Mistaken for Gold

          Mistaken for Gold

Blogging down the avenue, I skip merrily along, careful to keep an eye on the rear-view mirror so as to avoid both po-po, and tripping. I would write about the frustration of dealing with the heartless, brainless, curmudgeon currently in the White House, but it limits my audience. That doesn’t bother me but me throat is parched from preaching to the choir, and it’s a tad early for Jameson.

In yesterday morning’s blurg (That’s a blurb on a blog) I rambled on about the early years on “Mark’s Work,” presenting a linear approach to heretofore, mostly uncharted waters. Today, rather than pursue that same course, I thought I would just bounce around a bit, even more than “normal,” and zero in on a few series of particular note-to me, if not to anyone else. 

I like it best when I feel a connection with a potential audience, which is another reason to avoid politics. In no series have I felt that connection stronger than in the two which centered on my participation in Reggae on the River.

The first of these two series commenced on August 4th, 2015 with http://markyswrite.blogspot.com/2015/08/rasta-road.html, a scintillating account of my pre-festival expectations. In summing up the inaugural post, I had concluded that ROTR was not the bong rip of choice for me, and that not even my idol, Stephen Marley, could entice me to brave the elements.

Quality Control Technician Conner, just
doing his job-checking quality of ice cream.

Twenty posts later, on August 24th, I concluded the series with “Yikes!” the sordid saga of getting busted by the snarling warden at the Eel River Conservation Camp. We had delivered a mountain of leftover food and beverages to the facility, and I was idly snapping a few photos, when the aforementioned wild boar warden charged me.

“Take this man out and have him shot,” he ordered his lackey. Upon being informed that he could not, in fact, have me shot, the warden proceeded to ream me a new anus aperture, or so he thought. I lost track after he began his rant, distracted by his polka-dotted underwear, and when he was through I both saluted him and tried to high-five him, whereupon he gave up and strode nonchalantly away.

2015 began auspiciously enough on my blog, with the reposting of my series on the little school we had up here on the mountain, back in the eighties. After posting the series at an earlier point of time, I yanked it down from the marquee, when the daughter of the central character objected.

I changed all the names and put it back on my blog where it rightfully belongs.

52 of my 74 blog pieces in 2015 were either of ROTR or the series on Wellsprings Educational Collective. Otherwise, it was 1 post (February), 1 (March), 1 (April), 2 (May), 4 (June), 2 (July), 5 (September), and 6 in October-before the crash.

It was these guys.

Technology reared its ugly head, stole my blog away and I marked time for six full months, treading water, awaiting rescue. Not until I hooked up with regional tech guru, Joe, complete with white horse and shining armor, somewhat out-of-place on the ocean, was I able to reclaim my blog from Somali pirates, whose dyslexic leader had mistaken it for “gold.” 

179 posts later, I fumed into 2017 on the political juggernaut, going into a bipolar rage on-line, alienating myself from the three remaining people who still followed me. Fortunately, a second knight (knightess?) in shimmering armor bailed me out with one key word: trigger, and I ran out of ammunition. Thanks, Alana.

From February of this year onward, I have returned to the style which works so well for me: free-falling. I can only do that if I am up there in the stratosphere to start with, something I will never deny, simply because the evidence speaks for itself. When I try to speak for myself, I always step on my- [Editor's note: You wish...]

Whatever. 

One thousand and one posts, so far. 

Not sure whether I’m looking for a medal or a chest to pin it on, but here comes number 1,002. As long as I avoid Somali pirates, I hope to post another 998 pieces of prattling, over the next five years, anyway.

“Mark’s Work”: That’s some bad-ass gold, said every dyslexic Somali pirate, ever.