I will learn to use the tools I have.
When I find them.
It's not like they're lost, it's like
they're very, very secure.
Blood Father (2015)
10 years ago
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sore Gift
I have a gift for placing a thing
in such a perfect place, that no one
can ever find it.
Sore kind of gift to have, really.
in such a perfect place, that no one
can ever find it.
Sore kind of gift to have, really.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
84 and Rockin' It
Introducing, Angie Masullo Girtell
We are creating a book, a Blog, a Website: "A Couple in the Kitchen" launching soon.
Here's a taste: Beef Chuck with Rigatoni. Roasted Red Peppers from tonight at http://twitpic.com/5ljao
We are creating a book, a Blog, a Website: "A Couple in the Kitchen" launching soon.
Here's a taste: Beef Chuck with Rigatoni. Roasted Red Peppers from tonight at http://twitpic.com/5ljao
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Homer and Marge
Homer
"My wife is not a doobie to be passed around!" ~ Homer Simpson
Marge
"My wife is not a doobie to be passed around!" ~ Homer Simpson
Marge
"I don't hate you for failing, I love you for trying." ~ Marge Simpson
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Spring 2009
For three days now, the rain rinses fine
yellow dust from yawning jasmine and oleander.
It bends early irises, creates a nervous first
dance between the freesia and arugula, draws
a syncopated song from roof and chimney.
Soon, we will open the house windows and doors,
read books on lazy swings, sip the scent of gardenia,
fill the house with magnolia and white sage.
But for now, we stand at the window,
and watch the wash of winter.
yellow dust from yawning jasmine and oleander.
It bends early irises, creates a nervous first
dance between the freesia and arugula, draws
a syncopated song from roof and chimney.
Soon, we will open the house windows and doors,
read books on lazy swings, sip the scent of gardenia,
fill the house with magnolia and white sage.
But for now, we stand at the window,
and watch the wash of winter.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Mad Ramblings Because it's Spring
If you stare at me with a crazy eye, and tell me what to do, rest assured I will invite my friends, and for fun do the opposite to you.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Poem for My Husband 12
He mumbles. In his sleep, in waking, pacing
to the kitchen and back, he looks for
eyeglasses, the newspaper, a blue-handled
hammer his father gave him, a shoe.
He calculates always, the curse of genius.
He does the math, and while it adds up,
it never works out for humanity
in the end.
Still, he gets in his truck and leaves, to mow this one's
lawn, trim that one's trees. Cries with a man
whose wife is gone, listens to a long-tale teller
ramble on. And at home, and at night, he mumbles
these love songs to me.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Money Changes Everything
If I had a time machine, I'd travel back in history, find the first person who said, "Ok, put it in writing," and kick his sorry butt. Next, I'd travel back one minute, find the guy he was talking to who said "I'll pay ya' tomorrow," and kick his sorry butt too.
Then I'd come back to the present, sit on my back porch, and paint the flowers in peace.
Bad artists copy. Good artists steal.
.
The Picasso School of Art Promotion: Sell first, explain later
The Picasso School of Art Promotion: Sell first, explain later
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Micommunication Chronicles Part 3
Dearest Husband, it was not the washing of golf balls I found curious. It was the use of the dishwasher to do it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Why is PiMPY3WASH so Darn Pimpy?
I’m fascinated by a washing machine named PiMPY3WASH. As you may have read, the washing machine belongs to Ryan J. Rose, has its own Twitter account, and is programmed to send Ryan a message when it completes a load of wash.
That was fascinating to start with, but what draws my attention now, as of 02/12/09 at 4:30 PM EST, is that PiMPY3WASH has exactly 499 followers, 415 more followers than its creator.
Granted, some of these followers may be Bots, but I’ve looked, and I think the vast majority are us non-bot types.
From casual observation of Mr. Rose, I can see that he’s brainy, funny, and quite clean. He certainly does laundry more than I do.
Why then, does an inanimate object that sends out no message other than “A load of laundry finished washing at: Sat Feb 7 00:48:51 2009” garner more attention than the man behind the machine?
I asked Ryan what he thought about the why of it; his response?
“That’s a difficult question many people have pondered. If you figure out something good, let me know ;-)”
I think it possibly has something to do with being “in” on something, but it’s the what “it” is that I can’t figure out.
Or maybe, folks are waiting to see if one day, PiMPY3WASH suddenly (and possibly of its own volition), will follow them back. Asimovians everywhere wait with bated breath.
Or maybe, just maybe, they’re hoping that PiMPY3WASH will teach them how to make millions through never before tried Internet Marketing “programs".
For me, I follow Mr. Rose @ryanjrose. I can’t wait to see what he does in the future. Other than another load of wash I mean.
If you're one of the followers, leave a comment and let me know why. I'm genuinely interested, and so too it would seem, is Ryan.
Reference articles:
The L.A. Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2009/01/twitter-washing.html and also numerous other blogs and websites.
See it in action: http://www.youtube.com/ryanjrose
That was fascinating to start with, but what draws my attention now, as of 02/12/09 at 4:30 PM EST, is that PiMPY3WASH has exactly 499 followers, 415 more followers than its creator.
Granted, some of these followers may be Bots, but I’ve looked, and I think the vast majority are us non-bot types.
From casual observation of Mr. Rose, I can see that he’s brainy, funny, and quite clean. He certainly does laundry more than I do.
Why then, does an inanimate object that sends out no message other than “A load of laundry finished washing at: Sat Feb 7 00:48:51 2009” garner more attention than the man behind the machine?
I asked Ryan what he thought about the why of it; his response?
“That’s a difficult question many people have pondered. If you figure out something good, let me know ;-)”
I think it possibly has something to do with being “in” on something, but it’s the what “it” is that I can’t figure out.
Or maybe, folks are waiting to see if one day, PiMPY3WASH suddenly (and possibly of its own volition), will follow them back. Asimovians everywhere wait with bated breath.
Or maybe, just maybe, they’re hoping that PiMPY3WASH will teach them how to make millions through never before tried Internet Marketing
For me, I follow Mr. Rose @ryanjrose. I can’t wait to see what he does in the future. Other than another load of wash I mean.
If you're one of the followers, leave a comment and let me know why. I'm genuinely interested, and so too it would seem, is Ryan.
Reference articles:
The L.A. Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2009/01/twitter-washing.html and also numerous other blogs and websites.
See it in action: http://www.youtube.com/ryanjrose
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Five Days in Arkansas, For Nick Masullo, 1952 - 2008
1.
The pilot urges us to look out
of the right-side windows of the plane,
asking with a smile in his voice if we have ever seen
a bald eagle in flight.
There it is, winging next to the Airjet as we ascend.
2.
When I was five-years old and my brother eleven, he taught me to play chess. This as a distraction after his failed attempt to enter me in the Little Miss America Pageant.
The family joked that his eyesight was always poor.
I liked that he believed I could pull off a crown.
“Each piece, from Pawn to King, has its place and its own characteristics of movement. Remember that: in this and in life there is order, and the Queen rules the board.”
He is a fastidious man, he always has been,
it serves him well now.
His shower strictly scheduled and timed,
each body part cleansed in its specific order.
His skin smells of amber when he is done.
I have inherited some of this compulsion for order,
but not all – I save private chaos for manic paint
on sleepless nights.
He can afford no chaos.
Or privacy.
I say I will make mashed potatoes this evening. He smiles.
I make enough for five days. Not enough for him.
He is more mother to me than the mother I had, and certainly more father, but just as they are to me strangers, he is in many ways an unknown.
Each day now, he is a stranger to himself
taking inventory each morning
to determine what has left him, what he has left.
I stand beside him and hold his head between my hands
to stop the now constant movement.
I kiss his forehead.
His eyes meet mine and still I see joy and wonder there.
How can that be I ask?
That’s what happens when you live in the moment he replies.
I argue with God as my form of prayer of late,
cry and drink mimosas too early in the morning,
listen to Abbey Road over and over and try to learn to play the tambourine and bongos
with an urgency that causes me
to lose the beat and rhythm.
I know timing is everything.
I know there is no time.
I cover his clean shirt with a beautician’s cape,
joke that his back-length hair needs a perm. Then feed him,
soft food to keep him from choking.
I search my mind for new humor,
some witty thing to make his eyes laugh.
My sister is the funny one.
People say surrender – to God, to the Universe, to “it”.
Okay, I’ll surrender, but not without a fight.
His friends come each and every day.
Tonight the musicians are here.
They play his own songs for him
with a tenderness I envy and admire.
They are his arms and legs and hands.
Too rapidly they are becoming his ears and eyes.
Charm and talent will only get you so far on life’s road I tease.
That seems to be the road I’m on he replies.
In all this, he has never lost his voice.
3.
When I first arrived, my sister-in-law mused
at my newly cropped hair. An emotion-fueled night
with blunt instruments, and a bottle of wine
called Running with Scissors I explain.
I pull out a book from my bag of the same name. It is a theme.
Back in my hotel room, I open her gift to me,
carefully wrapped with cobalt tissue paper, tied with gold string
and glass beads. I saw her select these beads with concentration
the day before. I thought she would make earrings for herself.
In my hand I hold her Grandmother’s silver shears,
smaller than my palm. In her note she warns
that they are sharp. She warns not to run.
4.
Bob Dylan is singing Forever Young through my earphones
and I am sobbing and cannot stop.
I think one day I will write this all down, that I will understand
the complexities of my emotions
and my brother’s emotions
and my nephews’ emotions
and my sister-in-law’s emotions
and my sister’s emotions
and my husband’s emotions
and everyone involved’s emotions
and that job is too big to think about
so I think about what it is I can think about,
and tell the flight attendant No
although I wonder if I should have taken the cookies after all.
I write for three minutes at a time, and while this seat on this plane
leaving the Ozark Mountains is a really lousy place,
there is in this moment
flight with a bald eagle, and mashed potatoes waiting.
5.
There are no revelations today.
No secrets uncovered.
No cures.
No no-fair calls.
There is melody, the Spring maybe.
There is a prism in the window raining cool
color on wood and stone, and in this white light moment it seems,
is the road we're on.
For Nick Masullo, 09/1952 - 09/2008
The pilot urges us to look out
of the right-side windows of the plane,
asking with a smile in his voice if we have ever seen
a bald eagle in flight.
There it is, winging next to the Airjet as we ascend.
2.
When I was five-years old and my brother eleven, he taught me to play chess. This as a distraction after his failed attempt to enter me in the Little Miss America Pageant.
The family joked that his eyesight was always poor.
I liked that he believed I could pull off a crown.
“Each piece, from Pawn to King, has its place and its own characteristics of movement. Remember that: in this and in life there is order, and the Queen rules the board.”
He is a fastidious man, he always has been,
it serves him well now.
His shower strictly scheduled and timed,
each body part cleansed in its specific order.
His skin smells of amber when he is done.
I have inherited some of this compulsion for order,
but not all – I save private chaos for manic paint
on sleepless nights.
He can afford no chaos.
Or privacy.
I say I will make mashed potatoes this evening. He smiles.
I make enough for five days. Not enough for him.
He is more mother to me than the mother I had, and certainly more father, but just as they are to me strangers, he is in many ways an unknown.
Each day now, he is a stranger to himself
taking inventory each morning
to determine what has left him, what he has left.
I stand beside him and hold his head between my hands
to stop the now constant movement.
I kiss his forehead.
His eyes meet mine and still I see joy and wonder there.
How can that be I ask?
That’s what happens when you live in the moment he replies.
I argue with God as my form of prayer of late,
cry and drink mimosas too early in the morning,
listen to Abbey Road over and over and try to learn to play the tambourine and bongos
with an urgency that causes me
to lose the beat and rhythm.
I know timing is everything.
I know there is no time.
I cover his clean shirt with a beautician’s cape,
joke that his back-length hair needs a perm. Then feed him,
soft food to keep him from choking.
I search my mind for new humor,
some witty thing to make his eyes laugh.
My sister is the funny one.
People say surrender – to God, to the Universe, to “it”.
Okay, I’ll surrender, but not without a fight.
His friends come each and every day.
Tonight the musicians are here.
They play his own songs for him
with a tenderness I envy and admire.
They are his arms and legs and hands.
Too rapidly they are becoming his ears and eyes.
Charm and talent will only get you so far on life’s road I tease.
That seems to be the road I’m on he replies.
In all this, he has never lost his voice.
3.
When I first arrived, my sister-in-law mused
at my newly cropped hair. An emotion-fueled night
with blunt instruments, and a bottle of wine
called Running with Scissors I explain.
I pull out a book from my bag of the same name. It is a theme.
Back in my hotel room, I open her gift to me,
carefully wrapped with cobalt tissue paper, tied with gold string
and glass beads. I saw her select these beads with concentration
the day before. I thought she would make earrings for herself.
In my hand I hold her Grandmother’s silver shears,
smaller than my palm. In her note she warns
that they are sharp. She warns not to run.
4.
Bob Dylan is singing Forever Young through my earphones
and I am sobbing and cannot stop.
I think one day I will write this all down, that I will understand
the complexities of my emotions
and my brother’s emotions
and my nephews’ emotions
and my sister-in-law’s emotions
and my sister’s emotions
and my husband’s emotions
and everyone involved’s emotions
and that job is too big to think about
so I think about what it is I can think about,
and tell the flight attendant No
although I wonder if I should have taken the cookies after all.
I write for three minutes at a time, and while this seat on this plane
leaving the Ozark Mountains is a really lousy place,
there is in this moment
flight with a bald eagle, and mashed potatoes waiting.
5.
There are no revelations today.
No secrets uncovered.
No cures.
No no-fair calls.
There is melody, the Spring maybe.
There is a prism in the window raining cool
color on wood and stone, and in this white light moment it seems,
is the road we're on.
For Nick Masullo, 09/1952 - 09/2008
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Miscommunication Chronicles, Part I
02/05/09 Dear Husband, I DO love cranberry juice & thank you, even if it in no way resembles the chicken stock I requested.
02/03/09 Dear Husband, thank you for changing the sheets for the 1st time in a year even though I did it an hour earlier.
02/01/09 Dear Husband, if, when you remove your socks in the future, you shake them right side out, you will save us both an enormous amount of time.
01/30/09 Dear Husband, either rinse the dishes first, or buy a new a dishwasher.
01/24/09 Husband, throwing the screen door in the trash after beating it with a hammer is not fixing it.
02/03/09 Dear Husband, thank you for changing the sheets for the 1st time in a year even though I did it an hour earlier.
02/01/09 Dear Husband, if, when you remove your socks in the future, you shake them right side out, you will save us both an enormous amount of time.
01/30/09 Dear Husband, either rinse the dishes first, or buy a new a dishwasher.
01/24/09 Husband, throwing the screen door in the trash after beating it with a hammer is not fixing it.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Can't Help Lovin'
Birds gotta' swim, fish gotta' fly.
I'm gonna' love one man till he dies.
That's how I heard it.
I'm gonna' love one man till he dies.
That's how I heard it.
On South Carolina
Here, the moon at midnight masquerades as dawn.
Georgia visits on the wind, and the mockingbird strings its song until sun bids good-day to ocean.
Georgia visits on the wind, and the mockingbird strings its song until sun bids good-day to ocean.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Pick One
image copyright Karen Masullo 2008
We reveal the ignorance of our questions,
as we reveal the ignorance of our answers.
We reveal the truth of our questions,
as we reveal the ignorance of our answers
We reveal the ignorance of our questions,
as we reveal the truth of our answers.
We reveal the truth of our questions,
as we reveal the truth of our answers.
OCD Me?
I'm a good candidate for OCD, but I'm just too lazy. That stuff takes commitment.
If I have to walk back upstairs to check if I left the iron on, to hell with it, we're insured.
OCD-lite.
If I have to walk back upstairs to check if I left the iron on, to hell with it, we're insured.
OCD-lite.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Web2.0 Pick-Up Lines
I was at a cocktail party tonight, and someone asked me, flirtatiously & with no preamble "so, how many you got followin'?"
I told him none since I started using the new restrainingorder.twitter.com app.
I think he was impressed.
I told him none since I started using the new restrainingorder.twitter.com app.
I think he was impressed.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
First Clikball, then this
"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."
Reportedly the last words of Sir Donald Wolfit, British actor and director. 1902-1968
Well-delivered re-quote: Peter O'Toole, My Favorite Life
Reportedly the last words of Sir Donald Wolfit, British actor and director. 1902-1968
Well-delivered re-quote: Peter O'Toole, My Favorite Life
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Diary of a Smoker Quitting, the Official Re-post
Please Read the Right-hand column of this blog before you read this. Gives it a little context for why something from 1998 is here.
Day One: Shit.
Day One again only the next day: Have tried to kill husband twice.
Decide against washing dishes as always have cigarette when done. Same for bathroom. Am suddenly thinking this has upside.
Eating dried fruit, apricots, pears, and brown things that look like squished roaches, which remind me of doobie roaches, which remind me of cigarettes.
Watch husband light a cigarette; look at him pitifully. Eat leftover beans from last night – that’ll show him.
Walk by computer and wave occasionally. Can’t sit and write or surf as this has been main smoking area.
It’s about four-o’clock now; I could have just one, I could have just one, I could have just one. That’s Mr. Nicotine. He lives with me; ‘he’ could be a chick, but frankly, right now, I don’t frigging care. Decide to play fantasy game on Playstation.
Spend next three hours breeding Chocobos so game hero can save world. World doomed in my opinion.
Day two, morning: Woke up two hours earlier than usual. Great; two extra hours of fencing practice with the RJ Reynolds Company and spawn.
Seriously considering finding some hallucinogens as never had desire for nicotine during a really good walk through a wall.
Woke up six times during night to pee because I drank four gallons of water "to assist my system flush poison."
Am feeling unusually testy as result of lack of sleep and deep-seated oral fixation fantasies. Decide to either kill or have sex with mail carrier when post arrives. Probably both.
Day 2, afternoon: See husband off to airport for business trip. Clean closets. Nothing new in mail.
Did all laundry out of necessity – body of dead mail carrier would not fit in dryer otherwise. Put in extra dryer sheets (Arm and Hammer, biodegradable.)
Decide to take walk. Meet neighbor who asks if mail came yet. She is smoking a cigarette. I tell her no out of spite.
Day 3, morning: Go through dead man’s mail bag; keep catalogues for joyous Christmas shopping. Feed rest down garbage disposal.
Day 3, Afternoon: Call garbage disposal repair.
Day 4: Receive visitor. Police looking for missing mail carrier – received anonymous tip from garbage disposal repair person. Make coffee and offer fat-free cookies and dried fruit. Arrange dried fruit to make smiley faces on plate. Police officer asks if I mind if he smokes.
Burst in to tears. Confess.
Day 472: Sentenced to death in murder of Postal Employee. Federal crime.
Day 478: Beaten by seven large women in prison for having no cigarettes to trade.
Able to sing better now; make up prison blues songs.
Day 552: Receive divorce papers: husband marrying tobacco heiress. Cell-mate offers to have ex husband whacked. Wants twelve cartons of cigarettes and one pair Doc Marten boots. Decide husband will live as price too steep.
Day 558: Secure two cartons of cigarettes for payment to cell-mate to have defense attorney whacked. Feel better.
Day 691: Served last meal – minister asks if anything wanted at last moments. Think back to how good cigarette after meals used to be. Request one last smoke. Minister reluctant, no smoking in federal building, but sneaks one in.
Sit back, relax, smoke. Ahhhhh.
Feel slightly dizzy, giddy, euphoric. Warden enters cell excitedly; Governor issues full pardon due to new Federal "It Takes a Village" crimes statute: allows for defense appeal of insanity by reason of severe nicotine withdrawal.
Day 1: Shit.
Copyright 1998, Karen Masullo
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Love is Sheer Dumb Luck and Brown Mascara
I fell in love with my husband the first time I saw him - he was wearing a tuxedo, and who can resist a man in a tuxedo?
Oh, it was more than that, but that first moment we locked eyes is so clear in my memory; I felt as if, for the first time in my life, I was home.
I stay in love with him because he’s a genuinely kind, funny man who likes women and men equally, and after 25 some odd years, we’re still having fun together.
We have grown up together; experienced deaths together, a flood, leaky roofs, conflicting politics, dancing, music, music and more music, more incredible food and wine than I can name, battles of will and concessions, amazing romance, mountains, oceans, valleys, a flying whale, fishing poles, one and only one very frustrating game of racquet-ball, friends that are family and family that are friends, and through it all, conversation - wonderful, intimate conversation.
I say it was the brown mascara. He says it was sheer dumb luck. Whatever it was and is, I’m thankful, and vow to keep it alive.
What’s your Love story? Comment below by Thursday 02/12/09, and on Friday, 02/13/09, we’ll announce a Valentine’s Day winner who will receive some free, great logo gear from the Sheer Dumb Luck and Brown Mascara store.
Make sure to include your email or Twitter @ so we can contact you, and be assured we will never use this information for any third party list or solicitation.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friday, February 1, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
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