Guest Blogger: Superman
Most of you know me as Superman. This name is kind of a running gag, though the gag has by now almost certainly run away. So before I begin, and in the interests of full disclosure, let me assure you all that I am not actually Superman. The reason this is necessary is that the lovely Dale has asked me to write about superpowers.
Exceedingly mild superpowers, no less.
I find myself struggling with this theme, feeling somewhat ill equipped for the task, because I suspect that to do this well what I really need is the perspective of an artist. Thus, I find myself wanting to bow out, to recede once more into the shadows. However, Dale has given me The Words for the day, and as she so readily points out, Dale is the Captain of The Words. I am left with no other option but to write.
So I walk – with my artist’s pullover warming my chest in the slightly awkward fashion of borrowed clothing – and I take it all in. Attempting to find something to SAY, not simply say. I sit on a park bench and watch – just observing the little things, the taken for granted but essentially human things. And there I sat, deep in contemplation, until the mother of two children frolicking nearby began to regard me with what looked like suspicion - at which point I beat a clumsy retreat.
The problem is that every mild super power I can think of turns out to be a major super power, and vice versa. It all depends on the perspective. Just look at me: I’m Superman, bullets ricochet off my chest without ever leaving a mark. But back on Krypton, I would have been just another kid. Imagine if I tried to tell my buddy Excellentman that I had superpowers… he would have swung me about like an Olympic hammer thrower wearing neon latex, unable to contain his disdainful guffaws.
Dale suggested to me that her impressive ability to throw a crumpled up piece of paper successfully into the bin EVERY time should properly be regarded as a mild super power. Try telling that to an amputee. Or a dolphin. Or a professional basketballer.
Let’s bring this back to art and artists. I am beginning to believe that artists are born and not made. I am trying hard not to believe this, but it isn’t really working. To me, the kind of creativity displayed by the genuine artist is a full-blown super power, possibly the only kind that really matters.
Creative gifts have a certain cultural currency in our world – thus, there are a great many pretenders. It is rare to encounter an artist with honest edge. And even rarer to find one that has had much in the way of recognition. I am sure that Dale will remember a discussion I had with her about scenesters – the scenesters are the pretenders. This is a mockery of what art can and should be. Image shouldn’t really matter – that is ridiculous ‘postmodern’ self-justification, premised on a solid foundation of crippling insecurity. The best of the scenester artists manage to build themselves a loyal entourage – they must, as their ability to self justify depends upon it. The entourage is the reason that they produce at all.
What really matters is what the artist is trying to convey. And why.
I speak of the genuine voice. Of having something to say that should be heard.
And it is now that I speak of superpowers.
Showing posts with label Dale for a day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dale for a day. Show all posts
Dale for a day
Its time. The next Dale for a day will hopefully be written by Superman. We'll see what he says.
Dale for a day
Guest blogger: Mihai Sora
Dear Dale,
I have not written for more than a year. Unless you count birthday cards,
and I don’t count birthday cards. You will be my friend in Italy that I
never replied to after promising him so much. You will my friend in Rome.
Mexico, where the sunsets come with desert and the lazy smell of benzine.
This is the first weblog I have written on.
I worked in a very tall tower today. There are huge bands of windows that
go around the building like dirty glass belts. I work in the fourteenth
one from the top and the fourteenth one from the bottom.
Listen: You can see just about to the edge of the whole city from that high
up. But I didn’t look out the window once today.
I always look out the window – it’s hard to drag myself away. Everything
looks so much like Berlin. You know the feeling. Time dilation. But so
high up, like you’re in an airplane going somewhere. Leaving someone
behind. Returning to a place that's not quite home. That feeling.
You will be my friend in Paris. He’s very good with the ladies. Except this
one, the one he likes. She left him good. He didn’t like that very much,
but he couldn’t really complain.
You will be my friend in India. She’s there for the second time now. With a
new boy. He has a very good name, this new boy. But he’s a real jerk. Like
– American film kind of jerk. The type of jerk you don’t really expect to
meet in real life.
Dear Dale, I have not written in more than a year. Unless you count
Resumes, and I don’t count Resumes. You will be my friend in the Peach
that I said I would write to.
I’ve seen you in real life, fidgeting with the gentle glass things in your
mind.
Mihai.
Dear Dale,
I have not written for more than a year. Unless you count birthday cards,
and I don’t count birthday cards. You will be my friend in Italy that I
never replied to after promising him so much. You will my friend in Rome.
Mexico, where the sunsets come with desert and the lazy smell of benzine.
This is the first weblog I have written on.
I worked in a very tall tower today. There are huge bands of windows that
go around the building like dirty glass belts. I work in the fourteenth
one from the top and the fourteenth one from the bottom.
Listen: You can see just about to the edge of the whole city from that high
up. But I didn’t look out the window once today.
I always look out the window – it’s hard to drag myself away. Everything
looks so much like Berlin. You know the feeling. Time dilation. But so
high up, like you’re in an airplane going somewhere. Leaving someone
behind. Returning to a place that's not quite home. That feeling.
You will be my friend in Paris. He’s very good with the ladies. Except this
one, the one he likes. She left him good. He didn’t like that very much,
but he couldn’t really complain.
You will be my friend in India. She’s there for the second time now. With a
new boy. He has a very good name, this new boy. But he’s a real jerk. Like
– American film kind of jerk. The type of jerk you don’t really expect to
meet in real life.
Dear Dale, I have not written in more than a year. Unless you count
Resumes, and I don’t count Resumes. You will be my friend in the Peach
that I said I would write to.
I’ve seen you in real life, fidgeting with the gentle glass things in your
mind.
Mihai.
Dale for a day or two
Once again I have two Dale For A Day contributors, both wish to remain anonymous.
Dale For A Day by Anon 1.
Part One: Him.
His heart skipped a beat.
It always did when her name appeared in the glowing electrons of his computer monitor. And there she was. Her IM avatar was a bright green car, and that was the image he associated with her. Every time he saw one on the street, she popped into his mind.
"This is bad," he thought. Very bad. It's becoming close to obsession, although "obsession" isn't quite the right word. Infatuation? Attraction? He'd never met her, and it was unlikely that he would in the near future. Still, he thought about her day and night (wasn't that a song? "Day and night... night and day..." Who was that? Cole Porter?). He looked for reasons to go online; to see if she was there.
He could only imagine her voice, for they had never spoken. He had a vague idea of what she looked like, from the many pictures she'd posted. Looks weren't important to him...not really. He'd dated all types of women, but she really was exceptionally beautiful in his eyes. He never told her this, of course. It seemed, well...kind of creepy. Besides, it didn't matter. They were having great conversations about life. Love. Art. Music. No subject was off limits, no secrets, no bullshit, no hidden agendas...
Well. That wasn't exactly true, was it now?
So what should he call this? A crush? Yeah. That was probably the best word for it. He had a crush on this amazing, intelligent woman that he'd never met. This was bad. Very bad. For a lot of very good reasons.
All this went through his head in the instant that it took for him to recognize that she was online again. His hands went to the keyboard. "Hey Sunshine!" he typed.
Part Two: Her.
"Hey Sunshine!"
The words appeared on her screen, and her heart skipped a beat. Just like it always did when he greeted her like that.
His avatar--a closeup photo of a rock on the sidewalk--always made her smile. Every time she kicked a stone, she thought of him. Not that she'd ever kick him, mind you. No, she had other things in mind for him that didn't involve kicking...
"No!" she suddenly yelled aloud. Her roommate shot her a glance. Shit. This was bad. Now she was talking to the voices in her head.
What was it about him that made her act like this? She'd never met him. She probably never would. And yet, they would IM each other for hours on end. At first, it was just cute. Then it became fun. Now, it was...well, it was something else.
He didn't appeal to her. For a lot of very, very, VERY good reasons, he wasn't her type. In fact, he was someone else's type, and for that matter, someone else's altogether. So they had an amazing friendship. A weird friendship, but a true one nonetheless.
Still...
Fuck. This can't become a crush. "You're smarter than this," she said aloud, as her fingers reached for the keyboard. Her roommate looked up from her book. "What did you say?" she asked.
"Nothing."
She pecked out the words on the screen: "Hey Stoney!"
SEND.
Dale For A Day by Anon 2.
And why won't I budge him? I think I've told myself that I'm scared. I think, and that's the cause of this paralysis/ I'm scared of the "I',- the "eye". the "I". -Twist of pronounciation and your meaning is too clear. It cuts. The "you" was hard enough to deal with,- they say it would have been easier if I'd "felt" rather than "dealt" but hey, they rhyme so they can't be that different. But put them in a poem, twist 'em round a bit, hell, they'll eventually say anything you almost think you want them to.
No, it's the "I", I ( I Claudius, I Heathcliff), I (the forgiven) take thee (the trapped) to be my lawfully wedded etcetera.
The truly stunning sunburst here is that you are (and always have been) unaware of my howl and roar, my tooth and fang.
This wail is the threnody of the woman who finds herself too late.
Dale For A Day by Anon 1.
Part One: Him.
His heart skipped a beat.
It always did when her name appeared in the glowing electrons of his computer monitor. And there she was. Her IM avatar was a bright green car, and that was the image he associated with her. Every time he saw one on the street, she popped into his mind.
"This is bad," he thought. Very bad. It's becoming close to obsession, although "obsession" isn't quite the right word. Infatuation? Attraction? He'd never met her, and it was unlikely that he would in the near future. Still, he thought about her day and night (wasn't that a song? "Day and night... night and day..." Who was that? Cole Porter?). He looked for reasons to go online; to see if she was there.
He could only imagine her voice, for they had never spoken. He had a vague idea of what she looked like, from the many pictures she'd posted. Looks weren't important to him...not really. He'd dated all types of women, but she really was exceptionally beautiful in his eyes. He never told her this, of course. It seemed, well...kind of creepy. Besides, it didn't matter. They were having great conversations about life. Love. Art. Music. No subject was off limits, no secrets, no bullshit, no hidden agendas...
Well. That wasn't exactly true, was it now?
So what should he call this? A crush? Yeah. That was probably the best word for it. He had a crush on this amazing, intelligent woman that he'd never met. This was bad. Very bad. For a lot of very good reasons.
All this went through his head in the instant that it took for him to recognize that she was online again. His hands went to the keyboard. "Hey Sunshine!" he typed.
Part Two: Her.
"Hey Sunshine!"
The words appeared on her screen, and her heart skipped a beat. Just like it always did when he greeted her like that.
His avatar--a closeup photo of a rock on the sidewalk--always made her smile. Every time she kicked a stone, she thought of him. Not that she'd ever kick him, mind you. No, she had other things in mind for him that didn't involve kicking...
"No!" she suddenly yelled aloud. Her roommate shot her a glance. Shit. This was bad. Now she was talking to the voices in her head.
What was it about him that made her act like this? She'd never met him. She probably never would. And yet, they would IM each other for hours on end. At first, it was just cute. Then it became fun. Now, it was...well, it was something else.
He didn't appeal to her. For a lot of very, very, VERY good reasons, he wasn't her type. In fact, he was someone else's type, and for that matter, someone else's altogether. So they had an amazing friendship. A weird friendship, but a true one nonetheless.
Still...
Fuck. This can't become a crush. "You're smarter than this," she said aloud, as her fingers reached for the keyboard. Her roommate looked up from her book. "What did you say?" she asked.
"Nothing."
She pecked out the words on the screen: "Hey Stoney!"
SEND.
Dale For A Day by Anon 2.
And why won't I budge him? I think I've told myself that I'm scared. I think, and that's the cause of this paralysis/ I'm scared of the "I',- the "eye". the "I". -Twist of pronounciation and your meaning is too clear. It cuts. The "you" was hard enough to deal with,- they say it would have been easier if I'd "felt" rather than "dealt" but hey, they rhyme so they can't be that different. But put them in a poem, twist 'em round a bit, hell, they'll eventually say anything you almost think you want them to.
No, it's the "I", I ( I Claudius, I Heathcliff), I (the forgiven) take thee (the trapped) to be my lawfully wedded etcetera.
The truly stunning sunburst here is that you are (and always have been) unaware of my howl and roar, my tooth and fang.
This wail is the threnody of the woman who finds herself too late.
Kitten killing time
I'm waiting on a Dale For A Day post, its coming from America so it may take a while to arrive. In the meantime I can disappointingly report that The Chaser boys are all tiny and beautiful, like dolls, here ends my fantasy.
Dale for a day
Its that time again. Be Dale for a day, the topic is having an unwanted crush, email your post to dale.slamma@gmail.com
Ok the topic is optional, if you wish to remain anonymous just let me know. Come on, you know you want to be Dale for a day.
Ok the topic is optional, if you wish to remain anonymous just let me know. Come on, you know you want to be Dale for a day.
Gold leader we have a problem, there are two Dale For A Days, I repeat two Dales today.
Dale For A Day by Gempires.
Since Dale Slamma has been a guest blogger on Gempires it is only fitting that Gempires shall now be guest blogger on Dale Slamma. And since Dale is The Captain, the theme of this post shall be Dale.
I imagine Dale sometimes. When I am imagining Dale she is almost always in one of two places - in her home, which I have never been to and therefore must invent for my mind; or on King Street, Newtown, which I know very well.
When I imagine Dale at home she is always having a cup of tea and a cigarette. I have almost no doubt that she keeps an ashtray by her laptop in her room, though she has never mentioned this. I sometimes wonder what she means by 'cup of tea.' I know she likes 'a cup of tea and a little sit down' (a favourite saying of hers, and it brings me the comfort of a soft mother in slippers) but we all have our different versions of 'cup of tea.' I mostly assume it is milky black tea with one sugar, but perhaps she is more inclined toward chamomile, or ginger? At any rate I know she uses soy milk because cow boobs have the wrong juice for her constitution, and so they should, as she is not a calf.
When I imagine Dale on King Street she is often standing in the gelato shop looking at the flavours and chatting to the person who spoons her fig sorbet into a cup. We have never clarified which gelato place she goes to, so while I suspect it may be the one opposite the supermarket (which was once a Woolworths, then an IGA, but I believe is now a Franklins) for some reason I always picture her at the one on the corner of Wilson Street. She always chooses a cup over a cone. I do not know why I have decided this.
My favourite place to imagine Dale is in her kitchen. I associate her kitchen with lots of wooden things - I am strangely comforted by wooden things: their look, their feel, their sound, their solidness - and in reveries I watch her eat from small wooden bowls at a dark wood table with walls that are half wood, much like you would find in an alpine cabin. I am not sure why I associate her with wood but I suspect it is because there is something calming about Dale. She seems to keep it together. If you drop something wooden it does not shatter.
I don't often imagine Dale at the stove. I think she is more of a sandwich and toast person. I do picture her at cafes with cake, I think she has mentioned cafes with cake, and since I have known Dale and have been reading her words I find myself thinking about cake much more often. This is a dangerous thing because I live so close to Acland Street in St Kilda which is famous for its proliferation of amazing cake shops with full window displays of tantalising tarts. I decided once that if Dale ever came to visit we would definitely have cake.
I think I knew Dale in a previous life. She seems exactly...something. Exactly right, I think is the best way to put it. Like, if I could have invented a person, I'd have made Dale Rockin' Slamma. For this reason, and she knows this, I feel like I have always known her.
And I hope I get to be guest blogger!
Dale For A Day by Anonymous.
"Look, it's on again!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
"What?"
"Dale For A Day" Day!
She put down the newspaper and troddled over to the computer screen. "Damn," she thought, not giving voice to the word, lest the Parrot hear it and pick up another curse to add to his ever-growing repertoire.
"You know, the last time she did this, I had a brilliant, and I mean absolutely FUC--" she paused again, thinking of the bird. "I mean it was a bloody BRILLIANT post all ready to go, and some wanker beat me to it. I trashed the thing, you know."
"I know".
Her curiosity got the best of her. Again. "What's the theme this time?"
"Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive."
"Oh hell, that's easy. I can think of several things off the top of my head." She rattled through them silently:
• Dale is hot, but tries to hide it with photos that make her look tired and haggard. Heh, that hits both "berate and praise", doesn't it?
• Dale is a helluva writer
• Dale is brutally honest with her readers and holds nothing back
• Dale is frequently incomprehensible until you've read the post twelve times. Then you realize she's a freaking genius.
• Dale is the object of fantasy for both men and women (that should raise a few eyebrows")!
"Fuck it. I'm not sending it in."
"Why not?"
"I can't take another rejection. Do you realize how hard I worked on the last one? I had a minute-by-minute account of her day all plotted out, and everything had a Beatles reference!"
He sighed and turned away.
"Well, maybe. I'll think about it. Where's that 'send' button?"
Dale For A Day by Anonymous.
"Look, it's on again!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
"What?"
"Dale For A Day" Day!
She put down the newspaper and troddled over to the computer screen. "Damn," she thought, not giving voice to the word, lest the Parrot hear it and pick up another curse to add to his ever-growing repertoire.
"You know, the last time she did this, I had a brilliant, and I mean absolutely FUC--" she paused again, thinking of the bird. "I mean it was a bloody BRILLIANT post all ready to go, and some wanker beat me to it. I trashed the thing, you know."
"I know".
Her curiosity got the best of her. Again. "What's the theme this time?"
"Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive."
"Oh hell, that's easy. I can think of several things off the top of my head." She rattled through them silently:
• Dale is hot, but tries to hide it with photos that make her look tired and haggard. Heh, that hits both "berate and praise", doesn't it?
• Dale is a helluva writer
• Dale is brutally honest with her readers and holds nothing back
• Dale is frequently incomprehensible until you've read the post twelve times. Then you realize she's a freaking genius.
• Dale is the object of fantasy for both men and women (that should raise a few eyebrows")!
"Fuck it. I'm not sending it in."
"Why not?"
"I can't take another rejection. Do you realize how hard I worked on the last one? I had a minute-by-minute account of her day all plotted out, and everything had a Beatles reference!"
He sighed and turned away.
"Well, maybe. I'll think about it. Where's that 'send' button?"
Something in the way you move or open slather bring it on fuck yeah
It is time for another Dale For A Day. Being the Special Guest Star on Gempires has reminded me that I started a 'segment' here called Dale For A Day. Anyone can be Dale for a day you just need to email me your post with details of whether or not you wish to remain anonymous. Last time it was first in best dressed but that was declared unfair by a local because they reckon the Americans are awake when they are asleep and got to read the post first.
I am setting a theme because I am The Captain of this blog, the theme is..... um.... shit, should have thought about that before I started typing. Ha! Me, Dale Rockin' Slamma. Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive. You've got less than 24 hours, go.
dale.slamma@gmail.com
I am setting a theme because I am The Captain of this blog, the theme is..... um.... shit, should have thought about that before I started typing. Ha! Me, Dale Rockin' Slamma. Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive. You've got less than 24 hours, go.
dale.slamma@gmail.com
Dale for a day
Dale for a day by ......?
12.01
Sit up in bed with laptop on lap editing thing and trying to get to grips with wordpress, which is beyond you, and chatting to various people - so much more fun to do this sitting up in bed with no makeup on and hair in eccentric braid thing sticking up from top of head than actually having to be somewhere properly dressed and looking animated. Also, chatting in the privacy of your aloneness means that nobody can disapprovingly tell you you are smoking too much. Only one of these people is beloved lover going on about his other lover. Clearly you are not jealous in the slightest, as can be seen by your furrowed brow and uncomprehending: "But why?" when opposite scenario occurs.
2.00
Tell chattees you must go to sleep. Set alarm clock and note vaguely that you must be awake in less than three hours. Somewhere in the intervening time you have managed to bend wordpress to your will, and have cybersex, slightly freaking the other person out towards the end.
2.30
Door is flung open by daughter, who wishes to tell you about new car. Door is able to be flung open due to failure of feminism, which means that some months ago you managed to half get the lock out of the door in an attempt to change it in order to lock daughter out and safeguard clothes, money, makeup etc, and have ever since been plaintively begging daughter to order her musclebound boyfriend to yank the rest of it out. Even though you are slightly apprehensive, as last time you asked him to loosen a screw in the doorhandle, he yanked the whole doorhandle off. Anyway, you now have uncloseable bedroom door which means daughter is free to steal cigarettes and chat whenever she feels like it. You weren't asleep but pretend you were in a vain attempt to induce filial guilt.
3.00
Daughter having returned your phone which she has had for two days, you are able to read messages saying that you don't have to go into work at all. Triumphantly stay awake until 4.45.
5.00
Painfully reminded that you forgot to turn alarm off.
9.50
Wake up. Drink vast amounts of coffee before remembering that it is decaff, and therefore useless.
6.00
Have bath, with very little memory of what has happened in the intervening hours. In bath, accidentally shave off mosquito bite.
6.45
Have such incredibly strong orgasm you almost pass out. Actually, you do pass out.
7.00
Roused by daughter to go out and do something about something with her phone, which involves getting dressed etc. At some point are told that you are mean and horrible, reply by pointing out how incredibly badly brought up she is, are reminded you were sole bringer-upper. Buy coffee for tomorrow morning.
8.00
Happily collapse back into smoke-fugged, laptopped bedroom, exhausted by brief exposure to humanity.
8.02
Fucking child rings fucking doorbell because it is obviously easier for you to get up and open door than it is for her to get keys out of pocket. Tear her fucking head off and stuff it down her fucking throat. She doesn't notice, and goes out again.
8.10 - 11.59
Look forward to peaceful evening wondering whether to have toasted cheese or toasted cheese, intermittently clearing up dismembered baby bats and lizards that cat likes to bring in through your bedroom window.
12.01
Sit up in bed with laptop on lap editing thing and trying to get to grips with wordpress, which is beyond you, and chatting to various people - so much more fun to do this sitting up in bed with no makeup on and hair in eccentric braid thing sticking up from top of head than actually having to be somewhere properly dressed and looking animated. Also, chatting in the privacy of your aloneness means that nobody can disapprovingly tell you you are smoking too much. Only one of these people is beloved lover going on about his other lover. Clearly you are not jealous in the slightest, as can be seen by your furrowed brow and uncomprehending: "But why?" when opposite scenario occurs.
2.00
Tell chattees you must go to sleep. Set alarm clock and note vaguely that you must be awake in less than three hours. Somewhere in the intervening time you have managed to bend wordpress to your will, and have cybersex, slightly freaking the other person out towards the end.
2.30
Door is flung open by daughter, who wishes to tell you about new car. Door is able to be flung open due to failure of feminism, which means that some months ago you managed to half get the lock out of the door in an attempt to change it in order to lock daughter out and safeguard clothes, money, makeup etc, and have ever since been plaintively begging daughter to order her musclebound boyfriend to yank the rest of it out. Even though you are slightly apprehensive, as last time you asked him to loosen a screw in the doorhandle, he yanked the whole doorhandle off. Anyway, you now have uncloseable bedroom door which means daughter is free to steal cigarettes and chat whenever she feels like it. You weren't asleep but pretend you were in a vain attempt to induce filial guilt.
3.00
Daughter having returned your phone which she has had for two days, you are able to read messages saying that you don't have to go into work at all. Triumphantly stay awake until 4.45.
5.00
Painfully reminded that you forgot to turn alarm off.
9.50
Wake up. Drink vast amounts of coffee before remembering that it is decaff, and therefore useless.
6.00
Have bath, with very little memory of what has happened in the intervening hours. In bath, accidentally shave off mosquito bite.
6.45
Have such incredibly strong orgasm you almost pass out. Actually, you do pass out.
7.00
Roused by daughter to go out and do something about something with her phone, which involves getting dressed etc. At some point are told that you are mean and horrible, reply by pointing out how incredibly badly brought up she is, are reminded you were sole bringer-upper. Buy coffee for tomorrow morning.
8.00
Happily collapse back into smoke-fugged, laptopped bedroom, exhausted by brief exposure to humanity.
8.02
Fucking child rings fucking doorbell because it is obviously easier for you to get up and open door than it is for her to get keys out of pocket. Tear her fucking head off and stuff it down her fucking throat. She doesn't notice, and goes out again.
8.10 - 11.59
Look forward to peaceful evening wondering whether to have toasted cheese or toasted cheese, intermittently clearing up dismembered baby bats and lizards that cat likes to bring in through your bedroom window.
Dale for a day or D is for Dale who died of ennui
Its time to let someone else take over for a day. If you want to be Dale for a day go ahead and write the post, send it to me and I'll publish it cause whatever it is your Dale did for a day its got to be better than what I did.
Science was right! You really need to eat breakfast or you won't be able to concentrate. I found this out the hard way by spending an entire afternoon with my brain on holiday yet still having to do all my work. Unfortunate for the poor man who phoned to ask my advice about something and I asked him if he spelt his name the same way as the evil dictator.
I am perplexed about some things and desperately wanting to contact a few people to clarify some comments left on this blog but as they were all left by men I can't so I will have to remain perplexed. I am also very cross at having to pass on the opportunity to have some free apple tea delivered right to my door as the marketing opportunity was sent by a man. I love tea. I love apple tea (and tobacco). I love delivered right to my door. I am beginning to wonder how much is enough?
Email your Dale for a day post to dale.slamma@gmail.com and I'll publish it. If I really like it I might even do what your Dale did and see how my version works out.
Science was right! You really need to eat breakfast or you won't be able to concentrate. I found this out the hard way by spending an entire afternoon with my brain on holiday yet still having to do all my work. Unfortunate for the poor man who phoned to ask my advice about something and I asked him if he spelt his name the same way as the evil dictator.
I am perplexed about some things and desperately wanting to contact a few people to clarify some comments left on this blog but as they were all left by men I can't so I will have to remain perplexed. I am also very cross at having to pass on the opportunity to have some free apple tea delivered right to my door as the marketing opportunity was sent by a man. I love tea. I love apple tea (and tobacco). I love delivered right to my door. I am beginning to wonder how much is enough?
Email your Dale for a day post to dale.slamma@gmail.com and I'll publish it. If I really like it I might even do what your Dale did and see how my version works out.
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