Hello Gregg Dunnett with two ggs (not to mention two nns, and two tts),
Hi Maureen, I do apologise for laughing at your misfortune, but you have cheered me up with this. And I particularly know what you mean about spearing your knickers, that is exactly what you have to do isn't it? Aim carefully and then go for it before your body notices what you're up to. Something so humiliating about having to put on underwear that way! And for some reason my mind fills glumly with images of young people modelling their Calvin Kleins without a care in the world.
I do hope you're better now, or at least getting better, and what do you write? (if you don't mind me asking)
And do you really have an actual letter from the actual Douglas Adams? He's always been something of a hero of mine (though I've just realised I know very little about him, and looked him up on wikipedia. Poor man, dead at 49. But then again, a famous procrastinator, and achieved so much. There's hope for the rest of us.
thanks for the message, and hope you get better quickly.
Gregg
Dear Gregg,
Yes, I have an actual typed letter, old school, onionskin, cloth inked typespool, from the actual Douglas Adams, himself. After reading HHGttG, I couldn’t contain myself. Tea towels, and all that.
If I have cheered you up, then, I have succeeded. That, is, if it no longer hurts to laugh.
Ah, procrastination, alas, I know it well. I am an artist who jumped ship to become a poet, but occasionally delve into the prose realm—because it’s there. And, no, I have no burning desire to write fiction, my life is whacky enough as it is.
About the closest I get to publication these days is my blog, a strange free-for-all that began when I lost my hard-copy poetry manuscript—only to find my back-up electronic files had aged poorly, with vast chunks of text missing. And I began to archive my work in blog format, thanks to an afternoon spent chatting with blogging evangelical, Guy Kawasaki, at a Mac Expo. Other bits and dross crept in over the years. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, some self-deprecating funny bits too. I learned the funny bits from one of the best—college classmate Robin Williams. And so it goes. Should you have a pseudo-masochistic urge, said blog can be found at Literrata.
To add to the torture (or is it stalking), I put in a friend request on Facebook. Just so you know….
Whoosh! there it goes (again),
Mo
PS Perhaps this is relevant…. stoned off my ass for the duration
I got some CBD oil, can't tell if it's doing anything, is the salve worth it?
And Robin Williams as well as Douglas Adams, come on, that's just showing off!
(Lol)
Yes, Gregg, well, sorry. Charmed life, and all that. You know those Facebook memes that ask you to list five celebrities, well, my celeb list goes on and on….living in Marin County, just north of San Francisco—but they were mostly musicians.
See, our school buses were taken away in an effort to save money, and we lived in a poor rural area far from town so I hitchhiked to school. In those days, it was easy to thumb a lift. Everyone stopped. Youngbloods, Sons of Champlin (dope connection), Carlos Santana(cool car), Jefferson Starship/Airplane, Grateful Dead [boarded a horse for Micky’s girlfriend), Big Brother and the Holding Company—but Janis NEVER stopped to give me a lift. Nor did Grace Slick. If only I had used my camera then. But photography was far too expensive.
Wildest ride was Ken Keysey, himself, at the wheel of Further. We later corresponded—all this before I became a writer. So I didn’t know how significant it all was. And I was pretty immune to it all. My mother was a small-time actress, so a few famous actors were part and parcel of my childhood. Sterling Hayden, the Smothers Brothers were my oddest babysitters. I adored Lloyd Bridges. Mr. Sea Hunt. I was six. I’ll spare you the story where Beau wouldn’t let Jeff play with me. I cried. But I am a huge snorkeling fan to this day. All those salt tears.
I was wild about Robin, though. I ran into him later after a concert. I worked for Mimi Fariña, (Joan Baez’s sister), of Bread & Roses, and he introduced me to this guy with the most amazing Siamese cateyes—Eric Idle. OK, then, I was gobsmacked. I never laughed so hard in my life and I can’t remember a thing. We promised to keep in touch, famous last words.
I’ve also met a few famous folks while behind the camera as well when I worked for a small alternative newspaper—the editor discovered that I could also write, which was news to me. But I was a poet, so I documented lots and lots of poets. I’ve been scanning my poet archives—and to my surprise, I stumbled across some photos of Robin, and musicians from Bread & Roses events. Clueless, I had to ask people who they were. Emmylou Harris? Oh, my. Negatives are in terrible shape, probably why I never printed anything. But with the wonders of digital cloning I was able to eke out a few jpgs.
Also not sure if the CBD salve actually worked, but I like to think me arse was stoned for the duration. All I know was that it was even better than the placebo! Sorry, that’s an in-joke with an old billboard spotted in Mexico City. Alas, no photo of that either.
Mo
I read with vague interest when you told us your back went out, and I thought to myself thank God that will never happen to me, and then it happened to another friend, who told horror stories. I repeated the phrase, thank God, it will never happen to me. Well, you know how the law of threes works. Not to mention God. And then a friend abruptly knocked on my door while I was nose-deep in the process of writing, so I leapt out of the bed like a startled cat, and bingo! I tore out my lower back at the beginning of August.
Meanwhile, I was hoping we wouldn't have to evacuate again as Northern California was burning down all around me. So, I was making mental lists, what to save as I really couldn’t carry anything.
I know all about not being able to bend down to tie your own shoe, let alone, wipe yer own arse. I gave up on shoes. Getting out of bed required strategically placed bungie cords and abdominal crunches. Rolling over required an engineering degree. Sneezing, coughing and laughing required advance planning. Getting dressed, spearing my knickers and pants with a pointy toe required intense negotiation, and dexterity with my wrong foot (who knew we favored one leg over the other while getting dressed?), then a whacky hula-hoop belly dance gesture to get my pants from the floor to thigh level so I could grab them with my hands as lateral bending, or any torso bending, was out of the question.
I became adept at bending the knee, and doing the odd lunge as if I were auditioning for a fencing tournament or taking up ballet. And once, I accidentally sat down on the floor, with no game plan, or exit strategy as to get back up off the floor. So I wallowed like a warthog until I found the right fulcrum. And no one was around to help me up, either. Sitting in a chair was impossible and driving a stickshift car is still a form of medieval torture.
All in all, it was a humbling experience. It took a full month of mollycoddling before I was able to do the most ordinary of things. And though I have never met you, you were certainly on my mind. So, I am glad to hear that your back is healing. Mine still gives me some grief. But at least I can sneeze without pain.
As for Amazon, remember what Douglas Adams said, "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." And yes, I did write a zany letter to him, and yes, he wrote an equally zany letter right back. This was in the days of snail mail. Not like the whooshing sound of emails zooming across continents and oceans and time zones in a matter of seconds.
Cheers,
Maureen
I know all about not being able to bend down to tie your own shoe, let alone, wipe yer own arse. I gave up on shoes. Getting out of bed required strategically placed bungie cords and abdominal crunches. Rolling over required an engineering degree. Sneezing, coughing and laughing required advance planning. Getting dressed, spearing my knickers and pants with a pointy toe required intense negotiation, and dexterity with my wrong foot (who knew we favored one leg over the other while getting dressed?), then a whacky hula-hoop belly dance gesture to get my pants from the floor to thigh level so I could grab them with my hands as lateral bending, or any torso bending, was out of the question.
I became adept at bending the knee, and doing the odd lunge as if I were auditioning for a fencing tournament or taking up ballet. And once, I accidentally sat down on the floor, with no game plan, or exit strategy as to get back up off the floor. So I wallowed like a warthog until I found the right fulcrum. And no one was around to help me up, either. Sitting in a chair was impossible and driving a stickshift car is still a form of medieval torture.
All in all, it was a humbling experience. It took a full month of mollycoddling before I was able to do the most ordinary of things. And though I have never met you, you were certainly on my mind. So, I am glad to hear that your back is healing. Mine still gives me some grief. But at least I can sneeze without pain.
As for Amazon, remember what Douglas Adams said, "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." And yes, I did write a zany letter to him, and yes, he wrote an equally zany letter right back. This was in the days of snail mail. Not like the whooshing sound of emails zooming across continents and oceans and time zones in a matter of seconds.
Cheers,
Maureen
Hi Maureen, I do apologise for laughing at your misfortune, but you have cheered me up with this. And I particularly know what you mean about spearing your knickers, that is exactly what you have to do isn't it? Aim carefully and then go for it before your body notices what you're up to. Something so humiliating about having to put on underwear that way! And for some reason my mind fills glumly with images of young people modelling their Calvin Kleins without a care in the world.
I do hope you're better now, or at least getting better, and what do you write? (if you don't mind me asking)
And do you really have an actual letter from the actual Douglas Adams? He's always been something of a hero of mine (though I've just realised I know very little about him, and looked him up on wikipedia. Poor man, dead at 49. But then again, a famous procrastinator, and achieved so much. There's hope for the rest of us.
thanks for the message, and hope you get better quickly.
Gregg
Dear Gregg,
Yes, I have an actual typed letter, old school, onionskin, cloth inked typespool, from the actual Douglas Adams, himself. After reading HHGttG, I couldn’t contain myself. Tea towels, and all that.
If I have cheered you up, then, I have succeeded. That, is, if it no longer hurts to laugh.
Ah, procrastination, alas, I know it well. I am an artist who jumped ship to become a poet, but occasionally delve into the prose realm—because it’s there. And, no, I have no burning desire to write fiction, my life is whacky enough as it is.
About the closest I get to publication these days is my blog, a strange free-for-all that began when I lost my hard-copy poetry manuscript—only to find my back-up electronic files had aged poorly, with vast chunks of text missing. And I began to archive my work in blog format, thanks to an afternoon spent chatting with blogging evangelical, Guy Kawasaki, at a Mac Expo. Other bits and dross crept in over the years. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, some self-deprecating funny bits too. I learned the funny bits from one of the best—college classmate Robin Williams. And so it goes. Should you have a pseudo-masochistic urge, said blog can be found at Literrata.
To add to the torture (or is it stalking), I put in a friend request on Facebook. Just so you know….
Whoosh! there it goes (again),
Mo
PS Perhaps this is relevant…. stoned off my ass for the duration
Hi Mo, sorry for the slow reply, have been in a rare few days of non-procrastination (don't worry, I'm better now). And yes, I've realised I was lucky in one sense, because I only had a short time when going to the toilet was actually so difficult and painful I couldn't find a position that allowed it to happen, so to speak. But I was there for a bit, so I know what you mean...
I got some CBD oil, can't tell if it's doing anything, is the salve worth it?
And Robin Williams as well as Douglas Adams, come on, that's just showing off!
(Lol)
Yes, Gregg, well, sorry. Charmed life, and all that. You know those Facebook memes that ask you to list five celebrities, well, my celeb list goes on and on….living in Marin County, just north of San Francisco—but they were mostly musicians.
See, our school buses were taken away in an effort to save money, and we lived in a poor rural area far from town so I hitchhiked to school. In those days, it was easy to thumb a lift. Everyone stopped. Youngbloods, Sons of Champlin (dope connection), Carlos Santana(cool car), Jefferson Starship/Airplane, Grateful Dead [boarded a horse for Micky’s girlfriend), Big Brother and the Holding Company—but Janis NEVER stopped to give me a lift. Nor did Grace Slick. If only I had used my camera then. But photography was far too expensive.
Wildest ride was Ken Keysey, himself, at the wheel of Further. We later corresponded—all this before I became a writer. So I didn’t know how significant it all was. And I was pretty immune to it all. My mother was a small-time actress, so a few famous actors were part and parcel of my childhood. Sterling Hayden, the Smothers Brothers were my oddest babysitters. I adored Lloyd Bridges. Mr. Sea Hunt. I was six. I’ll spare you the story where Beau wouldn’t let Jeff play with me. I cried. But I am a huge snorkeling fan to this day. All those salt tears.
I was wild about Robin, though. I ran into him later after a concert. I worked for Mimi Fariña, (Joan Baez’s sister), of Bread & Roses, and he introduced me to this guy with the most amazing Siamese cateyes—Eric Idle. OK, then, I was gobsmacked. I never laughed so hard in my life and I can’t remember a thing. We promised to keep in touch, famous last words.
I’ve also met a few famous folks while behind the camera as well when I worked for a small alternative newspaper—the editor discovered that I could also write, which was news to me. But I was a poet, so I documented lots and lots of poets. I’ve been scanning my poet archives—and to my surprise, I stumbled across some photos of Robin, and musicians from Bread & Roses events. Clueless, I had to ask people who they were. Emmylou Harris? Oh, my. Negatives are in terrible shape, probably why I never printed anything. But with the wonders of digital cloning I was able to eke out a few jpgs.
Also not sure if the CBD salve actually worked, but I like to think me arse was stoned for the duration. All I know was that it was even better than the placebo! Sorry, that’s an in-joke with an old billboard spotted in Mexico City. Alas, no photo of that either.
Mo
- The cultivated history of daffodils as we know it I didn't save the email letters.
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