This Isn't a Blog Entry

This is a test message to see if my mind is working. If this were a blog entry I would have a theme, a discourse, a point to make, a desire to convince, actually something to say.

The only thing on my mind at the moment is that I need to breakdown and add some minutes to my pre-paid cell phone and I am not sure why I am going to do that because I rarely use the silly thing even though I did send one text message when I figured out that I could actually do that but it wasn't answered which is a good thing because I really don't want to be an official text messager. A fellow at work asked what apps I had on my phone and I told him that my phone was voice enabled. It took him a moment to figure that out. I admit I was a little impressed when my step-daughter pulled out her phone to check the traffic before driving home after visiting but I don't fancy getting a dandy cell phone just to check traffic.

If I actually wanted an inquisitive public to read this I would include references to 'Honest Sex Advice' and 'Why Barack Obama is a Closet Conservative' and 'Facebook is a Socialist Plot', but I wouldn't stoop to such underhanded tactics. How about 'Dishonest Sex Advice'? Some people even throw in pictures just to draw in a crowd which is really stupid and shameful.  

Oops. Accidental picture insertion.

I do have another page on this here blog site cleverly named recipes. Yesterday I started to write a recipe to put on that page with visions of telling of multiple culinary delights in the months to come but when I tried to save the recipe it saved on this page which is not my recipe page....or maybe it saved on both pages at once. Anyway it didn't do what I envisioned and I got frustrated because I figured out that 'Google Monitors What I Do' and tries to thwart me at every turn. So I figured I would stop trying to be fancy and would just delete the Recipe page and just blend in recipes in this blog. But I was afraid to delete it because from studying the situation I couldn't tell if I would just delete that page or end up deleting the whole blog. I think I would switch to some other blog site but I just don't want to get confused again.

Maybe tomorrow I will settle down and write the recipe again....you know, begin a collection of recipes for folks who aren't too particular how things taste. It works for a guy. Just seeing a guy stand in front of a stove will make women 'Crumble In Orgasmic Ecstasy'. If the culinary product is halfway decent there are breathless murmurings of "Oh, he really can cook". If the product is lousy the guy will get a heartfelt acknowledgment of, "Poor baby, at least he's trying." It is a no lose situation. It's unfair. Women can dice and slice and cook to precision only to be greeted with, "Hey, you got some ketchup?"
 
It was just last Thursday when I dined at a finer buffet in another town and I walked up and down and around the serving lines and was presented with a lot of divine fishy stuff and strange asparagus combinations and interesting sauces and pork tenderloins but.....well, I spied some mac and cheese and pinto beans and roast tenderloins and my stomach told me that was really what I wanted and I grabbed a plate full and ate it and went back for some more. It was pretty damn expensive rustic food -- but it hit the spot just right. Oh, I had a snazzy dinner roll with it too. It's not that I don't appreciate finer food...I've been obligated to eat at the best restaurants in New York and Boston even though what I really wanted was a hamburger and onion rings without that cadre of waiters hovering wanting to do things for me....or to me. This is what happens when you attend business meetings and afterward someone is trying to impress you with their 'Ebony American Express Card' and entree into exclusive places. I ate and smiled and talked and nodded appropriately while desperately wanting out of there.

Hold on a minute. Have to feed the dogs.

---a minute---

Hutch came and stood in front of me and howled. I looked at the clock and it was 5:36 and he and Buddy want to be fed at 5:30. They can tell time better than I can.

I wish I had something to talk about like 'The Man of Your Dreams is Waiting Here For You, Right Now!' or 'Spies Don't Look Like James Bond. True Spies are Fat and Unremarkable'. Instead I just sit here thinking about a little recipe that I will write about. Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day.

I won't apologize for this entry. You chose to come here of your own free will and you should be more discriminating. But kinda' glad you showed up anyway.