and willing to pay or accept a faux marriage. That's what I find so interesting about Christians, they can accept you as a lie, but not as who you are. They would rather you a heterosexual murderer than a kind, loving, gay or lesbian.

It's why religion can be seen as an invention of humans. The god or gods in the bible, for there is an old testament god and then his son who is a god but yet the same god, how schizophrenic is that?  That tell you to do the most absurd things.  And if you did them, they would lock you up in a state prison for the criminally insane.  Sell your children, sure, throw rocks at women until they're dead because someone said they cheated on their husband, no problemo and it goes on and on.

Prophets told to role around in their own shit. I mean really, from a god? It is all so absurd and yet these crazy fucking religious morons feel they can control the rest of us with the 'WORD OF GOD'.

I say revolt, stop allowing this insanity to continue. Call out the religious for their repulsive behavior and ignore their cries that we must abide by god's law.  Why do we allow this to happen? As if these crazy religious people have a foot to stand on?

Oh My Oh Dear Obama Teeters On A Picket Fence

Interesting speech the Pres gave. Chastising both sides of the aisle, and he is? The Democratic leader?  Republicans can get what they want if crumbs are to fall off the table.

I guess Obama has a lot on his mind. The gays want to be treated just like Christian white folk. They want to marry the one they love, not the one they are sold to. They want to fight for their country with pride as who they are, not told to keep their mouth shut and lie about their identity.

And yet, well hell , the pres has more important things on his agenda, like dinner parties with people who wear decorative flag pins.  "Okay folks. Now I know you're all waiting for desert but lets give a hand to the little people in the back who made us such a splendid meal of fried chicken and waffles and then, I would like Mr. Boehner to lead us in a rousing rendetion of Kumbayah"

Which way will our helmsman fall? for a picket fence is a rickety affair.

A Dark Christmas

It use to be, in this hood, that Christmas lights were a big thing. Few houses didn't have them but now it's the opposite, few houses do have them.  We're no longer religious though Wally has asked to go to Mass at St. Monica and I'll take him during Christmas, I'll bring my Nook while he watches the show.

And that to me is what Christmas is, a show. A kind of glitter for the gloom of winter and the coming of the new year. A time to have some fun and be merry. One of the things I enjoy about winter is sitting next to the front window where the sweet gum trees are bright with fall colors. I like to read and write as I watch the leaves shimmer gold, bronze and burgundy. In the rain, their bark turns black making the leaves even more striking. One of the first books I read at that window were the tales of Uncle Remus. Every year after, I have read at that window when the weather turned cold and the sweet gum trees lit up with fire.

The Palace is a dark and gloomy dwelling, no light ever comes out of it or into it anytime of the year. The house on the other side of us is vacant and has been since Ray, the guy that lived there all his life, died some years ago. But across the street, when they are home, Christmas lights are on. Outside of that there are only two houses on each end of the block with lights.

As a kid, I use to carol with others in the hood. I don't know how good we were but it was fun and people enjoyed it. Now at Halloween. Everyone does the spook thing. We leave though, the hordes of sticky people that descend here is frightening, really spooky because there is no way in hell that many kids live in this hood and I've seen them dumped off from vans and buses to scavenge the hood for anything including decorations.

But not Christmas. Not when you see your breath in the chill while you and friends look at the lights strung up and make a toast to Christmas cheer and the sweet gum trees that are ablaze.  They don't carol here anymore, not in years that I can remember. Too bad because sometimes, when I look out the front window, I see the ghosts of Christmas past and us boys that went caroling in our hood.

Over The Top

Mexican Monkey and I decided to do some single track. It was pretty rough at first. I didn't get ten feet before I fell over, luckily against the cliff and not over it. I told the monkey to go ahead and ahead he did. Right into a hole and over the bars. We were a mess but it didn't matter because we were laughing so hard about it. Rusty as a pail of nails were the two of us and that's okay.

The clouds were beginning to thicken and the threat of rain came in droplets now and then. We rode on though to the overlook where there is a bench and that's where we smoked a joint and talked about Mexican Monkey's straight boyfriend, Ceaser. He was being pissy because Mexican Monkey didn't take him out to the bars so he could get as drunk as shit. I think Mexican Monkey is beginning to like fresh air and country over boom-boom rooms and bad boys.

That's okay because so do I. Are we getting old?

Yep.

The Ride of the Desperados

Mexican Monkey woke from his four AM  bar night. He knew he had better be here for our ride, especially now that I have a new and very sweet mountain bike. He did, finally, make it just before ten, with a  cup of strong coffee and steaming oatmeal I put life back in him. It could have been the first drops of rain that did it as well, but lets say it was the coffee.

The sky was thick with gray clouds, it spread out over the heavens as far as we could see but that was okay by us, it has been a good five years since I've been on dirt trails and I was excited. So much so that for a time, I forgot my age and felt very young again. That went away at the first climb, a bitch of a climb too.

The bike handled remarkably well. It climbed at ease and though Mexican Monkey was near the top I had to stop, unsure of myself and walk the last part where it was the steepest. I blamed it on the walkers who had unleashed their dogs to run, but glad they did.

Once we were on the main trail to go into the interior of the Santa Monicas, we could smell that sweet wonderful fragrance of wild things. Sage, Sumac, fresh rain, dirt, sandstone and rocks. No cars, no horns or exhaust, no lights, no assholes, no city. Our goal was the platform.

The platform, at one time held up a watch tower. The tower had burnt down in one great fire but the flagstone base and steps are still there. If you hunt around, you can find nails that were used in its construction. A great view is the prize from the platform. On clear days especially for the vistas extend in a three-hundred and sixty degree radius.

Each turn gave me renewed confidence, a joining to the frame, the bike was silent and glided along over ruts and rock outcroppings. It held a good line and responded well to my moves. I had a smile that wouldn't go away.  The trail we chose followed a spine of mountain tops that connect from sea to valley, so we would plunge deep between peaks only to climb back out and over until we could see the platform on one of the peaks just off the main trail.

Not much had changed since I was last there five years ago, and yet it had all changed in some fashion, it all seemed new and fresh again. I picked out a line in the dirt to follow the path leading to the platform. Rutted, it gave a good challenge to my rusted skills, even Mexican Monkey had the giggles.

At the top we smoked a joint and watched the sky over the Pacific with the sun turning it deep red. Catalina was visible looking like  a mountain range poking through the clouds. Fog laid deep out to sea today. The city was visible, a grungy gray mass  that went  right up to the sands of the Pacific. And from  our perch, only song birds were heard and the wind.

We're going back Sunday to another spot and another memory. I can't wait.

It Never Ends

I spent my day buying and returning software. After trying out the free program by Oracle it was obvious that it wasn't going to work for me. It will be okay to use I guess until I get an Office 08 program for Mac but it won't make it in the long run. Some of the functions I use were difficult to find and once I did, didn't work well, like bookmarks. To go back in the story where I left off quickly just doesn't run smooth on the Oracle program. That and trying to read how the program works in its help section, I had to get my face abut six inches from the screen to read it. Even my own work in twelve point, I have to magnify it much larger to read it on my twenty inch screen and the program puts boxes in front of the paragraph, I have no idea what they are and I don't want to go blind trying to find out.

So I went to Fry's. I hate Fry's but I have to admit, this time there was someone there to talk to that did give me good advice. I had called earlier and whoever helped me then gave me wrong info, they didn't have the version I wanted but they did have the 2011 version and fortunately the guy at the store told me that unless I had an intel processor the Office program wouldn't work on it. Sure enough mine didn't, so I need Office 08. I returned the program and did get my money back. I had to order it on Amazon and now wait about ten days to get it.

Here's a good one. The guy at Fry's was friendly and went out of his way to help me, he also gave me a number for Microsoft where I did get to talk to a tech guy easier than if I called my bank. The Microsoft guy said that he would help me install the Office 11 program, I asked about the processor and he said,  "Well, if it doesn't work, we'll return your money."

That means I would have to mail it in and now deal with Microsoft. No thanks, I'm in living hell now I don't really want to turn the heat up.  I left it un-opened and went back to Fry's and got the money back on my card.

It sucks, it really does, I feel like I'm half a person at the moment because I can't write and feel assured that what I do write will be there when I get the Office 08 program. It may be paranoia but at this point, I'm real nervous about taking anymore chances.

One of the reviews I read about Office 11 for Mac is that for someone, it turned half his work, a long piece into asterisks that he couldn't correct. Terrifying isn't it.

The Perils of Microsoft

Yesterday I was in a panic. When I opened Word for Mac it said there was an update, did I want to download it? I gave the okay and it took a while but finally it did. But before the update could take place, I would have to close the program, so I did. Once the update was finished, and I tried to open Word for Mac I got a window that said I needed to enter the product key again, they didn't match.

What?

None of my documents would open. Panic set in because now I'm use to the Mac system, sort of and thought this thing is suppose to be bug free. I figured because I got this from Mexican Monkey,  there was no software to look for a  product key and I was fucked. I started to look what it would cost for my own version of Word for Mac and it was a little over a hundred for an 08 version like the one that was on it. Okay, I thought I can deal with that and wondered what the 2011 version would cost and looked that up. It's about sixty bucks more, that's the cheapest I could find.

But in looking at the comments made by people who bought the newer version they were not happy. People reported difficulty in installing, getting Microsoft to recognize the program as valid and worse of all, destruction of files, turning longer work into a series of asterisks. Not good.

One person made a comment about Oracle having an office for mac program that was free and that it worked well. So I went to the Oracle sight and downloaded their version of office. It works just fine.
Not as polished as Word but all the bells and whistles are there and in some ways easier to deal with. For free.

You can donate and I plan to once I know that it will do all the things I  need but I'm amazed that there is a program like that out there. I'm very happy with it, so far and it opens all of my documents without a problem.

Mexican Monkey is sending me a 2011 version by email. I shudder to think about it.

Making the Plunge

It has been a few years since I mountain biked. I'm not sure why, I didn't like the bike I was riding, the one in the photo above and I was having problems with my blood pressure. Under stress, with the loss of water, my blood pressure would drop dangerously low.  Mexican Monkey has bugged me to go mountain biking again with him. And, when I asked my local bike dealer was what out there I got quite a surprise.

First, the quality of the bike is so much better. It is lighter, designed well, disk brakes for instance and sturdy hubs. But the real clincher is the price. Less than half of what I paid years ago for a bike with full suspension.

I miss the smell of fresh clean air and getting away from the city that mountain biking provides. I can go up to the hills from the house and get away from it all for a while. Saturday is the day me and Mexican Monkey will be tearing up the trails.

Right now I have to get back to seeing what is going on with the Word program. I downloaded an upgrade and for some reason it isn't recognizing the product code.