Seem like the whole world walking pretty
And you can’t find the room to move
Well everybody better move over, that’s all
I’m running on the bad side
And I got my back to the wall…

–Springsteen

The framing is coming along. Getting down to the line. Assembling them, cleaning glass, bolting in the hardware.

Meantime, I got some wheels now to help me haul everything around.

Some entertainment. [link]  Meanwhile, I’ve not been writing for a while as I am busy putting together an art show. I’ll see if I can’t spare some time, but I doubt it. I’ll be posting the process of putting the show together at the other site, as well as putting up the pieces featured in the show.All for now.[update] So, Rats Live On lives no more. He said, after this little exchange that he was going to quit blogging. But he actually pulled down his site completely.

The entire exchange occurred as a result of a comment I wrote at blogcritics.org on one of his posts. He was posting about the ridiculousness of the new INXS band, and the ordeal of selecting a new lead singer on the reality TV show. He didn’t like how the selections were going.

I commented that his article would have been a stronger one without the use of the word “fuck”. I was very diplomatic in the way I worded my comment so as not to appear attacking. He ripped into me on his now defunct site, personally attacking me, my writing and my art.

All that’s left is the original post over at Blogcritics. Interestingly, even though he killed his blog and is no longer participating at BC, my comment was deleted, but his post remains. Just to be sure, I checked, and my posts themselves have not been deleted.

Crissy and I were hunting sand dollars. We had only just arrived in Ocean City and already we were out on the beach, still in our tenners. with our sack. It’s empty now, but it won’t be. Last year we went on vacation with Uncle Toby and he taught us how to find sand dollars in the surf, but to do that we’d have to take off our shoes.

Then when we got back to the cottage Mom would yell at us for having sand in our socks, but we won’t care. They sell sand dollars in the shops for two dollars apiece so Crissy and I will sell them on the boardwalk for seventy-five cents. It’ll be enough, if we do well, to buy O.C. T-shirts. And I love walking up and down the aisles picking out one that’s just right. A seagull and a sunset over the ocean. the colors always fade by the next year, though.

The sun was hot when the wind didn’t blow, and Mom made us wear longsleeves to protect us from the sun. Said we were better than the migrants and shouldn’t be so brown.

“Oh, leave ‘em alone,” Dad said from the bathroom. He’d gone in there for more rum. Kept it in the tank to keep it cold. “Better’n a refrigerator,” he’d say.

Once Mom was satisfied we wouldn’t wander too far we raced out of the cottage and chased each other in the dunes, hiding in the dry grass. I tripped on some driftwood and Crissy jumped the fence and was out on the beach, running, scattering gulls and sandpipers.

I didn’t run into the wet sand like she did. I plunked down in the sand and cigarette butts and beer cans and pulled off my shoes and socks, leaving them in a balled-up mess near the path. Crissy came running back out of breath, her feet wet with her shoes still on them.

The sand was hot on my knees as I knelt to untie her shoes, and it was hard, she wouldn’t stop squirming. Her hat blew off and she chased it into the water before I could take off her other shoe. She sat down in the waves, hat in her mouth and tore off her other shoe.

“I can feel them!” she shouted. The water was up to her waist. I ran out with her, I had the sack. I let my feet be covered by sand when the waves crashed into me. The water was up to my knees and I watched Crissy so she wouldn’t fall down.

I felt them too. They’re faster than you might think, all squirmy when they’re alive. My toes followed one until I had him. I pressed down hard and closed my eyes against the surf. My shirt was soaked and heavy by now and I bent to grab him with my hand.

It was a big one. His hairs sparkled a little in the sunlight and I laughed, throwing the brown prize into our sack.

“First one!” I said jubilantly.

Crissy laughed and showed both hands. She held two small ones, and I knew it would be a good summer.

Some of you may know that I have been poaching wireless @ home + that my Internet connection is a touch spotty. That’s one of the reasons I post with such great infrequency here of late. Whomever I’m poaching from, I think, has figured it out, and usually shuts off the router. Whoever it is isn’t smart enough to password protect the connection, but shutting off the router. Damn. That puts a cramp in my surfing. I was pleased to find Airport recognized a new network recently, but it’s the same story.

Been slammed @ werk, and, though I did write a new story last night, I forgot to bring it to werk to post, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

Meantime, though, fellow Montana blogger hosted the newest Rascal Fair, featuring fiction-writing bloggers from all over, but mainly from Montana from what I have seen. Head over and check it out.

Big shout out to Julia who recently arrived in all of her glory in Brooklyn, NY. Watch out NYC, a Knitting Revolution is about to begin.