Thursday, July 30, 2015


I want to preface this post by saying that it is in no way a book review. I merely want to toss around a few personal opinions about the current Harper Lee controversy. I did some research and took a few notes to ensure that my information is accurate, and - wouldn't you know it? I lost all of the notes. So, what I'm writing is completely off the top of my head (so to speak).

I was initially extremely skeptical when I heard that Harper Lee - author of the Pulitzer Prize winning novel To Kill a Mockingbird - suddenly consented (at age 89) to the publication of a nearly forgotten manuscript that she had written over 60 years ago.

According to the publishing company HarperCollins, and Lee's attorney Tonja Carter, a "newly discovered novel" by Harper Lee would be published in July of this year.
Statements by Attorney Carter indicated that Harper Lee was ecstatic and very enthusiastic at the prospect of this "second" novel, entitled Go Set a Watchman, being published (it was published and released on July 14).

Let's have a little reality check:

According to Harper Lee's sister Alice (who passed away last November), the famed novelist had been deteriorating physically and mentally for years. After suffering a stroke, she was physically incapacitated and was also deaf and nearly blind.

It's bitterly ironic that the announcement of publication came shortly after Alice's death and while Harper Lee is conveniently wheelchair-bound in a nursing home.

Harper Lee in 2007

Money and greed are the foremost factors in the publication of Go Set A Watchman. It is an insult to Lee's reputation and an extremely outrageous ploy to take advantage of an incompetent old lady's former literary fame.

It's no secret that Harper Lee shunned publicity her entire life and had stated numerous times that she'd never write another book. Why the sudden change when she's 89?

Like many people, I initially knew very few facts about Go Set a Watchman. I thought it was some sort of legitimate sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird.

In truth, Go Set a Watchman is a rough first draft of To Kill a Mockingbird that Harper Lee wrote in the mid-1950's. It was deemed unsuitable for publication by the editors but became the foundation for To Kill a Mockingbird, which was eventually published in 1960.

Incidentally, the title Go Set a Watchman is taken from a Bible verse, Isaiah 21:6 - - "Go set a watchman and let him declare what he sees."

The novel To Kill a Mockingbird takes place during the Depression Era , when the protagonist Jean Louise Finch (known as "Scout") is a child in the fictitious town of Maycomb, Georgia. Go Set a Watchman takes place twenty years later, when Jean Louise is an adult and returns to Maycomb for a visit to her attorney father Atticus Finch.

The childhood scenes in Go Set a Watchman were only told in flashbacks. Harper Lee worked extremely hard with her editor Tay Hohoff to develop the flashbacks into an entire novel which eventually became To Kill a Mockingbird.

Ironically, To Kill a Mockingbird was initially intended to be a trilogy - and ideas from the rough draft of Go Set a Watchman were going to be incorporated into two future sequel novels. The plan never materialized.

To publish Go Set a Watchman in its raw, crude state is a grievous disservice to Harper Lee and a ripoff for the unsuspecting public. It's not a genuine novel, merely a hodgepodge of rudimentary ideas. In fact, the editor who first read it considered it to be a series of anecdotes - not a novel.

I love the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, and the 1962 film adaptation starring Gregory Peck is one of my favorite movies.
I have no desire to read Go Set a Watchman. From the reviews I've seen, it's supposedly poorly written and a major disappointment. It's beyond the realms of imagination that Harper Lee would have wanted it published.

A few facts about Harper Lee:

Her name was Nelle Harper Lee  (Nelle from her grandmother's name - - Ellen spelled backwards). Harper Lee later dropped her first name because too many people mistakenly called her Nellie.

To Kill a Mockingbird was originally titled Atticus - after the character Atticus Finch in the book. Attius was the attorney father of Jean Louise (Scout) in the novel.

Harper Lee's real father, Amasa Coleman Lee, was a newspaper editor and an attorney.
He was, at least partially, the inspiration for the fictional Atticus Finch.

To Kill a Mockingbird was not a spontaneous or effortless literary endeavor. It took two and a half years of extremely hard work and endless rewrites before the novel was ready for publication. Harper Lee doubted her own talents, and once got so frustrated that she tossed the entire manuscript out the window into the snow.

Editor Tay Hohoff (Theresa Von Hohoff Torrey) worked very closely with Harper to help shape the book into an eventual masterpiece.

Writer Truman Capote was a close childhood friend of Harper Lee.  She incorporated him as Dill, one of the characters in To Kill a Mockingbird. An old rumor has long been circulating that Capote helped Harper write To Kill a Mockingbird - or that he wrote the novel himself. That is untrue and unfounded.

Harper Lee, in fact, helped Truman Capote do extensive research for his book In Cold Blood.
She also provided him with a very generous amount of notes, ideas, and suggestions. After the publication of In Cold Blood, Capote discounted Harper by insisting that she merely did some "secretarial work."
When Harper Lee won the Pulitzer Prize for To Kill a Mockingbird, Truman Capote became jealous and they never spoke again.

Harper Lee never expected To Kill a Mockingbird to become so successful and she was never able to deal with her success. She once stated that it would have been much easier to deal with failure.

She also believed that once you're at the top, there's no where to go but down. The whirlwind of fame in the 1960's left her no time for writing. She later attempted numerous new projects but never followed through. Alcoholism and fear of success turned her into a recluse and a mystery. She never married, and relied largely on her sister Alice for companionship and care.

The last public interview she gave was in 1964. It's a shame that her twilight existence is now being tainted with the publication of Go Set a Watchman.

New post on my photo blog:
( surfers)


Monday, July 27, 2015


There's a reason why I so often blog about my past. Well, actually two reasons.

The second reason is simply that my past is far more interesting than my present. 

The first reason is that I'm timidly testing the waters for my memoir - - using brief rudimentary ideas for future expanded possibilities. 

I never reveal everything in my blog. I tend to present carefully rationed morsels and tidbits, which hopefully generate a craving for more.

I have a burning desire to tell everything about myself - and yet the idea of actually doing it scares the hell out of me. A blog is one thing. A publicly published memoir is quite another.

I've had a lot of experience with writing and like to think I have a fairly decent way with words. My first newspaper articles were published when I was sixteen. I have since published every conceivable type of fiction and non-fiction, spanning a wide variety of subjects and styles. No writing task has ever frightened me.....

......until I considered a memoir. Writing in depth about oneself isn't as easy as it initially seems. Publicly revealing things about real people (most of them still living) and real events is a great risk, for many reasons.

As if this wasn't daunting enough, my major concern is trying to capture and domesticate a wild beast - - how to make sense out of the incomprehensible.

My life has been an incredible journey - a conglomeration of contradictions, complications, and startling contrasts - -personal complexities that are so intricate even I can't figure them out. Despite projecting a facade of simplicity, I am multi-faceted. 

Which one of my many selves should I write about?

The incredibly sensitive and sentimental soul who loves opera, ballet, literature, art - - who cries when enraptured by beautiful music or by a poignant film....

.....the streetwise punk who projected a facade of toughness and cold indifference, who drank to excess, used drugs, who never backed down from a confrontation, who slashed a mugger with his switchblade knife.....

....the consummate romantic who desperately yearned for true love, who passionately desired absolute commitment and monogamy....

.....the insatiable sex slut who haunted midnight alleys and bars for five-minute quickies and one-night stands....who inevitably balked at the countless opportunities he had for true love...

.....the professional pianist and published writer who received praise and laurels and projected an air of public confidence....

.....the pathetically insecure and self-loathing nonentity, whose acute sense of worthlessness inspired attempts at suicide and who relentlessly embarked on a quest for self-destruction.....

Should I write about my childhood and early years in Southern California....all of the fantastic times and incredibly good moments that I truly cherish? 

Or should I only concentrate on the wild and tawdry Hollywood years? 

Should I incorporate humor?
I do have a reasonably good sense of humor, but much of my life was nothing to laugh at.

It annoys me when I read a review of a memoir that says "It was so funny! I laughed all the way through it!"

Well, if you laughed all the way through it you must be a frickin' jackass. Or the author must be Henny Youngman.

I'm not Chuckles the Clown. I have no intention of making you wet yourself with unmitigated glee.

Should I delve into the unspeakable nightmare of my father's maniacal violence and constant abuse, that tainted any semblance of normalcy and resulted in my complete mental and physical collapse by the age of eighteen?

Should I write about the true, pure, once-in-a-lifetime love that I finally found - - which  ended in tragedy and an untimely death?

My life has been a great puzzle that can't easily be pieced together.

A memoir should have a distinct purpose, an inspiring story, a satisfying resolution, something of absolute substance. I can offer none of that.

All I can offer is a prejudiced rendering of my own existence - a unique and extraordinary life, inhabited by an ordinary human being.

Have I learned anything from my personal experiences? 

I've learned this:

Life is an unfair bitch, which will relentlessly kick your ass when you least expect it and least deserve it.

Nothing is what it initially seems to be.

The people with the biggest egos have the least substance.

Goodness, honesty, and humility will get you absolutely nowhere.

Self-professed saints are the biggest sinners.

Never underestimate your own value. There are plenty of other people who are more than eager to do it for you.

Seize the moment and play it for all it's worth. You'll never have a second chance.

Anyone who tells you that "Life is what you make it" or "You have control over your life" is full of shit.

Life is one long series of struggles, obstacles, disappointments, unfairness, heartbreak, and setbacks - - and then we die. 
We have control over nothing.

Am I a pessimist?
Yes, most of the time.

Is my life worthy of being recounted in a memoir?
I'll reluctantly say yes. 

Heck, I'm definitely the most interesting, colorful, unique, and intriguing person I know.
And I'm qualified to write about it.

Sunday, July 26, 2015


After a month of rain the sun appeared and the sky was blue and hot. The combination of unexpected sunshine and the escapism of reading Death on the Nile have put me in an exotic mood.

Most of us are occasionally smitten by exotic fantasies - whether we care to admit it or not. My current imaginative escape has transported me to Egypt in the 1920's. 

(I figured Cairo in the 1920's was probably more exotic than it is now)

I'm smooth, suave, deliciously young - -  dressed in white summer attire, a custom-made suit that would rival anything worn by Jay Gatsby. I look like a Leyendecker illustration in Collier's Magazine. I'm languishing in a cool corner of a Cairo cafe, sipping a karakadey, smoking a Caravellis cigarette. The distant smouldering sunset is merely a prelude to the erotic secrets of a sultry desert night.....

illustration by J.C.Leyendecker 

I've always been  fiercely attracted to exotic romanticism. When I was young I tried to incorporate it into my life. Now, I only dream about it and yearn for the past. There are times in my past that were intriguingly similar to my Cairo fantasy. I've never been to Cairo, but Southern California was a very reasonable facsimile.

I remember sultry summer nights in Los Angeles, when I played the piano in clandestine bars and cafes. I often wore all white back then (even my shoes), mostly to vainly emphasize my dark tan. I smoked Krakatoa clove cigarettes and sipped Madeira. I wasn't remotely suave but I gave an impressive illusion. Those were the nights when I seldom went home empty-handed......

Occasionally there would be weekend escapes to Palm Springs. At the time it seemed remote and exotic. It's a two-hour drive from L.A. - - considerably less if you're drunk and driving a Camaro.
My memory burns with the image of one spectacular moonless night, near Palm Springs, having a romantic escapade in a convertible, parked near a grove of date palms.

My spontaneous spitefulness sometimes unexpectedly turned into exotic episodes. Most often after the breakup of a torrid romance. 

I vividly recall throwing a volume of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov at my soon-to-be-ex-lover and dramatically shouting "I'm leaving forever! You'll never see me again!"

Fortunately my aim was bad. Dostoyevsky hit the wall and shattered a framed document. If it had hit my intended victim, the blow would have probably been fatal.

I disappeared from L.A. and wound up on a beach in Baja, near Ensenada, where I lived for three weeks. That was an exotic odyssey - - at least I thought so.


I have other exotic memories to share, but I don't want to overstay my welcome. Well not much, anyway.

Remind me to tell the incredible tale of what inspired me to sail a boat solo to Catalina Island with very little nautical experience (I've told this before on my old blog Lone Star Concerto but it's worth a rerun).

It's hard to believe that my life was once filled with romance and exotic adventures, when now - in the Tennessee wilderness - my biggest adventures consist of falling down the mountainside on my clumsy ass and chasing wayward 'possums out of the house.

Life is a bitch but the memories are sweet. 

link to my new photo blog Cabinet of Curios Treasures:
Beautiful Egypt 


Friday, July 24, 2015


Here is some artwork that I'd like to share. I'll write more about it at the end of this post.

This is the artistic calm before the universal storm that the artist later created

All of the above paintings were done by a young Adolph Hitler.

He was an artist and a dreamer long before he became a maniacal dictator. He created nearly 3,000 known works of art, including drawings, watercolors, and oil paintings.

He was largely self-taught and his lack of professional training is the reason his efforts didn't impress his artistic superiors. His two attempts to enroll as a student in the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts were rejected - in 1907 and 1908. He was coldly deemed to have "unfitness for painting."

Another strike against him was that - at that time - cubism, surrealism, and fauvism were in vogue. Hitler considered himself to be an artist in the Academic tradition and his artistic style was viewed as drab and old-fashioned.

During his lean years, Hitler earned a meager living by selling his artwork on the streets of Vienna. One can't help wondering how history might have  changed if Hitler would have been accepted at the Art Academy.

My personal opinion?
When I look at Hitler's paintings, I view them solely for artistic value - without having any prejudices about the monster that the artist later became. I like his work.

He wasn't a sublime artistic genius, but I think he had extraordinary raw talent that could have been nourished and developed into something great.

In truth:
the arrogant, pompous officials at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts unduly gave Hitler the shaft.

Note - 
In case anyone is interested - which I seriously doubt (*sarcastic smile*) -  I've posted more of Hitler's paintings on my other blog. This link should get you there.

Fuhrer With a Palette 

Monday, July 20, 2015


 Another thunderstorm this afternoon and I actually enjoyed it. The clouds blew in quickly on a warm, fierce wind and the rain was heavy but brief. A cooling diversion on a hot, sultry day.

A lightning strike seared a distant tree but was immediately expunged by relentless rain. Should I be worried now that I have a metal roof, live very near a power pole, and have that annoying satellite dish by the house? The previous owners left a tangible reminder of Dish Network. 

Potential Lightning Rod??

Storms seldom scare me but I have a very healthy respect for lightning. And I have a few harrowing memories of close lightning calls which kindle my respect with every current storm.

Ironically, two of my vivid lightning memories occurred in Southern California - where fierce storms are scarce and dangerous lightning is seldom a threat.

A freak lightning accident happened on the campus of the very first college I attended. It was located in Orange County about three miles from my parent's home.

One spring afternoon there was a brief and very light rainstorm. No thunder or lightning was detected. Suddenly - out of absolutely nowhere - a fierce bolt of lightning struck directly beside the campus swimming pool, instantly killing a male student. The lightning bolt then ricocheted to the nearby campus golf course and struck another man. The man survived the strike, but the bolt destroyed the wristwatch that he was wearing.

I was in class on campus at the time and the lightning strike was deafeningly loud. My Mom later told me that at that very moment she was on the phone talking with a friend, and the sound of the strike was so loud (three miles away) that they both simultaneously dropped the telephone receivers!

The next day I went to the swimming pool where the strike occurred. There was a hole in the concrete about four feet across and nearly a foot deep.

Years earlier, when I was in the seventh grade, another frighteningly memorable lightning incident happened. I was an eleven-year-old student at Dale Junior High in Anaheim, California.

 This is the only photo I could find of Dale Junior High. It's still located in the same place, but looks different than I remember it.
(of course, when I was a student there Abraham Lincoln was president)

I always walked to school, but if the weather was particularly foul my Mom would drive me. 

On this day I was in English class, and the classroom windows faced Dale Street - right in front of the school. English was my last class of the day. It was pouring rain. I happened to look out the window and saw my Mom's car pull up. It was a relief to know I wouldn't have to walk home.

My Mother had only been parked there a few minutes when a lightning bolt struck a power pole directly where she was parked. It was only a few feet from her car. All the lights went out in our classroom and I saw Mom leap out of the car. Fortunately she was unharmed.

This post is getting long but I'm on a roll. I have a few more stories to tell.

I'm in my 30's, living in the Missouri Ozarks where storms are frequent and fierce.

During a raging thunderstorm I decide to quell my fear by playing the piano. I remember that it was Mozart's A minor sonata. There is a big maple tree right outside the window. 

The tree is suddenly struck by lightning. I hear a ZING go through the lamp on the piano and the lights go out. I also feel a distinct electrical charge tingle through my hands - and I'm wearing a ring on each hand (I usually don't wear rings when I play the piano).

I saved the scariest for last.

It's December. My retired parents are living in Texas. It's snowing and they're watching TV. The TV has an old antenna hookup (the antenna is on the roof). A freak thunderstorm happens in the midst of the snow.

My Mother - who's terrified of storms - jumps up to turn off the TV. As she touches the TV dial, a jolt of electricity goes up her left arm (she's left-handed). Incredibly, when she examines her arm she discovers a dark distinct burn mark on the inside of her arm, near the elbow.

Her arm is numb and has a tingling sensation for days. The only thing we can assume is that a charge of electricity went up her arm when she touched the dial and exited near her elbow.

Mom refused to get any medical help for this. She eventually regained the use of her arm, but the black burn mark remained the rest of her life.

Sunday, July 19, 2015



It's Sunday and I think I'm surviving. Hence, the title.

I felt extremely sick last night: dizzy, listless. I don't know if it was due to heat exhaustion or those outdated eggs that I ate on Friday. Whatever it was, I was doing a reasonable imitation of Camille's final scene in La Traviata.

I can now fully sympathize with all of you people who've been complaining about the summertime humidity. It is intensely humid here. With the usual daily thunderstorms, of course. I think it's even more humid than Missouri - - and I always thought  the Ozarks was the most humid place on earth.

When I lived in West Texas the humidity was seldom above 15 or 20%. When I lived in San Angelo, the humidity was occasionally so low that it dropped below ZERO. No lie. Minus 4. Minus 6. That's beyond dry.

Can wicker furniture be painted? I wanted to know.

The Google answer was encouraging:
Yes! Absolutely!

A demonstration video was provided to establish the fact. The young woman in the video was a Paris Hilton lookalike - attired in a Gucci sun suit, and armed with an array of Martha Stewart paints and supplies. Brushes in various sizes, brush cleaners, specially designed cloths for easy cleanup, sheets of plastic to protect the ground, fancy work gloves, goggles to protect the eyes, and a well-lighted, well-ventilated room. She paints the wicker chair perfectly, without spilling a drop.

Hey, if the Gucci girl can do it, so can I.

I'm going to paint an ancient wicker bookcase, which should have been thrown out fifty years ago. I grab half a can of old yellow paint and a battered paint brush that has already been used three dozen times. I drag the bookcase out onto the back porch.

Despite the intense heat, the 250% humidity, and swarms of angry & aggressive killer wasps, I manage to slop a full coat of paint onto the bookcase.

If nothing else, it improved the drabness of the wicker. It still needs another two coats of paint, but I can do that later.

 First coat (needs a few more)
looks like hell in the photo but looks a little better in real.

So, how's your new blog going, Jon?

It's hardly going at all. In fact, if it was going any slower it would be in reverse. It's boring. Generating little interest. After three posts I'm almost ready to scrap it. I'm mostly using it as a vehicle to unload pictures from my vast & varied photo files. I had initially planned to post some tastefully done "R" rated stuff (no porn, of course) but I don't want to offend the innocent and unsuspecting. I'm positive that most of my blog followers are as pure as the wind driven snow.
Well, almost positive.

Heck, I'm an unoffensive guy. Most of the time. 

One final word - about my cats. I always seem to be unduly upset when Scruffy (my wild feline child) escapes from the house. Many of my friends have cats that they let outdoors. A few people have suggested that I should let my cats outside.

All of my cats are kept indoors mainly because I want them to be healthy. If they run wild outside - especially here in the woods - they will become infested with ticks, fleas, and other undesirable creepies.That's why I panic every time Scruffy gets out.

I also worry about the wild animals. The other day Scruffy went under the back porch and the 'possum chased her out.

The 'possum still resides under the porch and still tries to get inside the house via the clothes dryer vent, but I have it blocked so his efforts are thwarted.

The joys of rural life.......

looking deceptively innocent 

link to
Cabinet of Curious Treasures

A private note to MS MARTYR :
Farley Granger was gay but Johnny Weissmuller was straight - - so, you can confidently keep your crush on Tarzan (*smile*)

Wednesday, July 15, 2015


 Sunset last night, after the storm

If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that the long drive to town scares me witless. Miles upon endless miles of narrow, harrowing, dangerous - not to mention winding - mountain roads. I've never gotten used to it, and every time I attempt to go, my procrastination thwarts my efforts.

I wanted to drive to town last Friday but the weather was stormy (as usual). Storms continued all weekend and through Monday. On Tuesday the rain subsided and I figured it was now or never. It was very cloudy, humid, and thunder rumbled in the distance. That's nearly perfect weather for here.

Five minutes into my drive down the mountain road it started raining. Then it poured. By the time I arrived at the edge of town the rain was so torrential that I could hardly see.

My first stop was at the town dump, where I have to take my trash (there is no garbage pick-up in the mountains). By the time I got out of there the storm gained fierce momentum and was so bad that I had to stop at the side of the road.

For nearly an hour, I was trapped in the car - which was being rocked by the wind. Big tree branches fell around me and hail pelted the windshield (which, by the way, is still cracked from the cold last winter). Lightning zapped dangerously close.

When it finally cleared enough to resume my journey, debris was everywhere and roads were flooded. My first stop in town was the bank and their computers were down. Someone told me that our county had just been under a tornado warning.

Hell, this is exactly what it was always like in the Missouri Ozarks. That's the only reason I left.

I won't bother describing the endless errands I had to run all over town - but the process took at least two hours. On the way home the weather looked very bleak again. 

Less than a mile from the side turn-off which goes to my house, there was a road block. Police, emergency vehicles, etc. The highway ahead was blocked with fallen power lines and toppled trees. Fortunately, I was so close to home that they let me through.

Naturally, when I got in the house there was no power. And naturally I had loads of groceries that needed to be frozen or refrigerated.

I called my cousin (who lives 15 miles away) to make sure she was all right (she's been sick the past two weeks). Then I prepared for a long dark night. 

There is no way to describe the absolute impenetrable darkness when you're without electricity in this backwoods wilderness. 

The sunset was blood red and very dramatic, and the thick air was charged with lightning. I went out on the front porch and took a few photos, just as darkness was devouring the forest. I could hardly see and the photos don't do justice to the scene.

Naturally, my cat Scruffy bounded out the front door and went off into the woods. I wasn't about to go after her on a wild goose chase. As I tried to get in the front door I accidentally tripped over my other cat Bosco. I cut my bare toes on the metal door sill (or whatever the hell it's called) and fell flat on my face.

My profanities echoed through the forest.

So how did the night end?

Scruffy eventually returned. I did a lot of nothing in the dark. Another huge storm blew in around 10:00, and I laid in bed watching the wicked lightning from the window. At midnight I lit a candle and feasted on pretzels and a can of Coke. Then I went to bed again and dozed in the company of cats.

When I awoke near dawn, the power was back on. I finally made a sandwich and fed the cats.

So here I am - at the computer at dawn, eating a sandwich and preparing for another day. I have no doubt that I'll nap. I am completely exhausted.


Cabinet of Curious Treasures 

Tuesday, July 14, 2015


The last thing I need is another blog. It's trouble enough to keep this one going. I couldn't exist without blogging, however. It's an emotional outlet, a great catharsis. The greatest benefit is having others read my thoughts. It's a way of sharing my feelings - and being an armchair exhibitionist.

Since Lone Wolf Concerto is extremely verbose and rambling, I've decided to counteract it with an antidote. Some people don't like to read long posts (a pity.....). They'd rather look at inane pictures.

My new blog Cabinet of Curious Treasures is all photos, with minimal talk.

What kinds of photos?
Anything that strikes my fancy - a potpourri of subjects, with no rhyme or reason. Beautiful, bizarre, vintage, nostalgic, strange, sensual, odd, erotic, homoerotic.....

I plan to keep my personal tastes in mind and not that of my readers. 

One word of warning:
My very first blog post contains some frighteningly graphic vintage photos - - which are suitable for Halloween and might scare the Jeeters out of you.

We'll save the sex for later.

Happy viewing.


Sunday, July 12, 2015


 Scruffy today
looking innocent
even though she's the Tasmanian Devil

Access isn't easy

I couldn't access my AOL account this morning because I was informed that "unusual" or "suspicious" activity was detected (whatever that means). They advised me to change my password. I changed my password. Still couldn't access account. I changed the password a second time. No deal. I changed it a third time. The third was the charm. I finally got in.

I couldn't access my Pinterest account yesterday because I hadn't used it in a year. Invalid password. Kept trying....over and over........and over.......finally it worked. Access granted!!! Tried to access again tonight. Password denied. Same ol' crap.

Weary of password denial syndrome, I said "TO HELL WITH IT!" (and a few other choice obscenities). I opened a new Pinterest account under a fictitious name. Lost all my photos on the old account.

Google Overdose

Somehow - long ago in the distant past when I didn't know what I was doing - I got two Google accounts, and then a third one inexplicably showed up with a Google email address that I never use. These three accounts cause mass confusion whenever I attempt to access anything.

Jon, you can now combine all of your Google accounts into one easily accessible account.

Bullshit. I tried doing that and it doesn't work.

AND if I ever tried to delete any of my Google accounts I'll risk losing my blog and/or my YouTube channel. It's bad enough that I lost all my accumulated Pinterest stuff.

Never begin a sentence with a conjunction, Jon.

Hey - - how would you like a conjunction shoved up your.......

Ouch! That could be painful. 

So, now whenever I try to access my YouTube account, I have to first sign out of one Google account and sign into another.

Then, in order to access my blog, I have to sign out of the YouTube Google account and sign into TWO (count 'em) different Google accounts.

This is nothing new. I've been having to do it for years. But it's finally taking a toll. I'm sitting here quivering like a spastic colon.

I see passwords in my nightmares. And I wake up in a cold sweat just before getting access.

 Bosco enjoying my bedroom window
spooky eyes due to camera flash

Concerning my previous blog post:

I was initially worried that a list of 50 things about myself would be too long and too self-indulgent. After I wrote it, however, I immediately thought of a lot more things. I could have very easily listed 50 more.

Heck, I'm more interesting than I thought.

Scratch (Kitzee)
enjoying her favorite spot in the living room
(there is a screen on the window but it's so light that you can't see it) 

What about the weather?

I never saw more rain in my entire life. It rains constantly. Sunny days are so rare that the situation is starting to depress the hell out of me.

An incredible deluge this afternoon. To say that it POURED would be an understatement. Naturally, I'd left the car window open. Had to run outside to close it. Got completely drenched in less than a minute. Had to peel off my sopping clothes and then dry off with a towel.

Did I mention the mosquitoes?

A quick lunch
leftover hot dogs, tomatoes, & onion
plenty of pepper & salt

     Who the heck would be dumb enough to take a photo of their lunch??

Stay tuned for an upcoming announcement.

Am I getting married?
Hell, no.

Am I leaving Tennessee?
Not a chance.
Well, not yet, anyway........ 

Actually, it's not anything spectacular. Don't get too excited.