Oh literate millennial, where art thou?

Whatever you think about Kim Kardashian (and Kanye West) naming their infant boy Psalm West, something else is truly troubling:

the number of people who do not know how to pronounce Psalm.


You don’t hafta be religious, Christian or some Biblical scholar to know the word psalm.

You just hafta to be SEMI-literate!!

Emphasis for a reason. Not even literate! Merely semi!

Because psalm is a simple word that’s found in BASIC vocabulary.

How fucking STUPID has our American culture become that psalm is, what, now a word of the highest echelon of education?!


StupidStupidStupid millennials.

Have said it a thousand times and will at least another few thousand before my time’s up:

Thank god we don’t live forever. Would hate to be here when these millennials become leaders / “leaders” and, nightmare of nightmares, reproduce and “raise” their own kids.

Stupid on Steroids.

Or should that read: Pstupid on Psteoroids.

Because, you grand ol’ illiterate nitwits, the “p” is silent in psalm.

Which you would know if you took your brain outta social media (with its literacy-defying ridiculous shorthand) and put into a book … a dictionary … a classroom!

To close on an upbeat note, a random Bible verse off the Internet:

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

Psalm 56:3

Haha, perfect! I do fear profoundly for humankind for this generation of Illiterates.

As for where I put my trust … in my god, good ol’ Merriam-Webster!


Resurrections aren’t only for Jesus

Video killed the radio star.

Those catchy lyrics (from the Buggles’ 1979 hit) have been looping inside my head the past two days.

Ever since water killed my radio.

Read the rest of the story.

Monday night I had a nightmare (heavy-duty, recurring for 45 years). While trying to escape, I flew, while sleeping, like a bat outta hell outta bed and knocked over a vase of flowers on the nightstand.

Water spilled everywhere. Fortunately it narrowly missed the cell phone.

Unfortunately, it pooled onto my clock radio.

It died — coincidentally as I was about to in my nightmare.

Though it still powered on, the front displayed no time, only “id” and the audio was pure buzzy static.

Genuinely sad. I’ve had that RCA clock radio for eons.

We’ve got history — to say the least! It’s moved with me across thousands and thousands of miles, across many state lines, across the years.

In those innumerable relocations– guessestimated 25– that radio’s always the last thing packed.

Pulling its plug signals pulling the plug on the residential space and place of the moment. Likewise, the radio’s among the first to go live in a new space (and thus is always packed into a box or bag easily identified).

Am I dating myself or what?! No millennial super-glued to a cell phone could possibly imagine or comprehend the significance of a clock radio. But here it is.

So when display and audio blipped out late that night, I mournfully set the RCA in the kitchen with a threadbare hope it might dry out and return to life. A day passed. No sign of resurrection.

I nearly took it to the dumpster — ONLY because I’m a passionate, disciplined anti-clutter nazi — but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Couldn’t quite part with it just yet. Couldn’t say goodbye just now.

So it sat unobtrusively on the microwave — a little longer than my anti-clutter nazi would like — as I undertook the necessary, unwelcomed and sad task of researching a replacement online.

A replacement, I knew, of comparatively cheap quality and none of the charms of my old friend the radio.

Two days later, while this morning’s coffee brews, emerges evidence that Jesus alone wasn’t resurrected.

I plug it in. Expecting still life repeated and sad confirmation that I need to let it go.

Suddenly, the old familiar 12:00 — the default time — flashes in green!!! And the audio {push a button, can it be?!} works!!!

Sprung back to life, as if nothing happened!

Joy! Genuine happiness.

I’d been trying to recall when I bought that radio … where I was living. Spaces and places are my life’s timestamps. I cannot. It was that. long. ago.

So I dated the model online. Made in 1992. That humble RCA radio is some 25 years old!

Turns out this”vintage” unit can even be found on ebay for not a small sum … there’s even a youtube vid!

They don’t make ’em like they used to. How true the adage.

I could not be happier at the RCA’s resurrection!

It is now back in its place, with its time reset, on the nightstand. Next to the desk lamp that I’ve also had for eons. Should you surmise that the Disposable Mindset is not mine, you’d be most correct.

Video may have killed the radio star. But water did not kill my radio.

And because that outstandingly durable and humble unit, with its push buttons and dials — nothing digitized here — deserves air time … sing hello to my regal RCA:


My RCA (model RP-3651B) : Still life 😦


Old-school buttons ‘n’ sliders ‘n’ dials, oh my!


Back home alive and well

I sure stepped in it! (a cool story)

I don’t believe that ghosts exist.

I know they do.

And oh have I got stories galore!

But the cold spot in my studio isn’t ghostly.

Identifying its source would sooner require a surveyor than a spiritualist.

It’s turning hot (and hotter and hotter …) in Phoenix, Arizona. Residents in my apartment complex are already using their air conditioners (since April actually).

The loud annoying groans of machinery tell me so. 🙂

My flooring’s that plank vinyl that’s become so popular.

(Edit. note: So. Much. Better than carpet! Nicer to look at, way easier to keep clean and maintain and more hygienic than carpet with the crap that builds up, especially in motels, apartment complexes with revolving tenants, etc.)

I’m always barefoot. Wearing shoes in the house always felt sacrilegious to me — long before I lived in Japan. And dirtying, which my clean-freak nature does not enjoy.

About 10 days ago, I was passing by the bathroom vanity and was stopped dead — no pun intended.

“What’s THIS?!” asked my soles — again, no pun intended.

A giant cold spot is what!

I stepped about, measuring this new treasure — that definitely wasn’t there before.

Based on its location and size, it’s connected to the air conditioner in apartment 222 below.

The mat points to roughly the heart of the chill, by the vanity and closet door:


Its spread and temp somewhat fluctuate, giving rise — again, no pun intended, ghosts … rising — to the deduction that these are defined by air-con use.

Incidentally, sole-ful investigations throughout the studio reveal no other chill spots, making this phenomenon doubly auspicious.

So pleasant is my mini-fridge for feet on the floor that I relocated the mat.

Seems like a weird thing to get excited about … a cold spot on a floor!

And perhaps anywhere else, it wouldn’t have made the blog!

But in the Valley of the Sun — aka Phoenix — cool is revered like you wouldn’t believe!

I’m quite certain that that spot is related to mechanics, not spirits who have passed over.

However, if it persists into winter, I’ll be forced to re-evaluate … and consider the possibility that I’ve got a spirited roommate … one who isn’t paying his/her share of the rent.

So if you’re from “Ghost Hunters,” the TV show, hold off. Any phone calls would be premature.

Big splash restoreth my Zen-ny world

It’s baaaaack!

It’d gone down the drain. For a couple weeks it sat barren and silent. I wasn’t sure it’d return.

But maintenance brought it back! Just this morning.

And just yesterday I’d broached the matter while paying rent at the management office!

I’d sincerely missed it. The relaxing sound 24/7. Indeed a refreshing sound — and sight. ‘Twas what sold me on my little rental studio in fact.

I balked when at initial viewing management considered moving me down a couple apartments since a dishwasher was missing from my (future) unit.

“Don’t care about the dishwasher,” I’d said. “I’m a waterbaby.”

What won me over:


The long shot:


The water fountain … 3 floors below from my front door.

The motor died a slow and noisy death over a couple weeks. Every day the water shot up a little lower than before. Every day the motor groaned and spewed a bit louder than before.

Finally the thing died — or was switched off.

No more water flow.

No more soothing music to my ears.

No more water period. It evaporated damn fast in this dry Phoenix heat.

When I asked a maintenance man who happened to come yesterday to patch a ceiling leak whether the fountain was gonna be fixed, he said yes. “They’re letting it completely dry out so they can wash the green algae off the stones.”

“What?!” {eye roll.}  “Some algae’s normal. That’s not the problem, it’s the motor.”

Whatever. Only reporting.

But as I mentioned, I did inquire while paying rent yesterday. She wasn’t too impressed by the algae claim but did affirm it’s gonna get fixed (eventually).

Soon as I opened my curtains this morning, I heard that sweet sweet sound. Truly music to my Piscean water-baby ears!

The fountain’s back! (Granted, the stoney bed’s not nearly as full as it was and needs replenishment. Time’ll tell whether that’ll happen.)

Nobody loves or needs the sound of moving water than I!

This is doubly so in these dry desert conditions. The song of tumbling spraying water just outside my studio helps keep me sane in a climate where I don’t belong.

“Fish outta water …” never truer!

Water is my Zen and Zen is water.

The fountain makes me certain that this particular studio space was meant for me. Makes me feel that someone(s) up there was watching over and protecting me during an arduous search for my own space in February.

So all’s well in my lil’ world today.

Well, not really. Things just feel better with water in motion.

A big wave of gratitude to whomever(s) got it going. Thank you!