OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Hamiltucky* Woman, Stay Away from Me...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Last October, I almost did something very stupid, something that went beyond the usual ZenFo Pro stupid.

Hmm...

How do I describe this gently, subtly...

Um, well, I can't. Sometimes, it's best just to be blunt.

I almost became a quick, relationship-escape-hatch fling for a SEBM (see definition below) . I'm not too proud of the fact. I am, proud, however, that the almost part is more important than the fling part...

Yeah, nothing happened.

SEBM - abbrev., as in Somebody Else's Baby Mama.

Living in a small town is a bitch. Living in a small town where one continuously runs into people better left unseen is a bitch and a half.

But living in a small town and running into someone you'd hoped to never see again is a bitch, three dog farts, and a goat turd all rolled into one.

I'm picking up cigarettes at the filling station tonight. I shoot the shit with the cashier, as I do every time I'm in the place. Walking back to my car, I hear somebody start to honk their horn at the stoplight on the corner.

I glance over quickly. Some girl in a Camaro is waving at somebody...

Who the fuck is she waving at...? I'm the only one here...

Oh fuck.

I wish I hadn't looked.

The hair's different (was jet-black but now has a purplish tint), and I don't remember the lip piercing. I recognize damn near everything else, however.

Now, I could've done the adult thing - I probably should've just waved back, hollered some acceptable salutation back, and backed away slowly.

But no, I had to be a dumbass. I pretended that I didn't recognize the woman behind the wheel of the car, walked back to the ZenFoPromobile, and got the fuck out of Dodge.

I get three blocks before the frigging Camaro's behind me, flashing headlights and, again, more honking.

I pull over in the parking lot of a fast food joint. No clue what to expect. Not sure what to say, really...

What does one say, exactly, to a completely nucking-futs woman who used you as an excuse to break up with a kid's dad? Or told the same guy that we'd been sleeping together for months?

A guy who's been in and out of jail, who may or may not still be a bit pissed.

And I didn't do anything. Nothing happened.

Ya spread a bunch of gossip, make up a bunch of shit, and now you want to have a chat in front of the KFC? You're completely fucked in the head, lady.

For fuck's sake...

The woman gets out of the car and walks over towards my pick-up.

Yup. No mistaken identity on my part...it's "Chase."

Shit.

No mistaken identity...

The woman just stares at me for a few seconds, then apologizes. Said something about thinking I was somebody else. She gets back in her car and drives off.

Okay... I've lost a bit of weight since October and I no longer have the beard I used to grow out every few months or so. My hair's a bit longer, and it's dusk, too.

For once in my life, a completely batshit woman from my past failed to recognize me months later.

Oh, now that's fucking awesome. FUCKING AWESOME!

I laughed, started the pick-up, and kept on trucking to the store to pick up some supplies...

---

* For a definition Hamiltucky, check out the Urban Dictionary definition.

ZENFORMATION PLAYLIST 5/30/2006: Glam Metal Fantasies, Defining Old School, Etc...

RED RIGHT HAND
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Let Love In (Mute/Elektra, 1994)
For some reason, this song always reminds me of driving through Russell, Kansas - the birthplace of former senator Bob Dole.

Hey...don't look at me. No clue, really.

YOUR MOTHER WAS THE LIGHTNING
The Court and Spark, Hearts (Absolutely Kosher, 2006)
Just received the promo for this. Awesome country-rock ditty, a la Uncle Tupelo. One of the most promising acts I've heard out of the AK bullpen. [MP3 Here]

IN LIEU
The Icarus Line, Mono (Buddyhead, 2001)
Lord, this song is really five years old?

I've probably heard this song at least four million times. Still dig the Goth-ish, grungy sound of this track.

Note to the mallrat emo kiddies I always seem to trip over down in Colerain...

You know that depressed-but-really-cool, skinny-red-ties and black-paramilitary-shirt thing My Chemical Romance has been selling you? Um... you know it's not, like, original, right?

People have been ripping off the Quasi-Nazi, White Duke era Bowie thing for years...

CONNECTED FOR LIFE
Mack 10, Bang or Ball (Cash Money, 2001)
Okay, so the album was a bit overhyped.

It's still a well-crafted song. Plus, Ice Cube's a guest vocalist. One can't go wrong with Da Cube.

I must admit, however, that the older I get and farther I'm removed from the community where I grew up, the more and more I feel like that guy from Office Space when I make the morning commute listening to gangsta rap...

THE ROAD TO ROCK & ROLL
Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros, Rock Art and the X-Ray Style (Hellcat, 1999)
There will never be another Joe Strummer.

I'll probably go to hell for writing this, but I've always preferred the stylings of the former Clash frontman to a certain overrated Beatle, the dude who married some chick named Yoko.

KISS ME DEADLY
Lita Ford, Lita (RCA, 1988)
For those reading this who weren't pubescent boys in the late 1980s or early 1990s, Lita Ford was the absolute hottest of the Heavy Metal Guitar Goddesses during that time.

The woman was also one of the best female rock guitarists of the 80s, arguably one of the best all time.

A former member of the pioneering Runaways (which also featured a young Joan Jett), Ford is directly responsible for the nocturnal staining of more He-Man bedsheets than perhaps any other leather-clad vixen of the Glam Era.

SUCKER M.C.s
Run-DMC, Run-DMC (Profile, 1984)
Don't tell me 50-fucking-Cent is Old School, or that Tupac invented rap.

I will dig out a pair of laceless Adidas and put them straight up your saggy-drawers ass.

2WICE
Mission of Burma, The Obliterati (Matador, 2006)
Wow. MoB has been kicking around almost as long as the Ol' ZenFo Pro.

This track is from their latest...love the hard, driving drum intro. You don't hear those enough anymore. [MP3 Here]

To Those Who Gave Their Lives in Times of War, Peace, and Everything in Between...

Photo Credit: Lincoln at Gettysburg
(Courtesy Library of Congress)

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

- Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg
November 19, 1863

---

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Abraham Lincoln, Civil War, Memorial Day

SEX AND THE ZENFO PRO: The Numbers Game, Threesomes, and the Well-Intentioned Elderly

Why oh why has everyone and their mother, in the offline world, become so damned fascinated with my sexual history?

* * *

Last week, somebody asked me, point-blank, how many women I've, well...you know...

Apparently, I guess I give off this vibe that I fuck just about anything that moves.

I didn't answer the question. Only a few select people know the answer to that question, actually.

I used to answer the question openly and honestly. Then, I got burned a few times in relationships for answering sincerely.

Last summer, I was seeing this girl. It was one of these rather passionate affairs. At one point, she blurted out that she'd been with five people. Then she asked how many women I'd been with. She had a rather cute, michievious grin on her face asking the question.

She wasn't smiling after I answered the question. Things went downhill from there...

For some people, sex is about quantity over quality. When that quantity is too large a figure, the whole aspect of quality gets lost. Quality of one's sex life - measured not in numbers but examined holistically, over time - is so much more important.

I've only asked one woman how many sex partners she's had.

She nonchalantly replied with a rather large number, broken down by years she'd been sexually active (75 per year, male and female, over more than a decade), excluding any sex act that did not involve penetration of orifices below the waist.

She also admitted that she'd only gotten off about 20 percent of the time, about 30 or so were pity/sympathy fucks, and quite a few were completely worthless, quick-release sorta things.

Who cares how many people you've slept with when you're just going through the motions 80 percent of the time?

Sure, I've been passed around only slightly less than a tent revival collection plate - the majority of those experiences occurred when I was in my younger.

But what the hell does a number prove, anyway? That a guy/gal can fucking count?

* * *

While out for lunch earlier this week, somebody - a regular at a bar I frequent - asked me if I was screwing one or more of female bartenders. A conversation about a certain project at my library went from professional to junior high in under 60 seconds.

Apparently, he'd heard things. Something about a threesome, strip poker, and Jack Daniels.

My first thought was Dude, if my love life were that exciting...

Besides, if anything like that had happened, well, it's not like I'd tell some 50-year old guy about it. I'm not too big a fan of guys who use the phrase get some pussy in casual conversation. A woman is so much more than a vagina, and sex is so much more than simply a penis entering a vaginal wall.

I've figure there's a reason why guys like this exist - somebody has to be the asshole.

Hell, and I'm a guy saying that...

* * *

Last night, I had to drive out to the local Wally World to pick up some allergy meds...

At one point, I'm standing in front of this bodywash section... hadn't noticed I was standing next to the Wall O' Condoms.

This elderly woman - out of the fucking blue - taps me on the shoulder and tells me that it's very responsible of me to be buying condoms and that I shouldn't be embarrassed, because sex is a beautiful thing.

We're talking a very elderly woman, easily in her 80s, maybe early 90s, wearing a sweet-old-church-lady hat with a big ol' red purse.

She insisted on helping me pick out prophylactics and told me she did the same thing for her grandsons.

I feel very sorry for her grandsons.

When I was younger, I'd get embarrassed buying condoms. I'll admit it. The first time I bought a box of condoms, I was 19. The first time I actually acquired a box, I shoplifted them from a drugstore at 16.

But there is no embarrassment quite like having an elderly woman say, in public, that you're a nice looking young man that needs something to make my girl feel special.

I told this woman that I wasn't exactly looking to buy condoms. She completely ignored me. I mumbled something and she stuck a box - a big friggin' box - in my hand. And then she went back to shopping and left me standing there, looking like a complete dumbass.

The worst part is that I know this woman. She frequently attends functions held by my library. I've even helped her carry books to her car last year.

I'm honestly hoping this is some wierd Granny fetish and that I wasn't singled out because of where I work.

I do not want to have a Did the Supras Fit Right, dear? conversation at my library's next big gala...

Arm and Hammer?!? Writing a Nice Thing About Myself for a Change...

Okay, so this is a vanity photo... sorta.

Cropped it off one of the photos a friend of mine took using my work camera two months ago.

(I photoshopped it to B&W to match my profile pic.)

I had an older woman refer to me as "beefy" at work a few months ago, and I'm still getting grief for it.

Somebody caught me online late last night. Apparently, I never say anything nice or flattering about myself.

So...here goes...

I have 16-inch biceps. Not too big. Not too small. Just right.

I'm happy with them. No complaints yet.

There. Said it.

That's probably the most skin I'll post here on the ol' ZenFo Pro.

Um, sorry... no ass shots. ;)

THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY SCRIPT:Why I Don't Go to the Movies Often

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- So I caught Ron Howard's adaptation of the popular novel The De Vinci Code this weekend.

The film, apparently, is now officially a hit. The novel the film was based upon, written by author Dan Brown, continues to dominate the World of Infotainment.

Tom Hanks is unbelievable as a tenured faculty member - too compassionate and not self-absorbed enough. Could he pass for an instructor of a First Year linguistics course? Certainly.

But a highly published scholar? The guy from Forrest Gump? Please.

Ian McKellen gives one of the most lifeless performances I've seen from the actor. And I don't blame McKellen one bit. With a cookie-cutter script like that...

I won't completely trash the flick. It's not bad... if you're paying $4.50 at a Sunday matinee in a small town.

But it's not great, either.

And that's the problem. It's a Trojan horse of a film, lacking substance where there should be substance, rather lacking in terms of cinematic cajones.

Hype. That's the word I'm looking for... all hype.

Audrey Tautou (who portrays the female lead here) is still just as frigging hot as she was in Dirty Pretty Things, Amelie, and just about every other film on her resume.

That's my film review and I'm stickin' to it...

* * *

One of the things the film did do was to get my ol' History of Christendom juices flowing again.

It's been a while since I've thought much about Gnosticism, the various Mary Magdalene cults throughout history, the influence of secretive organizations - Knights Templar, Freemasons, and Opus Dei - on the creation of this behemoth called "Western Civilization."

Seriously. I used to ponder this shit almost daily. The rise of Early Christianity fascinates me - how did a minor cult within Judaism manage to overwhelm the same Roman Empire in only a few short centuries?

It's also been a long time since I took time to ponder the magic and mess Roman emperor Constantine I created, way back in the 300s, three centuries removed from the time when a Galilean tradesman supposedly walked the earth, performed miracles, and was crucified as a traitor to the Roman Empire.

Constantine, as much as that Nazarean rabbi and his followers, deserves credit for building a monotheistic cult into, essentially, the world's first political party. With the decriminalization of Christianity, power struggles were allowed to flourish in public between doctrinal opponents. With the convening of state-sponsored eumenical councils and meetings, the figure of the historical Christ became blended, irrevocably, with the image of a Christ shrouded in metaphysical ideology.

Over the next two millennia, thanks to things like the Council of Nicea and the tying of a simple faith to a complex, often opposite political reality, Western Civilization would grow to become a faith-based, blood-soaked cultural powerhouse - driven by passions, beautifully procreative and simultaneously destructive, supposedly inspired by the Son of Man.

The same melding of politics and religion that gave rise to the Renaissance also gave rise to the Inquisitions throughout Europe. The same inspiration that provided De Vinci with both patronage and artistic license also gave rise to the sinister, brutal genius of the Malleus Maleficarium and the Summis desiderantes affectibus of Pope Innocent VIII as a means to further maintain religious monopoly on Europe.

Emperor Constantine adopted Christianity, depending on the version of history one reads, either on his deathbed or after a battle in which he supposedly was granted victory over an enemy. Some have speculated that his conversion was influenced by his mother, known in Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholic traditions as St. Helena.

Above all, Constantine was, of course, a politician - the leader of what was considered to be the cultural capital of the Known World. At some point, I'm sure he not only weighed the value of Christianity in terms of immortal souls but in terms of immortality within the annals of history...

Blah, blah, blah...

Um yeah. See, this is what happens when I get bored.

I could go on, but I'll spare everybody the thought process. I have a head like a slingshot most days - stick the right ammunition in that sucker, and I'm off on a tangent.

This probably explains why I've never been very good at the whole "dinner and a movie" thing...

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: It's my Birthday and I'll Have Flashbacks If I Want To...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I rarely remember other people's birthdays, much less my own. One year, I spent my whole birthday thinking I still had a week to go. Then my mother called to ask how I was celebrating the special day.

Usually, somebody calls to wish me a happy birthday. This year? Nobody. No cards in the mail, no voicemails when I woke up this morning.

After years of forgetting my own birthday, everybody else forgot on the one day that I actually remembered it.

I guess that sucks... not sure.

Half of me is kinda-sorta glad. Birthdays don't really mean anything to me. One of the things I've gotten used to, being thousands of miles away from the nearest kinfolk and living alone, is the pointlessness of marking milestones and celebrating holidays by yourself.

But the other half? I've been trying to figure that out all day...

Last night, I had a nightmare. Couldn't remember it this morning. Usually, I remember my dreams, good or bad.

For some reason, I jumped out of bed this morning - 5:30. After breakfast, I did laundry. I drove down to Hamilton, Ohio, and hit the Goodwill.

Two shirts and a pair of cargo shorts for hiking for five whole bucks. Score.

On the way back to Oxford, I hit the state park for a little hiking. Took a long nap on the rocks next to Four Mile Creek.

While sprawled out on my stomach, I tried to remember the nightmare. I gave up, stuck my hands in the cold water, and let my fingers play in the velvet green lining the bottom of the creek...

What the hell's making me so contemplative and serious? Why am I tense and relaxed simultaneously?

Returned home, kicked on the TV, and cooked up some black beans and hominy for supper. I took a long, cold shower to cool the sunburn a bit.

Just another day.

Then I remembered the nightmare in the shower.

Even when the conscious human mind loses track of time, the subconscious mind rarely misses a beat.

Ten years ago, May 20, this was my life. Be warned - the link goes back into a part of my past some people may not want to see. Not a pretty fucking picture.

I got into a rather brutal fight in the waning hours of my 17th year on this planet. I nearly broke a man in half, just before midnight, May 19, 1996. I spent the early hours of my 18th birthday, a decade ago today, in a dirty filling station bathroom, staring into a mirror, fighting some serious inner demons.

A decade? That all happened a decade ago? Damn.

Time flies when you're moving on with your life.

People wonder why I'm not scared of much, why I'm not afraid of death really, why I don't lose my temper, and why I try to steer clear of violent situations. Well, I've seen the ugly face of violence.

I looked in that stainless steel mirror a decade ago and saw hideousness staring back at me. And I decided that I didn't like what I saw.

Memories know no calendar, really. That's why we have a subconscious - backup storage.

Peace of mind is the greatest birthday gift I think I've ever given myself. And given where I've been, what I've experienced, over the last 10 years, I have a lot to celebrate.

When I got out of the shower tonight, I stared into my bathroom mirror and, for once, was proud of what I saw staring back at me. Sure, I'm getting grey hairs on my chin. The laugh lines are slowly becoming crow's feet...

Maybe there's a decent guy in there after all, somewhere in that reflection.

Happy fucking birthday, you bastard. You're still alive and kicking!

Here's to the next ten years.

Today's Letter is Brought to You By...

Illuminated initial, at left, borrowed from Bertha Runkle's Helmet of Navarre, courtesy of Project Gutenberg.

---

Cowgirl posted a meme dealing concerning a sort of social networking of the alphabet. MizB. was graced with the letter F by another blogger, answering it in true Bohemian fashion.

The rules were simple: pick 10 words that begin with an assigned letter. Cowgirl set me up with the letter L. Apparently, it came down to two words associated with this blog - lesbians and librarians.

It has been determined that if she and I were to ever go out drinking, there'd possibly be some jail time involved. I'm pretty sure we're talking Bukowski-esque dangerous, here...

So here's my list:

1. LIBRARIAN: Yeah, I'm a librarian. I work in a library. I'm one of the few librarians in the country who uses one of these, one of these, and a few of these regularly as part of my work responsibilities. I've even had to run one of these at work - that was one badass week.

I also occasionally have to entertain certain select groups, which has often led to my working 14-15 hour days and to do midday wardrobe changes. I deal with the public in unique and creative ways. I soothe nerves. I schmooze. If need be, I flirt. I get the job done.

Let's just say I work in Hardcore Services and leave it at that. I'm a Designated Hitter Librarian and I love my job, love my coworkers to death, and worship the ground my management walks on, if for no other reason than I'm extremely blessed to have the kind of opportunities I have. I work in a library setting legendary for its approach to pushing the envelope of the profession.

2. LICKIM CUNTOFF: I received an interesting e-mail this morning from this "person," seeking to sell me sex toys, Viagra, and heat-sensitive lubricant at low, low prices.

Gotta love spam. For some reason, my junk filter didn't catch this one. Who would buy sex aids from someone named Lickim Cuntoff?

3. LEONARD (Nimoy): Yes, I watch Star Trek, dammit. I can watch Star Trek almost continuously. Every series, movie, and even the cartoon.

I am a complete dork.

4. LEONARD (Cohen): I've been told the fact that I enjoy listening to Leonard Cohen redeems me from dorkiness...

Or it at least makes me a more cultured dork....

5. LIMA (as in beans) - I have a fetish for beans. For some people, beans are a side dish. Me? The whole meal, baby! I'm a quasi-vegetarian because I'm allergic to beef. Because of that, I've become an utilitarian eater - not much for fancy foods and I don't eat out much. I eat like, well, like I did as a kid on the farm - traditional rural cuisine.

And I eat a whole hell of a lot of lima beans. Love 'em. We're talking cattle quantities per week - one pound bags every seven days or so. I put em in my seductive succotash. I put them in my bitching Brunswick Stew.

6. LEMMY FROM MOTORHEAD - Hey, don't ask me. For some reason, he just popped in my head. Weird moles and all.

This heavy-metal, bad acid flashback brought to you by Mullet-Mate, the hair care solution for the half of my family still driving the same rusted-out Trans-Ams, sporting the same haircuts, and hitting on underage girls at the Winn-Dixie ... well into their 40s.

Gawdammit. Now I've got to track down some Motorhead Mp3s...

7. LOCOMOTIVES - One day, when I was 14, a friend and I decided to hop a train for nowhere.

We'd spent the day bass fishing, drinking cheap beer, and listening to Woody Guthrie and Jimmie Rodgers on the only station we could pick up on the farm truck's AM-Only radio - the "old" WSVS 800, the best country-gospel-bluegrass station EVER.

We were also completely loaded and inspired - a dangerous combination.

So we drove the pick-up to the Norfolk-Southern rail line a few miles away and waited for the afternoon coal cars bound for Hampton Roads. We were expecting to have to make some dramatic sprint to chase this sucker down - like in the movies.

We ran about 100 yards only to catch a train that was in the midst of making a stop.

My Woody Guthrie moment lasted a whole three miles, from Green Bay/Hell's Corner, Virginia, to Meherrin, Virginia.

8. LESBIANS: I love me some lesbians. Not for the normal, stereotypical guy reasons, either.

The lesbians who were exposed to my lily-white, Dayglo ass a few weeks ago? I left out last, kinda boring part of the story.

That Sunday, after skinny-dipping and sobering up a bit, we went back to the liquor store in College Corner to pick up some more supplies. A rather attractive brunette - a well-built Indiana farmer's daughter type, walked in to pick up a pack of Menthols and a six-pack of Miller High Life.

"Kate" gave me this strange look when the brunette bent over to pick up some dropped car keys. I was trying not to look, trying to be a gentleman.

"Fuck, look at that camel-toe. Dude, do you know what I could with that?"

I obviously forgot to pass along to my companions that this part of Indiana does have that whole Children of the Corn, "We Ain't Got No Lezbins" vibe going...

I had, indeed, noticed the camel-toe. Daisy Dukes, on some women, leave nothing to the imagination.

9. LEADBELLY: One of my all-time favorite musicians. A true American Original. Son House, John Lee Hooker, Gatemouth Brown, Robert Johnson...

Wha? You didn't know I listen to the blues? I'm a Southerner - I think it may be illegal in some states for me to NOT listen to the blues at least once a month. Hey, we INVENTED American music.

10. LAGNIAPPE: I used this word three times this week. It's a word commonly used in southern Mississippi and Louisiana. In general, it refers to receiving a little something extra - a gift. That's the best way to look upon one's life.

To add your own string, simply request a letter in the comments section. I'll assign you one. Hey, I'm not picky; if you want, pick your own letter.

I'm a Librarian, Goddammit. Really. Swear to God...

Okay, this will probably come as close to a professional post as I'll get all summer.

With about 98 percent of my community's patron population gone for the summer (and given the muohio IPs have drastically dwindled), I'm feeling way too cheeky to worry about the usual blog/real world shit...

FREEDOM! CRY FREEDOM!

* * *

For those who know nothing about what librarians actually do at work, you're not alone. For librarians who believe patrons know what they do, or even care, well... let me get a hit off whatever it is you're smoking.

Check out Urban Dictionary's definitions of the word librarian (courtesy of the Well-Dressed Librarian). I've added some ZenFo Pro commentary to these definitions to further clarify the role of librarians and library staff...

"...A chick who seems really sweet and nice and shy when out. But, once you get her alone turns into a raging sexaul freak..."

ZENFO PRO: Um... my library is hiring. Where are these female librarians? And are their libraries hiring?

"...they will yell at you for the stupidest shit. they think theyre making the world better by being librarians but everyone really hates them because theyre mean and EVIL!..."

ZENFO PRO: You know why I don't go to conferences? Because I run into libbies who fit this stereotype. I spend more of my time trying to change this image. There are too many librarians who fit this stereotype; hence, the reason it exists.

Note to those librarians: fucking retire already. Here's a READ poster to keep you company.

Call me when you finally admit that the world of information is neither flat nor static. I'd worry about the professional ramifications of such a demand, but I'm pretty sure most of the librarians I'm talking about are still too busy bitching about Google, online catalogs, and the Digital Age to bother figuring out how to actually locate a blog in Cyberspace.

* * *

So two people at work today made comments about my jeans-and-tee work attire...

One person told me her daughter was convinced that I'm gay. No, not because I'm a librarian.

Apparently, my Wranglers are too tight, my tees are too snug, and my hair is always ruffled.

Yup, the mythological, nearly infamous "gaydar" thing.

I'm very comfortable in my heterosexuality, so I took no offense. Actually, I took it as a compliment. How many straight guys, with half their fingers taped up, covered in layers of book dust, get told their jeans are too tight?

The second person, a female patron, asked me for a bit of help. I was on my way to the john after working late (yet again) - had just finished multitasking between a spreadsheet update and an IM conversation with a fellow blogger (sorta work-related).

I had to pee really bad, so I leaned against a shelving range to keep from doing the "Pee-Pee Dance." I knocked a book off the shelf, bent down to pick it up, and found a beet-red woman staring at the ceiling.

I asked if she was okay - I thought she was going to faint or something. Then she blurted out something about not wanting to lie and that she'd been checking out my ass. Then she turned around and walked off - without actually getting any help.

Maybe my jeans are a bit tight...

Okay, I'm starting to get the hint that some women find me attractive. But why would somebody ask for help, then walk away? It's not like I knew she was checking me out... that's the last thing I think about, honestly, when a patron asks for help.

I understand it must've been embarrassing, but, well, I'm an iPro. Answering questions is what I do.

HEARTS OF DARKNESS, Pt. 2: Myths, Legends, and the Cold Hard Truths of Tomorrow's Yesterdays

FARMVILLE, Va. (ZP) -- Going home is never easy. Going home during a family emergency is, needless to say, harder than hell.

Since G'maw couldn't handle lengthy visits in Richmond, Dad and I were left with quite a bit of free time. Dad was, of course, busy with scrutinizing insurance policies, securing powers of attorney, and tracking down the living trust documents - he had other things to do. My sole responsibility, on this trip, was to simply provide moral support for my father and grandmother.

I tried, but I don't think I'm very good at the whole moral support gig.

Someone once told me that I'm a "rock" when it comes to dealing with disasters and emergencies. I am no rock. Rocks don't move. Rocks don't do anything but offer momentary support along history's grand timeline.

At work, fine. Part of what I do, professionally, is handle disasters. I feel almost cocky in saying, yeah, I'm probably considered by a few folks to be almost an expert in the art of the "clean-up." Mold outbreak? Evaluate the infestation, determine the best course of action, pitch the plan and try to soothe nerves, and move forward. Patron complaints? Listen, evaluate, explain, report, and move on...

But personally? I'm too much of a fuck-up in my personal life to be handling emergencies as somebody's go-to guy. When emotions get in the way, I learned back in my reporter days to simply ignore them and keep on trucking. Deal with emotions later; eyes on the prize at all times.

At the hospital in Richmond, I know I made for absolutely lousy company. Emotions are bound to creep in - the realization that your last living grandparent came within inches and seconds of losing her life will do that.

So while Dad is trying to get information out of nurses, trying to figure out what accounts G'maw uses to pay which bills, trying to dig through the insipid bureaucracy that accompanies health care in this country, I'm chattering on about nothing in particular with G'maw, like just another friendly visit.

Even after nearly losing her life, my grandmother is still her normal feisty self - at least externally. She tells me I need to think about settling down and that I need to go to church more often. She asks me if I noticed the cute doctor from Pakistan (even through morphine and Codeine dreams, G'maw still tries to play matchmaker.)

I don't know if I was any help or not. I'd like to think so, but it's hard to tell when you're busy trying to keep your head on straight while still playing the charming, witty grandson.

* * *

I couldn''t sleep too well in G'maw's house - it's been years since I've slept in a single bed. I rolled off the bed twice the first night...

G'maw told Dad and I to make ourselves at home and even apologized, at one point, for not being able to be a good hostess. Aside from Dad and I hitting the Happy Hours nearly every day the first week, there wasn't much to keep either of us entertained. Dad hits the sack notoriously early (8:30 or so); my stress-induced insomnia wasn't exactly compatible.

I wasn't really comfortable going out at night. When I go home, I prefer to dodge situations in which I could run into folks from my past. The first few trips back to Virginia after I left in 1996, I'd run into people who'd heard all these tall tales about where I'd gone and what I'd become. I hate hearing the stories, the theories, the myths.

When I left, I didn't really tell anybody where I was going or say goodbye to a lot of people - only a few friends knew for sure which direction I was headed. I never thought of myself as being popular in high school, but I was, according to my sister, one of the more popular people. When one of the "cool kids" mysteriously disappears for no apparent reason, people's minds wander.

Over the years I've heard many urban legends about where I'd gone and what I'd become - I'd fathered three imaginary children, joined the army, won a Pulitzer Prize, worked for ESPN, worked as a lobbyist, become a drug lord in Mexico, worked as a hitman, joined the Peace Corps, become an electrician.

Gotta love the power of myth.

But I forced myself to go out, then, every night, if only for a cup of coffee. If I couldn't find sleep at night, then I'd find something relatively enjoyable to do, to recharge my batteries, to take my mind off the fact that my grandmother will face the surgeon's knife several times over the next few months...

* * *

Over the nearly two dozen trips I've made back to Southside Virginia in the last decade, I've learned to just hide out. I don't like those "where have you been all these years" conversations.

I don't really want to know where some of my friends ended up, either. I know some went to prison, some joined the military, and some went to college. Some became mechanics and carpenters, a select few doctors, lawyers, and other professionals, and some became case numbers in some social worker's file cabinet...

One night, I went out for a cup of coffee at an all-night diner reading a history of the Negro Leagues. All-night joints are a modern amenity that hadn't existed when I called Farmville home - it's a welcome addition to a community that's not exactly a booming metropolis.

The place is empty, except for two waitresses and a short-order cook. At a little past 1 a.m., three black women came in. One woman was dragging a young light-skinned girl behind her. The girl, decked out in Power Puff Girls pajamas and braids, was no older than five or six, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sucking her thumb.

The three women sat down at a booth. They were swearing and raising a ruckus; they'd apparently been out drinking and decided they needed to get some breakfast. One woman asked the waitress to tell "that retarded nigger cookin'" to not burn her toast. Another woman, the one with the little girl, lit a Newport and started talking about how some guy named Antonio "ate pussy like nobody's business." The third woman grunted some affirmation then started discussing her need to get some "raw dicking" sometime soon...

The little girl giggled at the conversation. I kept wondering if that little girl would walk into some elementary school classroom, possibly a classroom that once housed the ol' ZenFo Pro, and discuss the intricacies of raw dicking or Antonio's pussy-eating prowess. Kids tend to repeat the darndest things.

I recognized two of the women. One of them had been in my kindergarten class, the other in a high school course. Both had been bright, beautiful kids. Now, both were rather vile examples of what happens when one doesn't leave the housing project that reared them.

You know what's funny? I can't remember either girl's name, but I can remember that both came from the Parkview Gardens housing projects.

Chuck D. once compared housing projects to cruel government experiments, and I tend to agree. Yes, it takes a village to raise a child; growing up in the America's housing projects can just as easily destroy a child, even in a rural area.

One of the women confirmed my suspicions about where the trio called home - she started bitching about how she couldn't afford to get her extensions redone because they'd raised the rent at the Gardens.

One of the women - the one from my kindergarten class, a girl who used to steal my crayons and ask why I was the color of paste and she was the color of the brown construction paper - noticed that I was watching them.

White boy, who the fuck you lookin' at? You better recognize I will drop yo fuckin ass in a fuckin heartbeat. I don't care who you think you is.

She was right. It was none of my business.

The little girl looked up and giggled. She was still sucking her thumb.

I tried to go back to reading my book, but my hands were shaking. Hard to read when you can't steady the pages.

* * *

One can't ever go home again, nor should they expect to find solace in a future based on some illusion of the past.

On the way home, I stopped by the Robert Russa Moton Museum. April 23, 2006, marked the 55th anniversary of one of the most important events in Virginia, if not American, history.

Way back in 1951, hundreds of black students walked out of this building to protest the injustices of segregated education, the simple evil of Jim Crow. The protest, organized and led by a young black woman named Barbara Johns, was one of the shots heard 'round the Segregated South, one of the first blows for free and equal education that eventually led to the landmark Brown v. Board ruling.

I take great pride in the fact that I graduated from Prince Edward County High School, the fully integrated successor to the segregated high schools.

I sat in the parking lot of this museum, which had served as home to my fifth grade class prior to its retirement, at two in the morning and thought about the young black kids who marched out through those doors and launched a revolution.

I thought about the power - the sheer, unfettered power - that these children were able to unleash on this community, this country, and the world.

And then I thought about those three women sitting in an all-night diner and that little girl who giggled as her adult keepers talked about eating pussy and needing raw dicking.

And I wept. I put my forehead on the steering wheel, and I wept.

The future is, sometimes, more terrifying than either fact or fiction, more potentially devastating than any legend of the past or reality of the present.

---

FOOTNOTES:

1. Photo taken from Brown v. Board of Education: Virginia Responds. Online Exhibit. Richmond: The Library of Virginia.


2. To help support the Moton Museum, visit their web site.


3. Prince Edward is still in the rebuilding process, healing from the wounds caused by segregation and the massive resistance movement launched by segregation's supporters that led to the closing of Prince Edward's public schools for half a decade - the longest school closing in American history. For a personal account, click here.
   

HEARTS OF DARKNESS, Pt. 1: I'm Still a Bad Mofo from Nutbush Road

SOUTHSIDE VIRGINIA (ZP) - I'm not going to mince words here. I'm not going to use some silly euphemism or tired cliche - I wasn't a "problem teenager" or a "reckless youth." In case you haven't figured it out by now, I have a rather complex past.

When I left Virginia back in 1996, the day after my high school graduation, my relocation to Colorado was only partly a choice. I had been accepted to a university in Colorado; I chose to attend that school despite the fact that I'd been offered better financial aid packages by local schools. I left the Old Dominion for one reason and one reason alone - survival.

A few weeks after my 18th birthday, I was at this party. A guy started running off at the mouth. The gentleman was an unwelcome guest at this gathering; because everyone knew he was "packing," no one wanted to ask him to leave.

Stoned, drunk, and knowing that I was packing heat myself (kept that sucker in the glovebox of my car), I asked the guy to leave. The guy asked me what I was going to do if he didn't. So I introduced his forehead to the hood of my Dodge Shadow.

I thought I'd knocked the guy out. His girlfriend, a friend of a friend of mine, started screaming and I found myself distracted. I turned back around just soon enough to catch the guy reaching down the front of his pants for something. Not wanting to end my high school career as a corpse, I kicked the guy in the head. Then I kicked him in the ribs. Then I rolled him over, put my knee in his gut, and spit in his face. Turns out the guy was actually reaching for his pager.

Back then, I remember thinking Tough shit, kid. You picked the wrong peckerwood to fuck with. In hindsight, however, the whole event is extremely disturbing.

I went back to the party and found this friend of mine, Thor (not his real name) - one of the hardest motherfuckers I've ever known. By 15, he'd already had his nose broken four times, jaw twice, eye socket fractured, and already had arthritis in both hands. I once watched him extinguish a Phillies Blunt on his forearm and clean the wound with Colt .45 malt liquor.

That's hardcore. Half-insane, but hardcore nonetheless.

I told Thor about the fight, proud of myself for giving a guy an asswhooping of Thor-like proportions. Instead of congratulating me, Thor got in my face, shoving me and telling me how stupid I was for doing what I'd done. I was now 18, he reminded me, and subject to being charged as an adult. If my foot had landed in the wrong place, I could've killed the guy.

Then he made me promise to go to college. I'd been debating whether or not to go, to possibly pursue a "safer," more familiar career - one in the illicit pharmecutical industry. He threatened to kick my ass if I ever went that route. He told me he never wanted to see me again once I left for Colorado, that if I chose the career I was thinking about choosing, they'd find me face down in the James River.

So I promised I'd choose the college route. And, despite all my stumbles along the way, it's something I've never regretted. I wouldn't have a postgraduate education, wouldn't be working in a field that I love, wouldn't have met some of the amazing people I've met in this life if I hadn't made that promise more than a decade ago.

So why do I bring this up?

After visiting G'maw in the hospital and having dinner with the ZenFo Dad, I went out looking for a watering hole. My nerves were completely shot. Seeing my grandmother doped up on morphine, head half-shaved, steel mounted to her ankle... that's a hard thing.

I found this redneck dive out on U.S. 460. Ignoring the Confederate flags in the window and the Larry the Cable Guy bumperstickers on the rusted out GMCs in the parking lot, I strolled in and ordered a Jameson's on the rocks.

Some guy came up and put his hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find a fat, balding man in a Kyle Petty tee-shirt, covered in drywall mud, staring at me. Despite being a good 30 pounds lighter than I was in high school, the guy still recognized me.

Uh...yeah. You know that guy I kicked the shit out of just after my 18th birthday?

And he had some friends with him, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumbass, both grinning from ear-to-ear.

To be honest, I was ready to meet my Maker. Not that I was necessarily looking forward to an untimely demise, but I came to grips a long time ago with the fact that I've been living on borrowed time. To borrow from that old Klingon mantra, every day is a good day to die.

Instead of wanting revenge (I didn't just beat this guy up, I'm certain I removed teeth and probably cracked a rib or three), this guy wanted to relive the "glory days." He bought me a fresh Scotch, and I joined their table.

So here sat these three over-the-hill alcoholic good ol' boys, two very young looking girls, and a librarian from Ohio. The girls, visibly annoyed that their beaus had chosen to bring yet another guy to the table to trade war stories, got up and went to shoot some pool.

The trio were long removed from those "glory days." "Tom" (again, not using real names here) was far from the skinny white boy who used to brag about having sex with black girls behind the Winn-Dixie, the guy who talked such a good game about wanting to put me on a milk carton but never did shit, the scared kid behind an imaginary shield of gangsta rap and tricked-out used cars.

Instead of being pissed, Tom wanted to exaggerate and reimagine the whole fight into this Romanesque battle. Ignoring historical fact, Tom and his buddies simply invented a version that sounded more macho, more glamourous. Apparently, Tom and I had fought to a bloody draw, ending when both of us had loaded pistols at each other's temples.

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumbass, neither of whom could've been old enough to be at the party in question, were both supposed witnesses and echoed Tom's version. They embellished the tale into near epic proportions, claiming the fight had lasted an hour and was really over Tom's girl, 30 pounds of Chocolate Thai, and a few insults.

Wow. Sounds like one hell of a battle. Too bad it never happened.

Facing 3-to-1 odds, with no one to cover my back, and in a seedy redneck bar, I played along, enjoying my free Scotch, which turned into a free Tequila the next round.

By Round Three, the trio - long past sober - were slurring their words, exchanging threats of cartoon violence, and singing along to a Toby Keith song playing on the juke. One of the girls, "Tina," came back to the table and asked Tom to drive her home. Tom looked at her, cussed her out, and said he wasn't done drinking.

Looking for a polite exit, I offered to drive Tina home. Tina - Tom's girlfriend - had introduced herself as being 22. Tom had confided in me that his "old lady" was actually 17.

In most parts of the country, a drywall guy pushing 30 dating a 17-year-old probably comes across as creepy, immoral, or simply vile. In the rural South? Hell, I knew girls in middle school (ages 12-14) who were dating 22-year olds. Sure, it's probably not right. And I'm certain there's exploitation. But this sort of thing is silently accepted because, well, that's how rural folks have been hooking up for decades. Slim pickin's in the sticks...

Tina lived in her sister's mobile home, 20 minutes from the redneck bar. On the drive out, she told me about her career ambitions (she wanted to be a "sex goddess," i.e. porn actress... or the next Jessica Simpson), her relationship with Tom (he bought her stuff; in return, she let him "do" her any time he wanted), and her sister's quest for a husband without a criminal record.

She told me her sister, the other girl at the bar, was planning on hooking up with Tweedle Dumbass so she wouldn't be home. You know... I thought I was getting better at identifying big FRIGGING red flags...

She invited me inside her trailer for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. Unable to drink in the bar, she had no problem filling her cup with just as much bourbon as Maxwell House. Even though I kept trying to change the subject, she always found a way to bring the conversation back to sex.

It wasn't until she started talking about how she thought "bookworms" were sexy and that she'd first masterbated in a local library that I started getting uncomfortable. When she picked up my hand (under the guise of reading my palm) and started sucking on my finger, I knew I was in a very bad situation.

Instead of being a rational, logical adult and saying something like this is inappropriate and I think I'd better leave, I indicated my discomfort with the situation in a more blunt manner:

Chica, I'm not fucking a kid. Ain't happening.

Can't exactly describe the look on Tina's face. I don't think she'd been expecting that. But I knew too many girls like this when I was in high school here; girls who fucked anybody to escape their situation, to escape even momentarily. Plus, the idea of being possible ammunition for breaking things off with Tom - or to be a pawn in whatever angle she was working in their relationship - wasn't too appealing. And, of course, there's the fact that, well, I have no desire to fuck a kid.

Did I mention the fact that this kid has a kid of her own? Yup, Tina had a two-year-old she and her sister had left unattended in the house while they went out for the night. This adorable little girl was curled up on the couch, six feet away from where Teenaged Mommy was sucking the finger of a 27-year-old stranger.

Tina got pissed, called me a slew of nasty things, started to cry, and threw a fork at me. So I left.

I returned to my hometown for one reason - to take care of G'maw. I didn't come back to relive the "glory days," to wax nostalgic about some redneck version of Beowulf, or to become Roman fucking Polanski.

I've really gotten too old for this shit. Ten short years ago, I would've had no problem hooking up with that girl. I probably would've done it, drove back to the redneck dive, and told Tom about it, just to pick a fight. And I wouldn't have worried about a cherubic toddler sleeping on the couch, either, or age, or anything else.

I was, as I've said previously, the bad motherfucker from Nutbush Road when I called this part of Virginia home.

Thor was right; my way out of a jail cell and an early trip to the morgue was to head off to college, to make something of my life, to get the fuck out and flourish in a brave new world. I don't need somebody's baby-mama or drywall subcontractors or tall tales about violence to prove that fact. The fact that I still survive is proof enough, at least to me, that I'm still one of the baddest motherfuckers of them all.

Only Cowards Will Trade Freedom for Temporary Safety

Report: US Security Agency Has Information of Americans' Phone Calls
By VOA News
11 May 2006

"A U.S newspaper says the U.S. government has been secretly collecting the phone call records of millions of Americans from data gleaned from three major phone companies.

"USA Today reports that the National Security Agency is using the information from AT&T, Verizon and BellSouth to analyze calling patterns to detect terrorist activity. The report says NSA does not listen to or record the phone conversations..."

- READ THE REST HERE -

Three words...

Un-American.

Unconstitutional.

Unacceptable.

BLOWBACK MOUNTAIN:So... Has Anybody in the State Department Watched Black Hawk Down?

US Support of Factions Fuels Resentment in Somalia
By Alisha Ryu
Voice of America, May 9,2006

NAIROBI - In recent months, Mogadishu, Somalia, has become a deadly battleground between militias loyal to Islamic courts and a newly formed anti-terror coalition that is believed to have the support of the United States. The violence is renewing anti-American sentiment in the Somali capital.

Last Thursday, a reporter asked a spokesman for the State Department, Sean McCormack, if the United States was funding and supporting a coalition of Mogadishu-based factional leaders who recently formed a group called the Alliance for the Restoration of Peace and Counter-Terrorism. "

"We are working with individual members of the transitional government to try to create a better situation in Somalia," he answered. "Our other operating principle is to work with responsible individuals and certainly members of the transitional government in fighting terror..."

- READ THE REST HERE -

So...let me get this straight...

In Iraq, we're supposedly encouraging government officials to unify.

In Afghanistan, we're doing the same thing...

But Somalia?

Nah.

Let's try that ol' thing we did during the Cold War.

You know... the tactic we used to turn the Afghan Mujahideen into ... what did Reagan call them... oh, yes, "freedom fighters"... against the Soviet occupation.

According to legend, this one cat, some dude named Osama bin Laden, trained with those same U.S. supported Afghan "freedom fighters." The Taliban? Yup. They were freedom fighters too.

C'mon. Who doesn't love the 80s? I mean, who would've thought a group of religious zealots bent on setting civilization back a millennium would've turned on us?

Hmmm...

Yeah.

You know, in the intelligence community, the term blowback is often used to describe the unforeseen consequences of covert operations. Hope Condi and Co. took notes during the Carter and Reagan Administrations...

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TECHNORATI TAGS:
Somalia, State Department, Sub-Saharan Africa, Terrorism, United States

The ZenFo Pro Returns!

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Okay, just made the drive back from the airport in Dayton. I was supposed to be in late tonight, but I managed to sweet-talk my way into an earlier departure.

I ended up in Virginia for a little longer than I expected. My grandmother is doing wonderful - so wonderful, in fact, that she's been moved into an extended care facility quicker than expected (by about a week.) The legs are healing, the big ol' knot on her head is finally shrinking, and they've moved up her ankle and heel surgery to the end of May.

As of right now, G'maw is expected to make an at least 90% recovery. Given her age, that's astounding.

G'maw is, after all, one tough bird.

Thank you so much to everybody who left comments and kept my kinfolk in their thoughts. I choked up a bit reading them.

While the ZenFo Grandma began her own healing journey, I had some unfinished healing I needed to do, some emotional TLC I needed to get out of the way. Going back o the ol' hometown is always a bit of a traumatic experience for me - I think it tends to be that way for many folks who grew up in small, rural communities. Going back for a medical emergency didn't allow me the luxury of mentally and emotionally preparing myself for the often unwanted trips down Amnesia Lane.

For now, let me just say that Joseph Conrad ain't got shit on me when it comes to hearts of darkness.

I'll blog about it later. Right now, I need a shave. I need a nap (averaging 3 hours per night for the last 10 days, well, sucks ass). For now, I finished a lil' meme I borrowed from Cowgirl a few weeks ago. I meant to post it before I left; I've revised it a bit to account for the lost time in between.

---

1. What time did you get up this morning? 3:15 AM ET
2. Diamonds or pearls? Um. Neither.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Wow...that's a good question. No clue.
4. What is your favorite TV show? Most anything scifi-ish or on the History Channel.
5. What did you have for breakfast? A soft pretzel and some coffee at Richmond International Airport.
6. What is your middle name? Er...no comment. Begins with a W.
7. What is your favorite food? I'm a picky eater, so pretty much anything I eat.
8. What foods do you dislike? Well, can't eat beef. Not a fan of bread either.
9. What kind of potato chips do you like? Don't eat 'em. I am addicted, however, to Stacy's soy chips.
10. What is your favorite CD at the moment? Let's see... in the truck, I've got some Superwolf, Billy Bragg, the Queers, some Anthrax, Dillinger Four, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash's Live at Folsom Prison, and about a thousand mix CDs and compilations.
11. What kind of car do you drive? A 1998 Ford Ranger.
12. Favorite sandwich? Hmmm...drawing a blank on this one, too.
13. What characteristics do you despise? Generally, anything evil-esque. Brain's not really working today.
14. Favorite item of clothing? I had somebody in my hometown call me a Metrosexual Mennonite last week... I wear jeans and tee-shirts almost exclusively.
15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? I'm pretty open. Invite me somewhere. I'll see what I can do.
16. What color is your bathroom? A very ugly creme color.
17. What is your favorite brand of clothing? Don't have one.
18. Where would you want to retire? Northern Arizona or New Mexico. Maybe Montana.
19. Favorite time of day? Tie between sunrise and sunset.
20. Where were you born? Mesa, Ariz.
21. Favorite sport to watch? Baseball. Boxing.
22. Who do you least expect to answer this???? Who cares?
23. Person you expect to answer first? Ditto. lol
24. Coke or Pepsi? Don't drink soda.
25. Are you a morning person or night owl? Both. Seriously.
26. What size shoe do you wear? 9 1/2
27. Do you have any pets? Not currently. Cat in California at my folks' place.
28. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with everyone? Oh, it'll show up on the blog eventually ;)
29. What did you want to be when you were little? A diplomat.
30. Is the glass half empty or half full? Depends on what we're drinking.
31. What is your best childhood memory? Trading two dead groundhogs and a possum for three gallons of possibly the world's best white lightning (i.e. moonshine.) Yes, hillbillies will eat just about anything. But I'll put Earl's mash up against Dom Perignon any day.
32. What are the different jobs you have had in your life? Let's see... sportscaster, print journalist, publicist, information consultant, image consultant, library design consultant, framer for a homebuilder, carpenter, sales associate, deejay, plumbing supply sales rep, librarian, stonemason's apprentice, "guest" adult website editor, etc.
33. What color underwear are you wearing? Goin' commando today.
34. Nicknames: Lord, too many. Pooh Bear, J. Jay, Asshole, Motherfucker, etc...
35. Piercings? Currently, none. Past: About a dozen or so.
36. Eye color: Hazel.
37. Ever been to Africa? Working on it.
38. Ever been toilet papering? Hell yes.
39. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yes.
40. Been in a car accident? Yup.
41. Croutons or bacon bits? Both.
42. Favorite day of the week? Tomorrow.
43. Favorite flower? Wildflowers. Dogwood blossoms.
44. Favorite ice cream? Lactose intolerant. Avoid the stuff like the Plague.
45. Disney or Warner Brothers? Neither
46. Favorite fast food restaurant? Don't eat fast food.
47. What color is your bedroom carpet? Haven't seen the carpet in a while. Um...Denim and tee-shirt color?
48. Failed your drivers test? Nope.
49. From whom did you get your last e-mail from? Lord, I'm terrified to check my e-mail. Haven't checked it in about a week.
50. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? No clue.
51. What do you most often do when you are bored? Get into trouble. Blog.
52. Bedtime? 11 PM.
53. Who are you most curious about their responses to this questionnaire? Everyone.
54. Last person you went to dinner with? Dad.
55. Lake, Ocean or river? All of the Above.
56. How many tattoos do you have? Zero.
57. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The reptile.
58. How many people are you tagging with this? Open-surce tagging this sucker. Feel free to steal it.

Quick Update

FARMVILLE, Va. (ZP) - Hi all, dropping a quick line from the ol' ZenFo Pro hometown...

Grandma's doing much better and has gone through the first two rounds of reconstructive surgery to repair her legs. She'll be moved into a extended care facility later this afternoon.

She's in good spirits, things are going much, much better than expected, and I should be returning to the Blogosphere next week.

Hometown?

Still boring as hell.

---

Much thanks to the local university for allowing me use of their library to post an update.