I have written over 136 poems in my brief life as a poet.

In addition to the exactly 136 that I just pulled off of websites to which I have posted over the last couple of years, there are probably a dozen or so that reside solely on my hard drive at home. I can't count them right now because I'm not at home.

In addition to both of those sets, I would guess that I have about 40 or 50 (at least) completed "songs," which I wrote over the years, beginning in high school and ending in college, when I switched to fiction.

That's about 200 poems. 200 pieces of complete verse, in one form or another. Pretty impressive, at least to me.

I have no way of telling if any of these are any good. I wasn't a poetry student, and the poetry of which I am a fan tends to be pretty unstructured stuff; very subjective. I do know however that over the last few years, as I've been informally browsing various poetry sites and publications, that there are many poems of mine that I'd rather read than some of the stuff I've seen published. And, even looking at some of what I consider to be my better work, I feel like it flows pretty well, is a little witty, and is relatively interesting.

I have a lot of free time on my hands at the moment. I've just started a job which isn't very demanding right now. In addition to compiling all of my poetry into one document which I still need to organize a bit, I have already created a "Submission Log" so I can keep track of the writing pieces that I send into different publications.

My next step is to compile all of my short stories, although I'm not sure if that requires more than just keeping all the Word documents in one place. We'll have to see.

So, I'm prolific. I guess. It's possible it's all crap, but at least there's a lot of it.


- posted by seanmh @ 1:11 PM

 

Left and right.

George Plimpton, author of The Paper Lion and accomplished cultural explorer.

Althea Gibson, the first black athlete to win Wimbledon

Elia Kazan, famed film director of such movies as "On The Waterfront," "East of Eden," and "Splendor in the Grass."

Robert Palmer, pop singer.

Donald O’Connor, co-star of Gene Kelly in "Singin’ in the Rain."

Herb Gardner, playwright.

And finally, Encyclopedia Brown.



- posted by seanmh @ 10:16 AM

 

Heh.

I try not to post multiple blogs on a given day, because I don't like to clutter up the thing. But something just "crossed my desk" that requires immediate comment.

In a relatively interesting article published by the online magazine Slate two weeks ago, there is a list of six "misconceptions" held by who the article calls "everyday Americans" regarding the September 11 terrorist attacks in New York City and Washington, DC.

One of the misconceptions is that the attacks could not have been prevented. In the past, I've associated the claim that the attacks could have been prevented with senseless diatribe by the likes of Gore Vidal that President Bush, among others in the U.S. government, knew that the attacks were going to happen, and were possibly among the plotters.

More believable is the idea that the attacks were a reasonably predictable event based on past behavior by the sewer-level class of insects defined, in general, as terrorists. One of the examples that the article points to is a 1994 highjacking of a French airliner by Algerians, who threatened to crash the plane into the Eiffel Tower.

I'll go right to the point:

"They were tricked by French officials into landing in Marseilles to refuel, where they were overpowered."

They were tricked by French officials.

That just struck me as funny.




- posted by seanmh @ 1:23 PM

 

Let’s get this first part out of the way quick and be on with it:

I like to drink SoBe drinks.

Now, let’s get started.

SoBe drinks have bottle caps. Underneath the bottle cap, there is always a message printed in green.

Today, my message says:

YOU’RE ALL

WORTHLESS

AND WEAK

Now, first of all, where do they get off? Second of all, how the hell did they find out?

What’s worse, because I’m a glutton for punishment with no regard for my own self-worth at least compared with things that strike me as odd, I’ve decided to keep this thing. It’s on my desk at work. Staring at me.

But it hardly seems like a good marketing strategy.


- posted by seanmh @ 10:31 AM

 

Politics.

I don't get much into politics. But I like to see when popular notions of complex issues are squashed.


- posted by seanmh @ 3:04 PM

 

Maybe.

Maybe if the copy machine guy brought donuts, none of this would have happened.

Ah, life. Sometimes I just want to take life and squeeze it like a Hitler doll. Rip its head off. I could dream of voodoo and go back in time. I could change the world, if life were a Hitler doll.

What’s up with war, anyway? All this killing and destruction. Maybe if we didn’t throw away our Tonka trucks and G.I. Joes when we turned twelve none of this would have happened.

And have you heard about this religion thing? Nuts, I tell you. It’s fucking nuts.

Maybe if dreams were on highways, things would be different.

I didn’t learn how to punch people until I was in the 9th grade. It was too late. Kids don’t get into fights in the 9th grade unless it’s really serious. People can get hurt once puberty takes over. Kids get heavier, muscles grow, anger becomes real. I got into lots of fights prior to high school, but I never knew how to punch a kid. They used to make my nose bleed. That was the thing. If you were 9 years old and you could make someone’s nose bleed with your fist, you were the man. Nosebleeds ended all fights. They were out of control. You’d have to run home with darkening blood spreading out on the chest of your shirt, you’d have to run home, where mommy’s cool hands held the back of your neck and the damp cloth to your nose and asked you what happened like she didn’t really know. Like she didn’t really know. Or maybe even though she knew she wasn’t being completely coy but rather she was maybe being stubbornly ignorant. Maybe if he doesn’t want to tell me what happened, maybe she thought, then maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it just started bleeding. Maybe it was a rock from the sky. Maybe everything will be all right, and it won’t ever ever happen again.

I’ve never punched anyone, not really. And even though I have to admit that there have been some people who’ve made me so angry that I wanted to hit them, I think more people have wanted to hit me than the other way around. I fight with my words. Nobody taught me how to do that, but it works the best. I’m self-trained. I have a black belt in ink fighting. We call it Pen Fu.

Watch out.


- posted by seanmh @ 11:23 AM

 

When I was a boy, I worked as an editor for an edgy literary/entertainment journal that was published by a friend of mine. I volunteered for the assignment. I was probably about 24 years old, but even then, I recognized the importance of well-proofed copy.

One thing that the internet has done is make it possible for anyone and everyone to be "published." It used to be that in order to be acknowledged as a writer, you needed to find someone who would print your words. And, because of the cost and effort involved in printing words, publishers were required by common sense to print the words of only those who were deemed worthy. In those days, most of what you read in print could be considered solid writing. Skilled editors picked up what the writer naturally missed.

Not everything was perfect, of course. In fact, the reason that I volunteered to edit my friend’s journal was because it pained me to read it. When I read it, I didn’t feel like I was reading a real journal, but rather something thrown together by someone not qualified to teach 3rd grade English. Even things as simple as an incorrectly placed comma or a lowercase word that should have been capitalized immediately made the entire journal seem amateurish and weak. Good writing has an invisible quality; bad writing stands out like a sore thumb. Furthermore, if the publishers couldn’t take the time to edit the copy, why should I spend the time wading through mistakes in order to read it?

Not that my friend wasn’t qualified, but the copy needed to be edited, and he didn’t have the time to do it. And, to be honest, there is little immediate satisfaction in good editing, because no one even realizes editing exists unless it’s not done. But printed pieces that aren’t edited read poorly. Editing isn’t a job that was invented to satisfy anal-retentive ex-English majors with a passion for squinting. Editing is necessary for the eye, for the mind. Poorly edited pieces make the reader guess at meanings and halt midsentence in order to find the flow. Educated readers can identify specifically why and where their reading mind trips up. Uneducated readers feel something is wrong and come away with a lack of understanding. In both cases, the result is essentially that the writing is ineffective. An opinion is lost, information garbled, or a theme simply missed, among other things.

In the history of literature, the relationships between editors and writers have been epic. Sometimes contentious and often rued, the work that these two parties have put into books and articles over the years has never been blasé. But while the individual egos and personalities have made these relationships variously positive or combative, they without fail contributed to the high quality of writing found in the pieces that made the page.

With the internet, "publishing" has taken on a new meaning. While it used to mean that you were "selected" to have a path to readers, now it simply means that you have quick, personal access to a path to readers. The selection process has been reduced from that of being chosen from a large group based on writing ability to that of your ability to maintain a credit card and fill out internet forms.

But just because writers are no longer screened before their words are inflicted on a potentially large population of readers, that doesn’t mean that the effect (or lack thereof) of the writing isn’t compromised by bad writing or poor editing.

The internet has done more than provide easy access to being "published." It’s provided a forum for immediate feedback. More than once, I’ve seen bad writing or poor editing attacked, sometimes innocuously. But regardless of the tone of the criticism, the result is rarely calm. Defensive, largely uneducated or often simply ignorant or defiant writers will defend their poor writing as "unique" or "groundbreaking." They hear criticism of their technique to be criticism of what they define as their "voice." What they fail to realize is that fundamentally poor writing sabotages any effort on their part to establish a voice, much less convey a meaning. And, truth be told, it is rare that a writer who can’t edit his work has been able to create a "voice." What’s missing from their writing isn’t (necessarily) talent or insight, but rather skill and attention to detail. Kerouac wasn’t groundbreaking because he put commas in wrong places; he was groundbreaking because he made up new rules that made sense in the world his books defined. But even Kerouac edited his work to maintain those rules.

Usually writers who defend their error-strewn work as groundbreaking have no idea of its mistakes until they are pointed out. This is akin to calling a 3-year-old child a revolutionary because he mispronounces his Rs.

The ease of internet publication has not only removed the requirement of impressing publishers or editors with one’s sound writing ability, but it’s also removed a crucial element of patience and devotion to each piece. When a person can send a piece of fiction or diatribe from the womb of their mind to the screens of millions of people in literally a matter of minutes (or less), why bother checking the placement of commas? The piece itself, if even actually read by anyone, will likely be lost even more quickly than it was posted, so why spend the time perfecting it?

In many cases, this is true. However, this attitude has led to a proliferation of bad writing not only in the daily blogs of junior high school angst clowns but across the board, often on sites that should know better; literary or news sites which are read by perceptive readers, whose articles linger for days, weeks, months, and are then archived to be accessed for research or entertainment for years to come. And subpar writing does something harmful regardless of its lifespan. Just as it did for me hundreds of years ago when I read a friend’s obscure journal in the invisible Midwest of America, it compromises the intellectual integrity of the entire publication, print or otherwise. It is amateurish and careless, and this reflects on the publication.

It’s not easy to edit writing, and even more difficult to edit good writing. But the time spent doing so should and does reflect the level of respect that the publishers, personal or professional, hold for their readers. Respect must be earned, and it is best earned by demonstrating it.

In this case, internet publishers and writers should demonstrate their respect for their readers by making the effort to clean up their copy. If not, chances are good that most of that writing will be misunderstood, overlooked, and eventually irrelevant.


- posted by seanmh @ 9:40 AM

 

Now you can click on links over there in the upper right and read some really great writers.

I saw a book at Barnes and Noble the other day that had this as a subtitle:

The genius behind Harry Potter.

The genius.

Let me tell you something about genius. Genius is what it takes to describe the beauty and dissect the anger of thousands of motorcycle riders in the desert of Nevada. Genius is what it takes to tackle the entire societal establishment of faux-Victorian America of the mid-20th century simply by using the word "come." Genius is what it takes to find the glory of life in the sewer streets of Los Angeles.

Genius is about pulling the skin away from the facade of humanity to show what really moves us.

Genius is about embracing revolution with compassion and experimentation.

Genius doesn't hide in the bright lights of Hollywood, it bares its teeth in the shadows, on the stage, for all to see the breakdown.

Genius discovers the world by believing in nothing.

Genius relishes the odors of life, not the perfumes.

Genius invites criticism and ridicule and keeps on going as if they don't matter.

Imagine if they didn't matter.

Genius isn't about formulas or marketing or sequels. You can't find genius by standing in lines.

And I'm pretty sure that you won't find it labeled with a shiny gloss stamp, either.

Stay away from the light. Go into the darkness and scream. Maybe you'll find something worthwhile.


- posted by seanmh @ 10:19 AM

 

I should be writing. Not this. The other thing. The other things. The real things.

The quality of my writing balances on an atmospherically high pyramid. Right on the tip. When it works, it looks great, its arms are barely outstretched in an effort to stay straight up. But the slightest breeze or slip of the phrase and the whole thing comes tumbling down and ends up bruised and tattered, at the base in the sand.

I'm not a trained writer. During my youth growth, I believe that I made several attempts to enter the world of writer training. For various reasons (or for a single, complex one), that never panned out. I don't think that I'd be better prepared to be a great writer had I managed to get involved in classes or workshops or things like that, but I think certainly that my craft would be more immediately available to me as something of quality. Not that I mind working at it, but I never developed the synapse flickers that come to trained writers naturally that help them avoid the novice pitfalls of mediocre writing. I've always been suspicious that my writing comes across, at its worst, as unpolished and professionally naive, and the more I think about it, the more I do believe that to be true.

I realize that only practice makes perfect, but practicing sailing in a windstorm with no salty captain or even an old ship's log to go by isn't really the best way to learn. I think that maybe now I have a guide and I hope this helps me along; I've been wet behind the ears for too long.

- posted by seanmh @ 4:13 PM

 

Oh yeah, it's Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!!!

Locks of the week, brought to you by Shadow Sax:

Patriots over Jets

Vikings over Lions

Packers over Cardinals

Redskins over Giants

Broncos over Raiders

Ravens over Chargers

upset special: Bengals over Steelers

Enjoy.

- posted by seanmh @ 12:00 PM

 

Do you realize that it would be entirely possible, nay, likely, for me to post to this blog for the next 40 years of my life (That was an arbitrary number, nothing is planned, neither living nor posting for specifically, exactly, 40 years. It could be more, it could be less.), without any single one of my millions of readers to know anything about me.

When I say anything, while I do mean anything, what I really mean is anything substantial. In other words, you (dear reader) could theoretically read hundreds of thousands of carefully organized words typed directly by the fingers attached to my mind and soul, and then meet me in a coffee shop for a latte and say to yourself afterwards, "He really wasn't what I expected."

I don't know if that's sad or beautiful or simply troubling or, what. But it's something.

I wonder what I could do to truly express myself in words, assuming the unlikely notion that I would want each of the millions of dutiful readers of this blog to truly know me. How would I go about the task of wholly representing myself in this medium?

Perhaps I could post here a full, thoughful, descriptive and reflective diary of each moment of my days. I could relive every moment of my life through words. Of c ourse, that would mean that the recording portion of my life would take at least as much time to live, if not certainly more, than the living part of my life. Everyone knows that typing takes longer than thinking, and it's absolutely true that typing take s longer than experiencing, so it's possible that up to, say, 80% of my life would be devoted to recording in words the other 20% of my life.

Seems like a huge waste of time, especially when transferring the theoretical to the applied. I'll be damned if I'm going to reduce my life to 20% of its extraordinary potential simply to allow each of my millions of readers to get inside my head.

Maybe a record of conversations would be more appropriate. After all, upon meeting me in a Seattle coffee shop for a highly taxed latte and coming to the decision that you really didn't know me like you thought you did, your perception of me, taken at that point to be true, would actually only be based on the conversation we would have. Or at least it would be based primarily on that conversation. Certainly you would encorporate things like the way I react to the counter help, where I choose to sit, how I slurp my hot drink, etc., into the overall thing as well. But your primary sense of "knowing" me would probably be based more on what I say to you. How I say it, as well as what I choose not to say in regards to what you might have expected, based on reading my blog for 40 years, me to say. Perhaps.

Upon further review, I think that the best way for me to prepare us for this meeting in a dreary coffee shop on some rainy day in northwest America would be to take the time to write one blog.

This blog would be a detailed, reflective description of an afternoon meeting with a faithful reader in a coffee shop.

I don't have the time to do it now, but here is a skeleton frame of what I would say:

I don't drink coffee. And, further, the idea of latte makes me itchy. I've never been to Seattle or even further west than Salt Lake City, Utah, and even that was merely for business (not religion). I despise the idea of formalizing a casual encounter into such things as lunch dates or coffee dates or things like that. I also despise the idea of allowing people to know me based on words, typed or spoken, or based on actions, experienced or described, or based on thoughts, perceived or translated, which I even for myself would hesitate to define as anything more substantial than whims. While a lot of what I say, write, do or think is definitely intentional, much of it can best be described as something akin to poking my toe in the raging sea of life. Just to see what happens. So if you think that's enough to know me, to really know me, then you're sadly mistaken.

You'll never know me. You should concentrate on knowing yourself. Because, truth be told, from what I've seen, you've got a lot to learn.

(Spiral of my thoughts.)

Trip on that.


- posted by seanmh @ 11:20 AM

 

Tired.

- posted by seanmh @ 7:32 PM

 

Yeah, that's right. Most of my locks won. All except for the Tennessee game. And, granted, one game still has to be played, tonight. And, granted, you may say that they weren't all the most difficult games to pick. But, hey, it's Week Two and, anyway, I picked the Eagles game, the Niners game, and the Miami-Jets matchup, none of which were gimmes.

I'm great.

In other news, there is a hurricane coming. They're talking about the possibility of sustained winds of up to 70 mph in this area, in a few days, should Isabel stay her course. That's windy.


- posted by seanmh @ 1:18 PM

 

You want some NFL locks for this weekend? Here we go...

Miami over the Jets

Tennesee over the Colts

St. Louis over the Niners

New England over the Eagles

New Orleans over the Texans

Minnesota over the Bears

New York Football Giants over the Cowboys

Book em, Dano.

- posted by seanmh @ 3:22 PM

 

September 11, 2003.

September 11, 2001.

We talk all the time about freedom. But freedom is nothing without peace, and peace is nothing without freedom. We talk all the time about freedom. But we don't speak often of peace.

A caller to the overnight AM radio talk show "Coast to Coast" this morning asked if, since there was no god (according to the cosmic theory being put forth by the show's guest), we should still focus on morality. Why be moral, he asked, if there is no god, if there is no consequence for not being moral?

The answer is because all our lives are intertwined. Buddha pointed out the cause and effect of everything in life. What all sentient beings do affects everything and everyone. To act morally is, at the very least (removing all sense of altruism), an act of self-preservation.

Be kind, strive for peace, promote understanding and tolerance.

Peace to all.


- posted by seanmh @ 3:38 PM

 

The newspapers here all complain about a blood shortage.

As part of my effort to contribute time on this day, I decided to give blood.

I looked in the yellow pages under "blood donations." There was a 1-800 number for the blood bank. I called it. They said that they don't work in this area of the state. The woman on the other end of the phone had never heard of this city. She told me to check with area hospitals.

I called the area hospital and made an appointment for today. I asked where in the hospital do I go and she said, "Entrance C."

I went to the hospital today. I asked a parking lot/traffic guy at the entrance where entrance C was. He said he didn't know, so I got out and parked. I went to the information desk. I asked, "Where do I go to donate blood?" The old bag behind the counter said as if I should know, "The blood bank. On the second floor."

I asked, "Will I see where to go once I get up there?"

"Yes."

Second floor. Nothing. I wander around for a while and then stop in one of the waiting rooms there. I think it was the heart center. I asked where the blood bank was. They got on the phone and said it was in the basement, and that once I got down to the basement, I'd see signs.

Yeah.

After wandering around the basement for a while, I stop in the transport office. The guy there says that the blood bank is on the 1st floor (the same floor as "information"). He is kind enough to walk me up there.

I go to the blood bank window and tell them that I have a 1 o'clock appointment to donate blood.

The woman looks at me as if there's a urinal growing out of my forehead. There isn't, by the way.

No one donates blood there, she tells me. She calls a clinic and asks if it's there that I have the appointment. It is. I tell her that it was the hospital that I called. She says, "and then they transferred you to the clinic."

Well, obviously.

So I finally get to the clinic. A pint of my blood empties in 4 minutes flat. My blood pressure is ass-kickin. I got four Oreos and two cups of apples juice.

I was the only one there donating blood. Maybe they should put up a sign.


- posted by seanmh @ 3:10 PM

 

I don't know why I think so much. People have been telling me my entire life that I think too much. If they were telling me my whole life that I do something else too much, like smile too much or frown too much or run too much or blink too much or eat too much or drink too much or clap my hands too much or whistle too much or anything else too much that I could control, that would be fine. But being told you think too much is like two things: being told you breathe too much and being told that you have big ears. For the first one, what the hell choice to I have and for the second one, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

I should probably stop thinking about it.

- posted by seanmh @ 1:54 PM

 

Last night I wrote the first couple of pages of a novel that I've been thinking about for several weeks now. I've written one novel already, which I used to think was a big accomplishment. Actually I will probably go back to that and edit it further and significantly.

The beginning of this new novel means that I'm technically "working" on two now. This second one seems to have the most potential of the three total to appear on the surface to be "marketable." It has a neat little plot, some cool twists, and the very storyline invites lots of easy opportunities to make statements about things like religion, love, the afterlife, this life, consciousness, and probably some other things as well that I haven't even thought of yet.

We'll see how it goes. The first bit sounds great; I'm really happy with it.


- posted by seanmh @ 11:00 AM

 

What are you doing?

Most national holidays are for picnics, beach trips or just lazy days off of work. The goal of one organization, One Day's Pay, is to make the observance of September 11 into a holiday of national giving.

The idea is to donate one day's worth of your time to volunteering, to helping others. The terrorists thrive on fear and anger, and this concept spits in the face of fear and anger.

So, spit in the face of some terrorists. It's pretty much an individual thing; you can do whatever you want, from giving blood to donating money to working at a soup kitchen. Check out their site for ideas. I personally think that it's a great idea, and a way that we can try to mold our remembrance of that day into something positive rather than tragic.

- posted by seanmh @ 1:29 PM

 

Today.

Football is wonderful. How can anyone not love football?

We left a 10% tip today. I rarely do that, but this waitress was horrible. She didn't start out well, but there was nothing worth undertipping until she forgot to order our fries and then, when she brought them, finally: no napkins, no silverware, no dip, and another 15 minutes before those came. Then the pen she brought with the check didn't work, and that didn't help, either. Oh well.

Anyway, football went well. My team rules.

- posted by seanmh @ 7:17 PM

 

Security at Iraq Munitions Sites Is Vulnerable, U.S. Officials Say

In other news, the local branch of your favorite bank says that its tellers are stupid, its police-call buttons don't really work all the time, and the bank manager keeps leaving his vault key on the front seat of his unlocked car.

- posted by seanmh @ 1:51 PM

 

This happened several days ago. But it's so worthy of being here, so we're going back in time.

Picture yourself walking through the forest. It's a humid day. Not entirely unpleasant, but still, it's on the sticky side of hot. It's not a big forest. In fact, it's not really so much a forest as it is a bunch of trees on the side of the river. We're drawing drawings in the mud under the trees. The mud is a thick, clay-like substance, patterned with cracks like a mosaic. It's been days since it rained; days since the river level has been up over this ground where there is mud, and the surface appears like a combination of mud and cracked dry land.

You stand up. Your head bumps slightly into a tree branch, and, surprisingly, completely out of context, you scream in pain. A sharp, stabbing stinging sensation covers your skin under your hair.

Meet the saddleback caterpillar:



Yeah. Fuckin yikes.

This thing is a monstrosity. It hides on leaves and branches and it's a son of a bitch. Fucking thing nearly killed me, I'm sure. I'm not new to this region of the U.S., but I've never seen one of these fucking things before. I was so angry at it I couldn't even control myself enough to push it off the branch and squish the shit out of it, which is only and exactly what it deserved. Also, I'll admit that at the time I was a little afraid that it would jump at me with its spikes or spit at me with poison vomit or stare at me with laser eyes and burn right through me, or something like that.

I admit it. I ran from a caterpillar.

But next time, I'm bringing my squishing tools. Little fuckers.

Stay away from the saddleback caterpillar.

- posted by seanmh @ 3:55 PM

 

Day one. The rains have come and gone. There's a cool breeze.

Things that are on my mind today include: getting something out in the mail, making photocopies of exactly those things first, stopping by the "office" to return clippings, possibly the possibility of doing some writing today, calling to see if I have a job, and picking up my girlfriend from work.

Nothing is mine. I look around. Nothing is mine. Not in a material sense, but rather in a metaphorical sense. But it's real. Metaphors are real. This is real. It's true that nothing is real. You can put your arms around that truth.

Why do people do this? I think for me it might be to formalize my internal thoughts. To make them somehow more acceptable. To make them somehow something real, and to force them as well into something that "people" can access. Something that doesn't look like the marvelous bleeding dragon that is my mind, that is behind these words.

Everybody wants to be a dragon.

My dragon is bent and broken. My dragon pulsates on the floor of the subway platform, heaving from effort and tears. My dragon breathes fire, but don't they all? My dragon is hideous. My dragon will play with you but only if you don't fuck with him. My dragon has a short memory, for good and for bad. He never sleeps at night, he just closes his eyes. Sometimes he wishes he was a frog, a good frog, a frog prince. But then, not really. His wishes never last. He's only a dragon. He wishes he was a child, he wishes he was a gingerbread man. He wants to grow up. He wants to die. He wants to just go away. He wants to be a dragon. He looks in the mirror and smiles through the tears.

My dragon slays me.

Maybe people want to hide their dragons but, not really. Mostly they don't. They want to show their dragons, but they want them to be normal, to be accepted. So they manipulate their dragons to be pretty.

You can see the irony and the hypocrisy of this. It's not complex.

So, day one. There is my dragon.

- posted by seanmh @ 1:14 PM