2020 Will Be His Year!

Ah, Mr. Dollar. What would a presidential race be without a pompous, arrogant, green windbag that has nothing of substance to say, yet every advantage and all the resources to say it?

As with any election, there’ll be chills, spills, upsets and victories. Can Dollar pull off an upset and tank the current incumbent? Polls say no, but we don’t trust polls. Play on, Dollar. Play on!Dollar - 01

The Strength of Weakness

It was brought to my attention this morning by the person I now live with, whom I called in my last post “my friend”, that I did in fact call her simply my friend. I realized when I wrote the post that I had in fact called her simply my friend when, in reality, she is infinitely more than that to me. She’s my friend, yes, but also, my love, my lover, my absolute best and closest friend, my healer, my savior, my angel, my everything. She means more to my heart than I could ever express in words or sentiment.

One might think the fact that my friend brought this to my attention might somehow tarnish or negatively affect my love or my opinion or my closeness to her, when in fact it has indeed brought closer. You see, this momentary weakness of self-doubt on her part was merely that – momentary weakness. Her soft heart has seen so much brittleness and brokenness in the past that it’s no wonder the evil worm of self-doubt would weevil its way into her, or anyone’s, psyche.

This person is one of the strongest, most determined people I’ve ever known, so much so she has rubbed off on me to a grand extent. I know now because of her example that there’s nothing I can’t do, given enough perseverance. This person had, at one time, been diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer. Well, after a mastectomy, much chemotherapy, baldness from said chemo, side-effect illness, and now ten subsequent years of daily meds, she beat cancer. She made cancer her de facto bitch! And I could not be prouder to call her my love, my lover, my best friend, my healer, my angel, and my everything.

I love her. And I always will.

I hope, in the event I’m not here before the day, that everyone has a wonderful Christmas, that Santa doesn’t jack-knife his sleigh, and that the true starry meaning of Christmas isn’t lost in the shuffle of materialism.

I’ll leave you with a humorous cartoon that I may have posted before. At any rate, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and don’t forget to tell the ones you love how much they mean to you. Take care and walk in love’s grand light.


Santa and the Three Wise Men

Time and 2020

So, I’ve been taking some time off. As usual my blog has taken a backseat to real life. I have no one to blame and wouldn’t blame them if I did. It’s my fault and my fault alone.

I have been moving though. Kind of takes a chunk out of your days – moving. I moved in with my friend and we’ve spent time since we signed the lease on December 1st just settling in.

But I did want to mention with impending impeachment of The Orange and his subsequent following White House bid, there will be a new contender for that seat soon, as promised – Dollar!

dollar for president

See y’all soon! Take care now.

The Genius of Leonardo – Fact or Fib?

Leonardo of Pisa – his genius cannot be denied and therefore is definite finite fact. The only fib here is his name, as it were. Born Leonardo Bonacci in the 13th century to a European customs official, he gained the nickname Fibonacci meaning “son of Bonacci”. Well, not necessarily a fib, I suppose.

The middle ages mathematician is known for the discovery or development of the sequence of numbers – 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, etc… This sequenced pattern is found by taking the number one and adding it to the previous number in the sequence, i.e. in this case starting with one added to one which is two, two added to one which is three, three added to two which is five, five added to three which is eight, eight added to five which is thirteen, and so on to infinity.

Oddly, the man discovered this sequence while studying the breeding cycles of rabbits. The fact that this sequence is found in nature, not only rabbit breeding (see the chart again on this link), but also appears in daisy petal counts and spirals on the face of sunflowers sheds light and insight into the mind and heart of our Creator, in my opinion.

This might sound like fiction if it weren’t true (elle oh elle!) and, to me, not only illustrates a Godly Divine Designer in nature, but also one with a definite infinite sense of style and humor. Rabbits replicating in ordered pairs? Sunflowers and daisies following a mathematical suit? Yes, our God is not only awesome but also brilliantly humorous!

Until our next meeting, walk in the loving light!



Okay, I swear to you all, this is absolutely the last one! (Elle oh elle!)

Check back for tomorrow’s post (if you don’t want to indulge in sappy sonnets and poetry) on the Fibonacci Sequence on Fibonacci Day – 11/23!

Now, to my sweet friend – The Hummingbird Song.

He swells full on his favored bloom,

Her nectar his sustenance,

If the hummingbird had a song:

“Never alone, I’d die in you,

I live to wade your fjords,

Awaken to drown in every drop,

I’d die in you, my loving hope.”

He’d die to live in her presence.


Until tomorrow . . . take care!

Reblog for a Blogger Buddy!

So, I’m going to try to start doing this more for my blogger buddies because getting your name and craft out there is hard enough. I’ve reblogged this for my blogger friend Seanarchy who’s published a couple books.

Message or email me if you’d like your book or post about your book reblogged or promoted. No, there’s no charge (Elle Oh Elle!) Being a starving artist myself, I know what scraping by on peanuts and the butter made thereof is like, and really only have one thing to say about that lifestyle: Peach Mango Kool Aid is the best!



Her other book: SKOLL'S DIARY

Take care, y’all, and stay out of the shadows. Until the next installment . . .

Vet’s Day – Freedom Remembers (Again!)

This is a reblog from last year. Happy Veteran’s Day!

Happy Veteran’s Day to all the vets out there! Freedom remembers you.

I was 17 when I entered the Army, well, the National Guard, actually, with my mommy’s permission. If I had to do it again, eh, I would. It was a character-building time in my life and I learned things about myself – what I can do, stand, prevail through – that I otherwise wouldn’t have.

I was 17. The summer between my junior and senior year of high school, I went to basic training on the Guard’s split option program. Fort Jackson’s sands filled my boots more than one day that summer. My dad tried to tell me, “Son, you ain’t gonna like the military.” I thought then that I should’ve listened to my dad. I still have conflicting feelings, really. (Elle Oh Elle!)

I followed in my dad’s footsteps, sort of. He was drafted during the Viet Nam Conflict to the Marines. He was offered E-5 Warrant Officer if he re-uped for four more years and took an MOS (job) of flying helicopters. He declined. And I don’t blame him! He’d have found himself in the heat of Hanoi before he could lace his jump boots.

At any rate, to my dad and my brother – two of my greatest teachers and heroes – Happy Veteran’s Day and thank you for your service!

Search Me? Like I Have a Choice!

Lonny Garris on Shutterstock

I don’t understand. People get all up in arms about the second amendment when gun law reform is mentioned yet they totally ignore what’s been done to their freedoms already.

Well, Congress has already gutted the fourth amendment against illegal search and seizure to beyond a laughable point. If you’re convicted of drug charges you can have your property taken from you – cars, houses, etc. That property will be sold at auction and the money put back into the system to “get more drugs off the streets” and put more people in prison. In turn, more property will be taken which will be sold to the public and the cycle continues.

Now, this all may sound all well and good, but what the authorities don’t tell you is that they don’t have to serve warrants on the correct person. They don’t have fail safes like social security numbers on warrants. Hell, they don’t even need a middle name!

An excerpt from my memoir I’ve been writing tells how the Blount County and Maryville Police, on my first and last names alone, put me in jail. A case of mistaken identity. Here goes:


One night, my brother was driving my car and we’d been drinking heavily. A cop pulled us over for a blown headlight. This was the first time I’d ever seen the inside of the drunk tank. Jail didn’t look good on me at all. I was pissed and belligerent. They let me out four hours later after I’d sobered.The next day, I went to get my car from the impound where they’d taken such good care of it. The guard told me I needed to get a paper signed at Maryville City Police Department before I could get my car back.

So, at the police department office, I iterated to the officer what the guard had told me. About this time, an officer came out of an office and had me to sign a paper. This unknowingly was a warrant for my arrest for possession, sale, and delivery of marijuana. They had a warrant for little ole me? Yes. And apparently, an entire investigation case against Robert S. Gregory of Maryville as a pot dealer.

 My mom always told me if I got locked up for drugs, don’t call her. I took this to heart the day I was taken to jail. They didn’t tell me at first what I was being arrested for. My ex-step-mother Sue, my younger brother Keith’s mom, worked there at the jail. She came to my cell and told me that I’d sold weed to an undercover cop. I told her that wasn’t possible. I didn’t sell weed that I bought because I was too busy smoking it.

I was bailed out by my friends – Jamie, his girlfriend Deanna, and my friend Sam. I couldn’t thank them enough for the two-hundred fifty dollars they raised between them to get me out of jail. The next morning Sue called. She told my mom something about their charges and the whole thing was wrong and that I needed a lawyer.

A lawyer used by my brother Clutch before was who I retained. Well, weeks expired, and, with one motion of discovery, their evidence was somewhat clear. They gave me an audio tape of their meeting with someone who was supposedly me. The guy on the tape sounded nothing like me. The informant who bought the weed from the dealer on the tape read the dealer’s tag number off. My mom, who should’ve been an investigator and probably was in another life, went to the registration office and obtained a copy of the dealer’s tag registration. The guy’s name, ironically – Robert Steven Gregory of Little Dug Gap Road. My middle name is Shannon. And with this little piece of exonerating evidence, we didn’t understand how the cops couldn’t have put the pieces together themselves.

Before the discovery of the audio tape, my hapless lawyer questioned me and my answer about whether I’d ever been to the Shamrock motel – where the buying and selling of the drugs went down. I assured him I never had. Ten times or so I assured him I never had.

When my mother, the investigator, found the evidence that blew the case wide open, the district attorney agreed to dismiss the charges without prejudice and my hapless lawyer advised me to get a Knoxville attorney for a possible lawsuit. He recommended a certain lawyer. Yes, I still remember that shyster’s name but for reasons of forgiveness I will not name her. Keep in mind I was twenty-four years old at the time and a naïve, scatterbrained, extremely gullible pothead who was not only stoned all the time, but also assumed this lawyer would have my best interests at heart. And she might have if she’d had a heart. Also keep in mind that every time I visited this shyster, I was stoned. The best advice I can give anyone from the lesson that came from this is never trust a shyster, especially when money’s involved.

Now, the deal with this lawyer was that she would get thirty percent of the damages – none up front. After a few meetings, she came back with an offer from the City of Maryville. She told me that they didn’t believe I was innocent. That, in fact, if their informant – a guy nicknamed Possum, at least I hope it was a nickname – was currently missing. If Possum wound up dead, they would charge me with murder. This made to me absolutely no sense, but I was stoned most of the time, so I didn’t connect the dots. Or even try to. They offered me five thousand dollars, of which Ms. Shyster would get thirty percent, but she said since she’d done most of the work for my case, she deserved three thousand, if I could take two. Well, of course she did the work! That’s what I was paying her thirty percent for. So, if I was guilty and they didn’t believe my innocence, why were they even offering anything? Basically, I realized after I took the deal that this lawyer must have been lying to me about a missing Possum.

The moral of that little story – when someone’s playing possum, get a better lawyer. Or at least one that’s honest.



That’s the story. Now, it wouldn’t be so bad if this were an isolated or bound-to-never-happen type case, but it’s not. Mistaken identity happens much more than we’re willing to acknowledge as a society. People are constantly being exonerated from prison, sometimes from death row, for crimes they never committed.

Do you have a similar story? Or maybe an opinion on anti-gun lobby and laws? Share it!

Walk Circumspectly

Cultural differences. They are as infinite as the amount of nations on the earth. When it comes to culture, some things one might not even think of in one culture may be strictly taboo in another.

For instance, in India it is uncouth to show the soles of your feet. The feet are considered dirty and are to be kept hidden and on the ground. This is according to a few different websites on culture so I may have that off the mark a bit. But that’s the idea.

Also, apparently, in some cultures (this may just be in any culture and a part of female human nature), it is a slippery slope to compliment a woman. Especially when the compliment an obvious given. I recently was conversing with someone a world away culturally from my own. I complimented her from a picture of her I’d seen. This obviously didn’t go over well because she has not responded since. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was how I complimented her, or to the degree of my compliment.

At any rate, cultural difference is an oddity to me. May be because of the supposed melting pot of America that I live in. Heck, some cultures start wars over differences. “You show me your foot? I’ll show you my shovel with which I’ll dig your grave, you nerf herder!” Now, with the Star Wars herding reference, you can see how my sarcasm is a bit over the top.

All I’m saying, the next time you’re talking with someone from another land, take a small modicum of time maybe to find beforehand what makes them tick. And what ticks them off! You may get further without a resulting international incident.

Take care. And until my next installment . . .