Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | May 31, 2012

Shake your groove thang, shake your groove thang, yeah yeah

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I updated this blog. Hi again, old friend. I haven’t had any earth-shattering news to bother you with. I am just checking in now to post a video from Out of the Blue’s recent appearance at a benefit in Sharon Springs.

The event was organized to raise funds for the restoration of Red Barn Grill and Tavern in Summit, a mainstay for Schoharie County denizens. The business was damaged by fire in March. Keep in mind the video was shot with a cell phone from the back of a cavernous room. I still think it’s groovy, considering the co-owner of the Red Barn, John Bulka, joined me on stage for this number to play some harp. Thanks again, John!

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Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | April 19, 2012

Come see the show

The Recycled Art Show opens tomorrow night, Friday, April 20 with a reception from 7-9 p.m. The show runs through April 29. Come check it out. Pray I get my piece there intact tomorrow morning, or you may experience a giant whine emanating from me and heard throughout the county.

Check out the details on the show here.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | March 23, 2012

Electronics rehashed

My alarm clock died. In lieu of throwing it out (not practiced in these parts) I took it apart. Whew — that was a lot of teeny screws, all very hard to reach. I am working on ideas for the upcoming recycled art show, for which I have been experiencing a bad case of mental gas. Just for fun, I fashioned my old clock into a radio head. I have yet to attach it to anything, but I think I am going to explore making a whole man out of used electronics. I am lucky I thought ahead and saved a bunch of parts. Oh, that’s right, I save everything. When in doubt, don’t throw it out. As long as I keep it confined to one room, Jim’s OK with my hoarding.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | February 15, 2012

Heart-to-heart with J’Lyn

Let’s chew the fat for a moment on this supposed holiest of romantic holidays, St. Valentine’s Day. Although the holiday was axed from the Pope’s official calendar way before I made my entrance on this planet and I read — courtesy of Wikipedia mind you, with no ‘heavy’ research being claimed on my part — the holiday’s link to romantic love versus the honoring of a saint, debuted back in the day when fiefs were traded for wives. In this, my 34th year of life — I realized Feb. 14 is still a way bigger deal than I thought.

I am an outsider. I will never understand flowers as a romantic gesture, merely because lifelong allergies to all things pollen force me to equate salvia and snap dragons with sneezing, sniffling and Sudafed. I made paper pinwheels in lieu of flower arrangements for my wedding — of which I am sure you’re aware if you are close enough to be tuned into this blog. I wasn’t going to put a damper on the festivities with fits of achoo. A girl in a pretty dress with itchy, red eyes doesn’t look so good in those pictures you are supposed to cherish till the end of time, no matter how handsome the groom. What else says Cupid? Don’t forget the chocolates. While good in moderation, chocolate goes straight to my head, in the form of migraine.

Bringing us back to the reason for this post, I’d like to recount my day to you. To help out a friend, I spent Valentine’s Day 2012 driving all over God’s creation delivering flowers. Achoo. Tripling my antihistamine dosage for the day allowed me eight hours of “tolerable” car time with my least-favorite passengers, a prearranged plethora of petals and pollen — no doubt for puffed up profits on the part of the petal pusher.

I refuse to apologize for the perfect ‘p’ percussion present in the previous passage.

I learned, or rather reinforced my fear. I am an apparent anomaly compared to adults of my gender. Women love flowers and lots of them. When the flowers are accompanied by a toy bear or Mylar balloon, women go gaga. Add chocolate, look out. I feel left out. There is something wrong with me. My excitement on this show of societal sentiment has always stemmed on what I can make out of the box the candy came in and in looking up the genus and species of the plants the roses were paired with. Go ahead and say it. Dork. Freak.

I don’t mean to pooh-pooh passion. When the day’s delivery duties dwindled I returned home and took the time to produce a self-portrait in pen on Post-it, paired with two petrified conversation hearts — found in a drawer and at least a decade old — professing to my partner, “ur mine” and reminding him he’s “my boy.” My note to Jim included my own “I love you” and “please don’t eat these.” I am happy he doesn’t need Feb. 14 to affirm the prior.

Pleased to be home after spending the bulk of the day on the road , I promptly proceeded to the potty. Noting the irony of the heart-shaped pattern adorning our double-ply paper, I couldn’t help but smile, giggle, wipe and flush.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | February 7, 2012

Time to get recyling again

It is time for me to start thinking about this year’s submission to the Recycled Art Show. The event is put on by Hudson Crossing Park in conjunction with the Saratoga National Historic Park. I just got my invite today, along with a link to the updated website. I was flattered to be included in the video from last year’s event. Fun! Check it out.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | February 3, 2012

Alley oops

Mingling with wads of old chewing gum down a gradient filled with gutter songs, I amble down a long alley.

My whistle echoes off beer-stained bricks and I hop between sun spots that highlight polluted pavement.

Pink Floyd pumps out of a pint-sized pub and the Budweiser beckons.

Bye-bye, afternoon.

I have succumbed to the deluge of day planner denial.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | January 30, 2012

On memoirs

What’s in a memoir? I’d define a memoir as an inside look of steps taken and lessons learned from a long life lived, or an epiphany gleaned from one poignant moment — a recounting of love, loss and achievement — a life of memories condensed within the confines of two hard covers and placed on a shelf with other well-worn titles. It’s something the reader initially selected in order to learn something about someone he admires — a writer, artist, political leader or athlete.

Is a teenager capable of writing a memoir? Would I buy it? Could I conceivably learn something from a prepubescent account of life?

It’s becoming commonplace for young stars to release memoirs. They are infants in life, yet they have experienced more “worthy” moments than the average 80-year-old as they race into the media-driven limelight of today’s culture. They have been “discovered,” become household names before the drama of a first romance or menstrual cycle.

I have been out of the loop in the pop culture arena, but I was just made aware of Justin Bieber’s memoir. Don’t ask me how this came up.

The Canadian pop singing sensation who is driving recent tween mania has released “First Step 2 Forever,” documenting his rise to stardom. He was born in 1994. At 16 he began compiling all the memories of his life for publication — 16. Humans don’t even have the ability to remember things prior to age 3 as far as I know. I am lucky to remember what I ate yesterday for breakfast. Perhaps Bieber’s mind is a documented scientific marvel. Is he a savant able to share perspective from days spent in the crib and how those moments forged a foundation for stepping onto the stage?

I’m interested, but not enough to fork out the dough for my own copy. If your interest has been piqued more than my own, I ask that you fill me in on all the hype.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | December 31, 2011

A poem for 2012

A jack of all trades, master of none, I have never claimed to be a poet. Today however, I was randomly inspired to write this catchy little rhyme. You can thank me for not setting it to music and singing it to you via a poor-quality video on Youtube. Enjoy. Or not. I only ask you to keep negative comments to yourself. I am trying to be positive here.

Happy new year, friends and foes. Which are you? Your conscience knows. Of friends, I’m blessed with many. Of foes, I’m blessed with few. Good times are never one-sided; We’ve all shared a slew.

With this new year, let’s look ahead. Think not of the past, good times or bad. I wipe the slate clean, invite a new start. Those in column B, you’re still in my heart.

Come for a visit, just knock on the door. Mi casa es su casa, a toast I will pour. A song, I will sing. A jig, I will dance — like the late great James Brown, with ants in my pants.

I have good feelings, 2012. The dregs of last year, I joyously shelve. Look out, new year, you’re mine for the taking. 2012’s a year in the making.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | December 4, 2011

East Coast traveler

I am back from a four-day jaunt to Philly. I haven’t been there in at least 10 years and much has changed. Perhaps it’s my perspective on things that made this trip a wholly different experience than the last. Jim had a training conference and I tagged along to see the sights.

I will post more about the experience later after shaking off the weariness from being on the road. I last visited Philadelphia in the summer months and this time the holiday season enveloped me. Below is one of my favorite picts from the trip. I took it outside our hotel looking up at a small tree decorated for the season. More to come.

Posted by: inthewordsofwimple | November 19, 2011

Go granny, go granny, go granny go

I can only aspire to be this hip at 91 (if I make it that far). I offer this with the aim of taking your mind off whatever ails you.

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