Thanks for being my friend along my Avon path. You can find me - and my stories - at La Pajaro ! Did you arrive late for the party? Wonder what Birdie's up to these days? Check out my latest stories: 36 Days Past Solstice A Grumpy Pregnant Woman Meets Kilgore Trout A Mom Called Paladin All We Want Best Friends Birdie's Avon Adventures Blood Money Descansos Extrasolar Hijack the Media On Poetry Personal Stories Run, Frankie, Run!! Star Trek Stories Tappin' to the Oldies The Stroke of My Boy's Midnight Year of Yes impotence aids n Avon Lady Says GOODBYE, AVON! See you at La Pajaro !

Thanks for being my friend along my Avon path. You can find me - and my stories - at La Pajaro ! Did you arrive late for the party? Wonder what Birdie's up to these days? Check out my latest stories: 36 Days Past Solstice A Grumpy Pregnant Woman Meets Kilgore Trout A Mom Called Paladin All We check emails ant Best Friends Birdie's Avon Adventures Blood Money Descansos Extrasolar Hijack the Media On Poetry Personal Stories Run, Frankie, Run!! Star Trek Stories Tappin' to the Oldies The Stroke of My Boy's Midnight Year of Yes An Avon Lady Says GOODBYE, AVON! See you at La Pajaro !

And the booger problem appears to be solved. I go down to the Bay most mornings to see what's up. Last week, early on the morning of that very full moon, it was NOT the tide. Even at low tide, Coffee Pot Bayou is a lovely place to sit and reflect, stretch, read or hum to oneself. Assuming the Manatee Shrieker is not there. That's what we call this woman who hangs over the edge of the seawall talking baby talk to the manatees. Non-stop, high pitched gibberish. She suffers under the illusion that they are coming to see her when in fact, they are coming to the fresh water drain off that empties into the bayou right at that spot. When they slurp against the wall she says nonsense like, "I wub you too! You my little pretty girl! A kiss for me! Oh, tank you, you widdle wovey thing." One morning she was busy pointing out to some tourists (I'm not one of those, thank you very much) that the "mommy was hugging her babies" when I was pretty sure it was a bull trying to mess around with the ladies at the wall. But what do I know? The other day I came within a short swift kick of accidentally knocking her in; Rich restrained me in the nick of time. He said, "She's benign." He's so much nicer than I am. She needs a Bichon Bleu de Gascogne or something. So, provided she's not there, I enjoy that time in the early morning. The small green heron is always there. I put him up mortgage lead lists s my sidebar picture while I'm here in Florida.

And the booger problem appears to be solved. I go down to the Bay most mornings manhunt hook up o see what's up. Last week, early on the morning of that very full moon, it was NOT the tide. Even at low tide, Coffee Pot Bayou is a lovely place to sit and reflect, stretch, read or hum to oneself. Assuming the Manatee Shrieker is not there. That's what we call this woman who hangs over the edge of the seawall talking baby talk to the manatees. Non-stop, high pitched gibberish. She suffers under the illusion that they are coming to see her when in fact, they are coming to the fresh water drain off that empties into the bayou right at that spot. When they slurp against the wall she says nonsense like, "I wub you too! You my little pretty girl! A kiss for me! Oh, tank you, you widdle wovey thing." One morning she was busy pointing out to some tourists (I'm not one of those, thank you very much) that the "mommy was hugging her babies" when I was pretty sure it was a bull trying to mess around with the ladies at the wall. But what do I know? The other day I came within a short swift kick of accidentally knocking her in; Rich restrained me in the nick of time. He said, "She's benign." He's so much nicer than I am. She needs a Bichon Bleu de Gascogne or something. So, provided she's not there, I enjoy that time in the early morning. The small green heron is always there. I put him up as my sidebar picture while I'm here in Florida.

And the booger problem appears to be solved. I go down to the Bay most mornings to see what's up. Last week, early on the morning of that very full moon, it was NOT the tide. Even at low tide, Coffee Pot Bayou is a lovely place to sit and reflect, stretch, read or hum to oneself. Assuming the Manatee Shrieker is not there. That's what we call this woman who hangs over the edge of the seawall talking baby talk to the manatees. Non-stop, high pitched gibberish. She suffers under the illusion that they are coming to see her when in fact, they are coming to the fresh water drain off that empties into the bayou right at that spot. When they slurp against the wall she says nonsense like, "I wub you too! You my little pretty girl! A kiss for me! Oh, tank you, you widdle wovey thing." One morning she was busy pointing out to some tourists cosmetic surgery direct mail I'm not one of those, thank you very much) that the "mommy was hugging her babies" when I was pretty sure it was a bull trying to mess around with the ladies at the wall. But what do I know? The other day I came within a short swift kick of accidentally knocking her in; Rich restrained me in the nick of time. He said, "She's benign." He's so much nicer than I am. She needs a Bichon Bleu de Gascogne or something. So, provided she's not there, I enjoy that time in the early morning. The small green heron is always there. I put him up as my sidebar picture while I'm here in Florida.

Geranium Pepper by Fresh, like the flower that gives it a big blowsy kick of nothing special, is sunny, cute, dumb. Like a Golden register name etriever, it really, really wants to be your friend, whether you're a writer not interested enough to go on about the neither here nor there of it, or a poet who exactly nails how the flower (and this scent) are good for nothing other than being better than nothing. The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine-- Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!-- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-- And that was scary-- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely. --Theodore Roethke