I’m sure this photo belongs somewhere next to some kind of inspirational something.

Otherwise, I’ve been toting the camera around, especially highlighting shit in bloom. If you are bored and artsy, you can go here and check out what I have wrought.

If you do, I should explain the pic below. I walk or drive by the Holy Cross of the dead folks cemetery every day on the way to work. It is the single most decorated in a floral jamboree of any graveyard I have ever passed. Like a ton of graves abloom every day.

I asked a local born Catholic, but she hadn’t noticed and, I don’t think, knows a lot of dead people. The mystery of the oft visited graves.

I must confess. I must bare my soul and admit my far too human shortcomings.

There are weblogs I read solely because I think the writer is a big old loser. I don’t entirely know why I do it, but I suspect its too feel better about myself.

Somewhere the sad calculus computes something like this — Wow, I can’t believe she (invariably a woman) wrote about her boring day that ended in catching up on television re-runs while eating a Lean Cuisine dinner, because she’s concerned about her backfat. Oh, and she’s wondering why she has no boyfriend, but just wrote eight paragraphs on the cuteness of her kitten and how great it is to have something warm and breathing nearby that will listen. It’s a cat.

Or it’s the twenty paragraphs parsing the meaning of “his” email and whether it meant what she thought it did or was he being passive aggressive and how many of her friends could she call to see what they said it meant, if only she wasn’t nervous about showing them, because it could get back to “him.” Um, yeah, good neuroses to slap up in a public place.

Anyway, I’m not like her. Ergo, I am not a loser.

Judge for yourself, but yes, yes I am.