I sign up to spam. All the time. It’s like I can’t help myself. I know that my inbox is going to get flooded with things I don’t want and don’t care about, but… at the time when whatever product I am looking at, or coupon I am searching for asks me “do you want to sign up for our weekly newsletter?” “Sign up here so we can notify you of new offers and deals!” I automatically just plug in my information. It’s like a reflex.

And at the time I am doing it, I always really believe, “well this stuff is useful!”

So if I believe it then, why when the emails start coming in do I just groan and delete them all without even opening them!? What the hell is “My Rewards Points” anyway? When did I become a member? Why are shop rite always emailing me about $1.99 lb chicken breast offer? Did I buy a substantial amount of chicken breast from them once and sign up to a chicken lovers e-promotion. Don’t you ever have deals on beef shop rite? Maybe you do, and I don’t realize it because I never open your emails.

This morning I was so pleased when my rainmeter told me I had 53 new emails my initial reaction was “Hey! Look who’s popular!!” of course once I opened my email I found out that every single one of them was either spam or facebook notifications. (Which are pretty close to being classed as spam anyway in my humble opinion.) I was disappointed. Not by the lack of meaningful emails I had expected to receive – but didn’t, but by the fact that I am enough of a sucker to sign up to all this rubbish all the time anyway. I mean, Kitsu Saga? What the hell is that? Some terrible MMO I played for 2 seconds before uninstalling. Why do I care if we get a mount with the next update?! (What kind of mount? Is it a pony?) Speaking of mounts and bad MMO’s, Blizzard Entertainment, why are you still sending me emails? I have not played you’re really boring and overrated game since 2006! That’s 4 years! Why have I been putting up with emails from you for that long?!

I took my dog for a nice long walk after that disappointment so I could enjoy this lovely autumn sunshine and we could go crunching in leaves. Leave crunching always cheers me up.

Now I’m back in front of my laptop, and I have an additional 9 spam emails which have just appeared in my inbox. (Who or what the hell is dogfunk?! And when did I sign up for Sparkpeople!? Me, fit and healthy!? Hahahahah. I must have been high.)

I can’t go on like this. This constant bombardment of junk. If I don’t check my email for just 48 hours I end up with over a hundred emails. Do you know how often my Mum’s emails get buried in all that junk! Sometimes I don’t find them for a week because I’m just too lazy to check the little boxes on all the spam suspects and delete them. I need to put a stop to it. I need to find the will to say NO to spam. I don’t need this crap cluttering up my inbox. Hell, one of the spam emails I just received was called “Unclutterer” is that even a word?!

Today is the day. I have to unsubscribe from everything I’ve already gotten, and then I need to ignore any suggestions from companies to “sign up” to anything.

Except, maybe I should keep the shop rite ones… at least until I get back home to Australia… there might be a good coupon for granola in there… and I guess knowing about cheap flights to Asia is not such a bad thing… I mean… hey… I do like to travel… So maybe I’ll just keep a few  of them. Just the good ones right? (There are good ones… right?)

So I was on the internet looking for an answer to my problem when someone told me this great story about a woman who paid off her 20k credit card debt with the help of random strangers. My insightful internet buddy called it “cyber-panhandling” and I figured what the hell. In my current situation, I’m not too ashamed to beg!

Thing is… I know a total of maybe… 5 people read this blog, (0ne of whom is my Mum), but I’m really hoping to up that number a lot after this post.

My Dog. The coolest.

This is my dog. Soren “Mr. Kierkegaard” Bollati-Mercadante. A helluva name right!?

Soren came into the lives of me and my often mentioned and quite handsome boyfriend, Rocco, when a Korean student who I worked with back at the start of the year told me she had adopted a dog… despite only being in America for 3 months. She had to go back home to Korea and she didn’t know what the hell to do with the dog. I called a few Manhattan shelters and kept hitting the same response, they were flooded, at full capacity, couldn’t guarantee this cutie a good home.

I came home one day and said to Roc, “Babe, you want a dog?” to which he replied very enthusiastically, “DO I EVER!”

Back then… in late February-early March Rocco and I thought we’d be living in our old but quaint apartment in Bergen County, NJ for the next bazillion years. We had no idea that I’d loose my job and my prospects for a permanent US working visa, or that he and his friend Joe would suddenly be smitten with the idea of moving to my sunny country, Australia. Getting a dog just seemed like the logical progression in our ‘happy family’ life plan.

But things change. I tend to have a horrible habit of not being an American Citizen, a fact which in this current economic crisis cost me a permanent position at my old job. And Rocco and Joe got tired of hearing me tell them about how great (and warm) Australia was and decided to test my claims themselves.

So here we are, planning to move all the way to the sunny southern hemisphere. And we’re plodding along with our preparations because I read somewhere that you can take puppies as checked baggage with you on a flight. Then last night, when I’m weighing up which airline we should book with I discover that airlines don’t like to take pets as checked baggage on flights over 12 hours. And by don’t like, I mean they won’t do it.

We’re a few hours over that limit.

So now, we’re 8 weeks from flying out and suddenly, on top of everything else we need to get together $3350 to ship our puppy to his new home.

Now I’m going to work extra shifts to try and get this money. And so is Roc. We’re gonna sell all those non-essential things we have hanging around that we like but don’t really need. But even then, we’re probably not going to make the cost.

And this is where everyone else comes in. If anyone can offer us even $1 to help us bring our dog with us, it would mean the world to us!

Soren has already been shifted from at least 2 homes. He has trouble learning to trust new people. We don’t want to bump him on to another family, we made the choice to make him part of ours. Please help us keep him in our family!

Our paypal information is rocco [at] student.fdu.edu (obviously replace the [at] with an @) Please donate, even if it’s just a dollar. If by some miracle 3000 people see this and all donate just one dollar then by January all three of us will be safely sat on planes on the way to our new home!

Please, if you’re a dog lover, then help me out by reposting this blog entry in as many places as you can! The more people who see this post, the more likely it is that Soren will be able to come home with us!

It is a beggar’s pride that he is not a thief – Japanese Proverb

Thank you from myself, Roc and of course Soren!

Cheese is probably one of my favourite of all ingredients. There are so many different types of cheese, it can add such a distinctive flavour to a dish.

Over the years I’ve developed my own blue cheese sauce, a cream cheese sauce. More than one type of lasagna, multiple types of baked pasta (I actually just acquired a wonderful recipe for baked Ziti from my good friend Joe!), pizza’s… if it needs cheese, then I’ve made it and experimented with it.

Well today, after eating pasta for about 6 weeks straight (alright, I’m exaggerating. But it certainly feels that way!) I wanted to branch out.

In my freezer I had, among other things, roughly 1.1 pounds or 500 grams of beef mince. (Ground beef for all you Americans). In my cupboard I had pasta. Pasta and… rice?

I took a chance! I would create a rice bake! It would be amazing! This was what I promised myself when I set out on this mornings cooking adventure! Here’s what I did.

ASSEMBLED INGREDIENTS

1 large brown onion
3 cloves of garlic
Afore mentioned mince
1 tbsp of butter (unsalted)
1 and 3/4 cups of long grain rice
1 can of college inn chicken stock (roughly 2 and a half cups of chicken stock)
1 large can of diced tomatoes
2 large carrots
4 slices of provolone cheese
1 and a half cups of grated cheese (preferably a Mozarella mix)
Salt and Pepper to taste
1 tbsp of Paprika
and
1 tsp of Ground Mustard

BEGIN METHOD

I do everything backwards, but I’ll stay true to my cooking practices and tell you exactly how everything went this afternoon.

1st I diced the onion, and threw it and some olive oil into a large heavy based saucepan. Once that was sizzling I peeled my 3 fat cloves of garlic and crushed them into the pan. (Mmmm. The smell of cooking garlic and onions! Nothing compares! It’s how I know I am Italian!)

Once they were nice and fragrant I browned my mince. Adding it in large handfuls and stirring it viciously until I was happy it was cooked entirely. I then removed my garlic, onion mince and put it on a cooking tray which I need to return to my friend Kieran. (Thanks for the chicken btw Kier! We need to talk seasonings!)

The meat aside I started with my rice. My plan. I wasn’t entirely sure. The back of the packet of rice I have talks about butter. So I got myself a tablespoon of the unsalted variety and threw it in the saucepan I’d just cooked the mince with. Then I threw in 1 and 3/4 cups of long grain rice and stirred it all up. (LIQUID!? Who needs liquid when I have butter!?) Once I had my sweet Carolina rice well and coated in that golden brown melted butter. I called my kitchen assistant, the wonderfully handsome Rocco, and told him to open the cans of stock and tomatoes for me, because I had forgotten to and the rice was already in the pan. I needed to keep stirring it.

A minute later he handed me a can of stock. I added it gradually to the rice, as if I was cooking risotto. Just a little at a time, always stirring to ensure it absorbed all that flavourful stock into every tiny white grain. This process must have taken me around 20 minutes. I then turned it down to very low heat and proceeded to curse the fact that I didn’t dice my carrots when I’d been chopping the onion.

I clumsily diced two large carrots. There was no uniform order to their size and many of their brethren fell to the floor to become snacks for my alarmingly stupid but adorable dog. Once diced, I threw them in, turned the heat back up and dumped the can of diced tomatoes and all the juice into the pot.

I stirred twice. I always stir widdershinks, (that is anti-clockwise), but you can stir however you like.

Now to add liberal amounts of salt and pepper. I never hold back with these two. They are the centerpiece of all good cooking! Add as much as you feel you can tolerate. Then I added some paprika. I’ve suggested a tbsp or so for you guys, but the truth is I probably put in a bit more. Then a dash of ground mustard powder. Stir it all together and turn the heat down low to simmer.

Turned the oven on to 350 degrees F. (About 170 C)

I had a few minutes now to slice the brownies I made yesterday that were waiting for my attention in the fridge. A few of them broke. Such is the casualties of a busy kitchen.

Once the rice had absorbed pretty much all the tomatoes liquid I turned it off. Got a pan, dumped it into the pan, discovered the pan I had chosen was too large, called Rocco again, had him hold the ‘too large’ pan above a ‘just right’ pan and scooped all the rice into that. I then made him wash the pan I had just dirtied for no reason.

With great care so as not to spill any rice, I mixed the mince mixture in with it in the pan, making sure it was evenly distributed. Broke up my four slices of provolone and assembled them on parts of the rice bake I thought looked the most provolone friendly and then sprinkled a nice thick layer of grated italian mix cheese over the top. Put it in my preheated oven and then sat down and had a cup of Orange Juice and watched some Auto Tune The News.

I’d say about 15 or 20 minutes later the cheese layer was golden brown and crisp at the edges. It was ready!

I pulled it out.

I served a bowl to Rocco. His comments “This is good. I can’t even taste the carrots!”

A moment later Chris Rios arrived at the door. I encouraged him to sample it. His comments “Delicious. I want to have seconds!”

This prompted me to declare the Cheesy Tomato Beef Rice Bake a success! And to share this success story with all of you, potential cheese lovers out there!

Go, partake in the blissful matrimony of cheese and rice! It’s like a honeymoon for your taste buds!

Cheesy Tomato Beef Rice Bake

Several years ago when I was much younger I stumbled upon a site on the internet that taught me a lot about the power of fear and the willingness of some people to distort the truth.

That site was http://www.wm3.org/

For those of you who are not familiar with the West Memphis 3 allow me to briefly explain. They are three boys who were wrongly convicted of murder in 1993 and have spent the last 17 years in prison.

Well, thanks to advances in technology new evidence has been brought to light which can illuminate the truth behind this case, and let 3 innocent men walk free.

I strongly urge any of you reading this to go to WM3.org, to read the facts of the case and to donate your time and if you can manage it, your money to making things right. We can’t give back what has been taken from them, but we can give Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley and Jason Baldwin the chance to lead the rest of their lives as free men.

It’s difficulty, but not impossible, to believe that fear can decide the verdict of a jury rather than fact. It’s a disconcerting thing to realize, but it is unfortunately true. If we want to prevent these errors in the future we must first correct the mistakes of our past while we still have the chance to do so.

Please help me, and the hundreds of other supporters from around the world, put things right and Free the West Memphis Three.

Do not wait for the flashing red hand to change to the white waking man.

Just walk.

Do not amble for the subway.

Run.

Stick your foot in the closing doors. You don’t have 8 minutes to wait for the next L to Brooklyn.

If you do miss that train. Stand at the edge of the yellow line and gaze impatiently down the subway tunnel. By watching for those headlights piercing through the black and sending the rats scurrying you will magically make them appear faster.
Elbow people.

They should be behind you, not beside you.

Yes buddy. That was me who just pushed on past you. But aren’t you the same briefcase clutching, Wall St, Mother Fucker who nearly shouldered me off the escalator yesterday? Don’t look so indignant.

The second thing you need to learn about being a New Yorker is not to take offence to any of the aforementioned behaviour.

It is part of the daily grind.

You’re in the biggest baddest city in the world now. Of course people are in a hurry.

Only so many hours in a day, and I want to be in at work half an hour early so I can catch Happy Hour at Phebe’s tonight and grab a hot dog! Come on man, it’s fucking Friday!

The finished product

My friend Jules gave me a great recipe for banana muffins a couple of weeks ago. I enjoyed them immensely, but, I like to experiment. So I came up with my own banana muffin recipe!

Ingredients;

3 Bananas (I tend to use over ripe ones to get rid of them x3)

2 tbsp of Maple Syrup

2 tbsp of Vegetable Oil

3 tbsp of Butter

1 tsp of Vanilla Extract

1 Egg

1 & 1/2 cups of Flour

3/4 cup of Sugar (Special mention to Ms. Mka Argenio for her sage advice about the sugar <3)

2 tsp of Baking Powder

2 tsp of Cinnamon

EDIT: I made this mix again today (23rd of June) and as the banana’s I used were still fairly ripe I found I had to add a little milk to the mix to help blend it all together. Not a lot, not even 1/4 of a cup. Just a splash to help the wet and dry ingredients combine. Something to keep in mind if your using ripe bananas!

First, I mashed up my bananas in a small bowl. Best part of making these muffins by far. Jules advised me to use a potato masher and that was wise of him, however I’m poor and living in America, I can’t afford a potato masher, this is a god damn recession. I just used a fork.

Once they were mashed I cracked in the egg, added the maple syrup, vegetable oil, butter and vanilla extract and stirred really vigorously. Once everything was combined to satisfaction I grabbed my mixing bowl and measured out the dry ingredients. I should mention that I never actually “measure” anything when I cook. But the measurements I have given here are approximate. I do actually have measuring cups. But I am really lazy and hate washing dishes, so I only use the 1 cup size to measure everything. I am pretty liberal with cinnamon myself, being a fan, but if you’re not then 2 tsp will be enough!

Once my dry ingredients were combined, I added the banana mix. Stirred it all up with a wooden spoon and then whacked them into pre-greased muffin tins. My muffin tins are disposable ones. I just re-wash them. For all my Australian readers, can you believe this? Disposable muffin tins!? Do we have those back home!? I really don’t remember ever seeing them. I don’t believe we’d create such a thing. I mean, the only reason I bought these was because I can’t afford -real- muffin tins on my $7.25 an hour minimum wage P.O.S. job.

Once the muffins were all spooned into their little alfoil homes I whacked them in my oven, which I had pre-heated to 375 degrees Farenheit, or for all of us who decided the metric system was better, about 190 degrees Celcius. You can crank it up to 200 I am sure.

Baked them for about 20 minutes, until they were golden brown on the top. Served one to my taste tester, the man with the silver palate, Mr. Mercadante and I was assured they were a success!

So please, give the recipe a go and let me know how you like it! Or, alternatively, if you’d like anymore of my recipes, (such as the garlic beef parmigiana with spaghetti that I am making for dinner tonight) let me know! I love to share! <3

It was always supposed to be a real mile stone. A chance to look back on what I had accomplished and pat myself on the back.

At midnight last night, I was not patting myself on the back. I was staring face first into the result of many culminative struggles.

I have even failed in regards to the little things. The reasonable goals a person sets them selves. The easily achievable.

Exhibit A: The Bedroom.

For how many years have I promised myself to restore a sense of balance and order to the place where I sleep? How many times have I thrown up my hands in frustration at the piles of laundry and the discarded leafs of newspaper and said “NO MORE! NO MORE WILL I TOLERATE THIS SLOTHFUL ABODE!” If I had a dime for every time, I’d be at least rich enough to pay next months rent. Probably a fair bit richer all things considered. But alas, inspite of my supposedly staunch convictions otherwise, I can’t pack away my clean laundry, I never take the coffee cups out of the room and if my Mother saw this place she’d have a fit!

How can it be, that in 25 years I still have not mastered the art of a clean bedroom? As a woman, I worry that this reflects very badly on my prospects for matrimony. (Luckily I am adept at the culinary arts and the current beau is much more interested in what I can do with cheese and meat than how often I pair his socks.)

This is a nice light hearted discussion of a failing point in my life. I have neglected to tell you thus far, readers, that today would have been my last day of employment if I had chosen to get on the bus and go there. Of course, being “laid off” as American’s term it (a kinder way of saying “you’re fired”) with the final moments falling on your 25th birthday leaves quite a sour taste to the day. What is perhaps worse about this revelation is the fact that it forced me to sit down and realize, that for all my grand intentions, I wasn’t doing anything special. My job in NYC was actually pretty boring. When I stepped on to that plane back home in Perth I had it in my silly little idealistic head that I’d fly across the ocean, as far away as I could ever possibly be from the place I was raised and do something wonderful. All I’ve really done is struggled to pay the rent on an old 2 bedroom apartment and somehow inheritated a dog from a Korean student who couldn’t remember why she got one while on a 6 month visa in the first place!

What about walking into Conde Nast and saying “Hey, you, give me a job. I want to get paid for this rubbish I write!” (“Rubbish? I’m sorry? Oh! You mean trash! Yeah, we say trash here!”) What happened to sneaking on board with Penguin or Harper Collins and learning the ropes from the inside out?

What happened, young lady, to working every day on that manuscript gathering dust and having it finished by 11:59 June 3rd 2010?

What have you really been doing?

It is a sobering experience to realize on your 25th birthday you’re unemployed, in a foreign land and with only a new found taste for bacon on pancakes with maple syrup to show for the last 9 months of your life.

I won’t lie, I went to bed last night after having quite a large portion of self pity for dinner. (That and the microwave cheeseburgers which Mr. Mercadante forced me to eat out of concern.)

But when I woke up this morning, the sun was shining brilliantly. That never happens on my birthday back home. The day is always overcast and beset by showers. But outside here, the sky is a flawless blue, there are Red Cardinals perched in the cherry blossom tress on my lawn and sitting with my coffee on the roof of my little blue apartment, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud of myself.

I may never grow out of setting next-to-impossible goals for myself, but every once in a while, I reach one.

After all, didn’t I promise myself last year, “This time next year Eliana, you’ll be celebrating your birthday in America” or something quite simillar?

Yes. As a matter of fact I did. So I ought to give myself a bit of credit where credit is due.

There is something really liberating about solitude. There is something in silent streets at night that resonates deeply within me. I assume it’s got something to do with how and where I grew up.

This morning was nice. The train was quiet as I took the later service, and the snow was falling softly, blanketing everything in white. By the time I got off the train at Penn Station it was coming down steadily, sprinkling all the early more commuters with a fine white dust.

On the train ride into New York I had dedicated most of my attention to the pages of my book. William McKeen’s Outlaw Journalist. A birthday gift from my friend back home, a man of Letters himself, David Gear, as I seated myself on the train that morning I had decided that thing I most enjoyed about my new job was the chance it gave me to read. I’ve had this book since June 4^th last year and I still hadn’t finished it. Working 3 jobs and ensuring I said my goodbyes to everyone back home in Perth before I left the country had kept me from really sinking my teeth into it, and then the combination of frenetic job hunting and the irresistible lure of New York City night life had it laid away in the bottom of my suitcase.

But, finally, I pulled it out and since last Wednesday have been devouring it with the sort of voracity that you see when you give a puppy a bone.

It was this morning that I realized why I adore Hunter S. Thompson so much. It’s not just because I see him as an inspiration, or a guide, it’s because I see a little bit of myself in him.

Not only is there the appreciation for the small town life that I wrote of above the need to retreat from the neon and glitz and get back to somewhere that feels more real. There’s more.

The indignant rages that I fly into when something irks my liberal sensibilities. My passion for freedom in all aspects of existence. My love of experimentation, not only with the written word, but also with my interactions with people and substances.

My eldest brother put me on to Hunter S. Thompson. An ardent substance abuser with a heart of gold, my brother Marco walks a thin, thin line between (as he mentioned to me in an email) pious priest and junkie psycho. He is exactly the type of individual that Hunter would have hated. A sloppy drunk, someone dependant on drugs not just for inspiration, but for functionality.

Hunter and his relationship with illicit substances reminds me so much of my own. They’re a great ride to go on, but they have a height limit and you shouldn’t ride them if you’re pregnant or you’ve got heart conditions.

Hunter and his relationship with the written word appears to mirror my own in many ways. Like he, I will spend countless hours crafting one sentence to get the perfect mood and cadence. And I often find myself getting embroiled in the subject matter of my stories. Although not being a journalist I do not have the enemy of deadlines or the challenge of getting the story to fuel my own involvement. For me, it’s probably much more purely narcissistic, especially since no one is really paying me to write anything. I’m also liable to drop everything anywhere when inspiration strikes. My notebook and pen are the only constants in the clutter I call a handbag, and the only two things which I can actually call to hand in a matter of seconds. (Anything else requires constant digging in, or worse, emptying of the bottomless pit to be located.)

But I think the thing that most strikes me, the thing I love the most about Hunter S. Thompson, and the thing that I believe we both share completely, is his unwillingness to compromise his values for anyone. And when he felt he was going to be forced to. He said

“Fuck it.”

Currently, I’m in a position which is forcing me to come face to face with the ugliness of corporate greed, the selfishness of the spoiled elite which I have always loathed. I’ve never been quiet with regards to my dissent and distaste for the sort of behavior which the individuals I now work beneath engage in.

If I really want to claim the good Doctor as my mentor, then I must be brave and bold and stand up for what I believe to be right. Otherwise I’ll be no better than a hack, a sham, a hypocrite.

This is a spiritual test. If I want to pass it, then I should do exactly as Hunter would have.

Fuck it.

Sure, it’s not perfect. There is some paint peeling here and there, and some plaster coming away from the wall, but every hour I hear church bells chiming sweetly, and there is whistle of the train as it approaches the nearby station. And the sounds do nothing but add to the sweetness.

It’s home, already, after only a week. I love sitting here, in my kitchen, at my small round table next to the radiator. Typing away on my keyboard, letting the faint sunlight spill through my curtains and warm my face. It’s deceptive, this sunlight. There is nothing warm about the world outside my little home. It’s cold, snow has collected on the window sills and turned to ice. And the weather is only going to get colder.

I don’t mind that though. The cold is a novelty for me, and I like the way the trees look, bare of leaves and dusted with sprinkles of white. The foreign landscape is new and inspirational to my sun-soaked, desert eyes.

We don’t have a dishwasher, but I have no real problems with that. I have long found the act of washing dishes therapeutic.

A washer and dryer would be nice. But there is the laundromat just a few minutes away by car. And I am lucky enough to have someone to drive me.

The only thing that really irks me here, in my new little nest, is the worry that I’ll have to leave it sooner than I’d like.

Sometimes, the confidence that other people place in me boarders on terrifying.

Here I am, winding into my 4th month in this new place, with a list of stories of the “have to have happened to be thought of” variety longer than my arm, and still no concrete employment prospect. Without that, it means that when summer starts to wind down into fall, I’m back to that sunburnt country. Like it or not. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.

But as soon as I start to mention the bothersome possibility, he’ll turn to me and say, “Of course you’ll get a job. I believe in you!” and I, for the life of me, can’t understand why he would. (Another list longer than my arm of reasons why he shouldn’t.) “If anyone can do this, you can.” He’ll tell me, with such conviction in his voice. It does two things, grants me a bit of confidence to keep trying, and also puts such a fear into me, if I should fail.

I suppose, the trick is to keep the confidence and lose the fear. Then failure won’t be a possibility.

I wake up here, and the first few moments are filled with dark thoughts, uncertainty and a reminder to take deep breaths.

I have forced all this confusion and discord on myself, and I am determined to learn something from it.

But, I am the queen of second guessing myself.

And I am notorious for making my life more difficult then it has to be.

Will these things ever change? I can’t actually say. But at least I am writing. Even if it is just in my journal and letters to people.

Back home I was hardly writing at all. I felt stifiled. I had ideas, I even had the time, but I simply could not do it. Now I can hardly stop myself from writing. It’s like therapy. Forces you to view situations objectively. Helps you to put your actions into perspective. Helps me understand how to express what I feel.

This place is strange, but I could come to call it home. I enjoy it’s atmosphere. There is an element of Carnivale in this town that appeals to me. (I know a few people who’d get a real kick out of it.)

The next time I update this blog, it will be with something more than my minds secret ramblings. It will be with something inspired.

And that is a promise.