bryandeam-blog

[bryandeam-blog]

Flag on the play!

I wish, just like there is a yellow flag thrown in football, for unnecessary roughness, you could throw one for unnecessary 'jerkness.'

I had a very unpleasant phone call earlier with an editor from a newspaper i was hoping to get permission from for work. That being said, i was angry with myself for not snapping back at her, and inquiring as to why it took her so long to just tell me 'no.'

But in the end, i feel much better, and am somewhat thankful, because she actually proved to be inspiring. And i didn't return her negative favor by stooping to her level.

Often, when we feel slighted or mistreated by a business, a letter of complaint is in order. As i started to draft one, purely for my own ventilation and not for actual sending, i quickly realized i was being too kind and professional in something that would never be seen by the paper. So i went back with my red pen, made some edits, and ended up with this:

Dear ***** ****** ******, I write this letter out of concern for the safety of you and your editorial staff. I have reason to believe that an evil Gremlin, possibly from an underground cavern that recently opened due to a flux in seismic activity, has infiltrated your pressroom. Over a month ago I submitted a request for reprint permission, to which I received no voluntary response. After a series of follow up’s, including several timely calls and 2 emails outlining the request, I actually made contact with what appears to be said Gremlin. You may wonder what reason I have to believe that I was speaking with an evil Gremlin, and not a human member of your staff, but I can assure you I have ample evidence. The first piece of which, is the sheer fact I find it hard to believe you would staff your organization with such a rude, and negative individual who lacks so much professionalism. I was also ignored for over 4 weeks (the approximate gestation period for several Gremlin species above ground, with the exception of the Maguai, which can transform into a Gremlin in less than 12 hours after eating past midnight). The Gremlin also denied me permission for reprinting the article I had requested, based on the fact it would be “commercial use.” The fact that such a vague reason for denial was used in conversation, but specified nowhere on your website, made me suspicious. It then made me question whether the individual using it, had proper knowledge of it’s definition. (Poor vocabulary and grammar are two tell-tale characteristics of Gremlins... Since there aren’t many dictionaries underground, and there’s almost no light to actually read them) My inquisition led to this definition from Merriam Webster: Commercial: a (1) : occupied with or engaged in commerce or work intended for commerce <a commercial artist> (2) : of or relating to commerce  <commercial regulations> (3)   : characteristic of commerce  <commercial weights> (4): suitable, adequate, or prepared for commerce <found oil in commercial quantities>  b (1): being of an average or inferior quality <commercial oxalic acid> <show-quality versus commercial cattle> (2) : producing artistic work of low standards for quick market success 2a: viewed with regard to profit <a commercial success>  b: designed for a large market (3): emphasizing skills and subjects useful in (4): supported by advertisers <commercial TV> The reprint was not going to be used in an advertisement (so 4’s out) and it wasn’t going to be sold (which almost knocks out all of the other uses of the word) and then it hit me: Isn’t every business, including your own, technically commercial? I mean, what business or operation isn’t? They all make money some how. That’s the point! By now, I KNEW you had a serious problem on your hands. Gremlins can be tricky creatures, but there are a few ways you can rid yourself of this nuisance, before it does too much damage to your paper, and/or your image. First, you should find where ******** ******* sits, (as this is who I was trying to make contact with when I encountered the Gremlin) and torch her entire cube. Douse it in gasoline, and just let that mother burn. It’s the only way to ensure any Gremlin eggs it may have stored in the drawers and file folders will be destroyed and keep from hatching. (Chances are she won’t be in it, since Gremlins have an insatiable thirst for Birch beer, and she will need to go guzzle some in the bathroom every 8 minutes or so). Then, ‘fire her.’ Gremlins HATE fire. They hate the actual flames and heat of a real fire, and they even hate the word. In the event that you are scared that my conclusions are far fetched, or possibly incorrect, fear not, for I look at this as a win win either way: If ******** WAS replaced by an evil Gremlin, then you are nipping this problem in the bud now, and can live hakuna matata throughout the rest of your business. If she WASN’T replaced by a Gremlin, then she should be fired anyways, cause she’s a short, patience-lacking BIATCH with no rapport for customer service, and a serious lack of professionalism you shouldn't want to be associated with anyways. Please find this letter as a useful tip, in either outcome. Thanks, and good luck with that Gremlin. -Anonymous

[bryandeam-blog]

Writing vs. Reading (both of which beat Arithmetic)

I’d much rather write than read most of the time. Not because I don’t think there is anything good to read at any given point, but because sometimes when I think about things my mind gets into this mode of clarity, where all I have to do is let my fingers type out my thoughts. Like right now, for example. I was originally googling some free book-downloading sites, so I could download some classic American literature to read and pass the time while I am at work. But then it occurred to me that I hadn’t written anything significant in about 3 days. (Significant being more than a paragraph blurb or a few kitchy headlines for a friend’s business) So I instantly thought I would rather write than read.

Sometimes I feel guilty, because it doesn’t seem like I read that often. I mean, we all read, all of the time, whether we realize it or not. Think about it: there are signs everywhere, magazines, price tags, websites news casts almost everything we look at has some kind of word, or type or message on it. And unless you aren’t able to read, or haven’t learned to yet, then you are reading everything around you unconsciously.

Now, does this type of reading compare to the kind people do when they sit down with a cold glass of iced tea, or hot cup of coffee and browse the NY times or open up the latest suspense novel from a popular author? Not really. Most of what we read is repetitive: “Two for One”... “Buy one get one free”... “$.99”... “No Parking” "Store Hours"… "Daily Specials"... "Drive thru banking"…. I could go on and on.

The value of what we read when we actually pick up a piece of literature, and engross ourselves in it is much greater I suppose. When I have downtime at work, I often will browse popular newspaper sites, and news sites in general, and I will select a world news story to read.

Not just because I want to learn about some world news (because how much can we really trust the media to have all the facts… and I am not saying I don’t trust the media’s ability to report what they know, its just that I don’t trust that they realize what they don’t know sometimes, and yet they report on it anyways because it is their duty. But the government and the people with the money who publish papers are REALLY the only ones who know the whole story… I often wonder what the world would be like if people stopped trying to be the ‘first one to tell someone something’ and waited until they had ALL the facts before breaking the story.’ I bet it would be a lot more boring, and less confrontational. BUT I DIGRESS…)

I was headed toward the fact that I read these stories, as a little test for myself. I like to see if I am fully aware of the meaning of all terms in the story. If I am, then I get a personal, imaginary gold star. If I am not, any word or phrase or term I don’t recognize is then looked up, and added to a document I call my “Vocabulary Building Document.” (super sneaky name, I know) I try to add a few words a week, and each time I add one I read ALL of them from beginning to end, along with their definitions, and I try to appropriately use them in a sentence. (If I have the time that is).

As odd as THIS may sound, for words that have a funny ring to them or a definition that I find to be amusing or somewhat functional in my daily life, I was writing them all on a small card, that I kept in my purse. I believe its still buried somewhere amid some stickers and random receipts, but I would take it out each time I thought to use one of my new words and use them. I had read this was a good way to broaden your vocabulary, (though they never mentioned the odd looks one would get for whipping out said card and reading from it in public) and thought it was my cup of tea. And since my cup of tea is a flavor most would find obnoxiously sweet and quite particularly refined to my own tastes, it worked out pretty well (and I barely noticed the strange glances from onlookers as I would read the words aloud to my boyfriend). :)

Either way, I know that I probably don’t add enough words to the document each week to have any ambition to learn EVERY word in the English language by any determined span of time. At the rate that slang and literacy continue to meld and acceptance grows for redefining original terms, and creating new ones for things not yet defined, I realize that its nothing more than a highly geeky time waster. And as a writer, I am quite content with that. I think any decent writer has to be a tad geeky otherwise there’d be nothing to set you apart from a clever teenager with fresh learning on his brain and tongue; ready to spout off his vast Regence Delegated intelligence.

And I don’t think that reading for pleasure in contrast to the sort of ‘personal’ testing that I conduct on a daily basis is much different than this. Perhaps people make mental notes or jot down any words that seem unclear and check out their definition at a later time. I can’t quite find it probable that anyone engrossed in novel would put it down to snag their personal copy of the Merriam Webster dictionary and find out exactly what a word means, or in what context its being used.

The other difference I suppose is that an article is often constrained by space, if not on the web where we can add multiple pages, then by the original print piece it appears in. With this in mind, a word used in a manner that is unclear most often won't have enough supporting text for the reader to get a good understanding of its meaning. In a novel or book, where the text goes on for hundreds of pages, a mystery word can reoccur often enough that you can simply gain a sense of its meaning by reading the surrounding text and circumstance in which it is used.

I guess the bottom line is, whether reading OR writing it’s a good idea that if you are a fan of one you should embark on the other from time to time. Though I often ‘confess’ to not reading all that much, I realize that simply because I don’t run out and pick up the next book in the twilight series like everyone else, that I do read a vast spread of articles, opinions and news, even literature online.

I suppose to me reading comes in the same capacity as exercise: I like it a lot better when I don’t realize I am doing it. :)

[bryandeam-blog]

Creative Day

Wednesday’s my creative day, the day I find a muse.

Though lately I have tried and then mind it will refuse,

To make a rhyme or find a rhythm though I want it so. 

I’ve thought if giving up but then my heart says, “No no no!

This is YOUR thing. You’re good at it. You won’t always be sharp.

Sometimes you have to rest a bit, much rather than to harp,

On things like ‘your creative day’ or why you didn’t stop,

To snap that photo of the mailbox near the pastry shop.

You’ll never ever really know what ‘day’ you’ll have a storm,

Inside your brain, pouring like rain, the ideas they will form,

And bend and twist and fight for freedom from within your head.

Before you know it, your own mind runs like a thoroughbred.

Faster, smoother, lighter not a single misplaced thought.

You’ve written ‘bout it all before, your mind needs to be ‘caught.’

So knock it off! You’re simply having days of mental rest,

You’ll know the moment when your writing’s happening at it’s best.”

And so I listened, to my heart, I didn’t just ignore,

The thoughts and ideas flowing like an open floodgate door.

Ironically, it is a Wednesday and, well, I am here.

Writing this right now, though one last thing isn’t quite clear:

If my heart was so right about not worrying what day,

My mind begins to wander and my thoughts take me away,

Then how come this rhyme you are reading happened just like that?

My heart says, “So it’s Wednesday then. Who ever argued that?” :)

by bryande murray

[bryandeam-blog]

wandering mind

My earlier rant about snakes and stupid people reminded me of this little 'ditty' i threw out one day, about how my crazy little mind works (or doesn't work sometimes):

Working and wandering all the daylong.

I think up a great thought, then, POOF! It is gone.

My mind is on roller-skates, one size too big.

But it thinks it’s in tap shoes, performing a jig!

If someone could tell me, a way to control it,

I’d reward them handsomely, straight from my wallet.

That is if my wallet is what I can find,

But who knows it with me, and this wandering mind!

[bryandeam-blog]

Snake Bite

For some reason on my drive into work today i was recalling a television program i'd caught a glimpse of on my way out the door last night. It was on Animal Planet, and had 'EXTREME' in the title. The clip i saw was of a toddler 'playing' with a cobra. I didn't see what happened after the snake bit him, but i can only assume he's okay, since it was shown on TV and they said "the miraculous outcome after this commercial break."

Thinking of this, however, (this is just a sample of how my mind wanders and goes crazy 24/7) reminded me of another program i had seen a while back, about 3 people who had been bitten by poisonous snakes. All of them were completely unrelated, it was sort of like if 'Rescue 9-1-1' had done an all snake episode or something... BUT anyways, there was one guy, who handled several different kinds of poisonous snakes, as his job. (I don't remember exactly what his job was. It wasn't a professional handler, for entertainment purposes, but he had been working with snakes for years) Either way, the guy, in his early 30's maybe, got bit by a snake, that he all well knew was deadly.

You may be wondering why i thought of this, or what the point is. Maybe you are thinking: so what? he went to the hospital and they took care of it. Sure, that's what i would think too. It's on TV. He didn't die or anything. He's sitting there talking about how he felt when the snake bit him... so whats the big deal?

This guy was a complete moron. And i don't mean for handling deadly venomous snakes. I like snakes. Well, i don't LIKE them, in a sense i want to handle them all the time, or i am not afraid of poisonous ones, or snakes with giant fangs or anything. But i don't mind them. They are maybe a 3 out of 10 on the 'Bryande's Scale of Creepfactors.' (spiders are the only 10). I am unphased by Garter snakes and i even had a friend who had two pet snakes: Mr. T and Little Miss. (they were super cool)

But this guy, he knew the dangers of what he was doing. And he knew that the snake he was bitten by could kill him. And instead of going to the hospital, he sat and waited around at his house. His story was he knew the hospital wouldn't have the anti-venom because the snake was pretty exotic, and from somewhere really far away. So he sat at his house, and watched as the two tiny puncture wounds in his hand, near his thumb became large and inflamed and revolting over the next three hours.

He sat there, trying to endure the pain, watching his hand swell up nearly 3 times its size, and turning all shades of blue and black and yellow. His wife, (who obviously enables his idiocy) was in charge of retrieving spatulas, for him to bite down on. (to cope with the pain) <- Yep. That's what it says: biting spatulas; the utensils with rubber or plastic ends we use to assist us while cooking things. His solution to this lethal snake bite, was spatulas. (Someone should call the pampered chef and tell them they have a whole new marketing angle: 'Bit by a snake? Don't rush to the ER! Chew on one of these!')

Not only did he bite through several spatulas, (rendering them useless in the kitchen) he even cracked several teeth from biting down so hard. So let's recap, shall we: Snake charmer boy gets bit by deadly snake; sits around house biting spatulas and breaking his teeth. You still with me?

FINALLY, he decides, "I should probably have this looked at, cause i am out of spatulas to bite," and he goes to the ER. By this time, the venom has started to dissolve the bone in his thumb, his skin is blackened and peeling off, and the muscle tissue in his hand is beginning to liquefy. OH, and he has a bunch of cracked teeth.

What do you think the Doctors tell him? A) "Sorry dude. We don't have the rare anti-venom for your exotic snake, so you are SOL. But here's a few more spatulas to help you with the pain while you fade away." B) "You should have come here sooner. Though we don't have the anti-venom, we have procedures that could have stopped the spread of the venom and reduced the massive damage to your hand and muscles and nerves."

If you guessed B, then you are WAY smarter then the snake charming genius. The waiting and spatula biting caused him to nearly lose his thumb. All the muscle and part of the bone had been eaten away by the venom. They ended up having to sew his thumb into his thigh, as some sort of grafting-like solution to regrow some tissue around his nerves and the bones on his hand.

The point of my rambling about this, is actually quite simple: I hope, for the sake of all of us, that this man and his spatula dispensing wife are never allowed to have children. I can't imagine how much the surgeries and medical expenses were after all they had to do to give this guy a semi-normal/mutated remnant of a thumb, all because he tried to be tough and wait out what was an obviously terrible situation.

There's a country song i really like actually, that says, "if you're goin' through hell, keep on goin' you might get out before the devil even knows you're there." Though i agree with this to an extent, I feel after this I must make an amendment to it: if you're bit by a poisonous snake (goin through hell) don't eat spatulas (keep on goin) you might end up losing a thumb (you MIGHT get out before the devil even knows...) GO TO THE HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY. (if you're in hell and someone drops down a rescue ladder from a helicopter labeled "HEAVEN" then you should probably just climb up it and not try to be a tough guy).

I could never wish death upon anyone, really. (bad fortune, perhaps, to someone who did something really terribly awful, but death: never) And i won't say i wish this guy hadn't survived, because i don't. I only wish he had done something about his situation sooner, so that i didn't have to say whats coming next.

Something tells me in this case, that society (and certainly the spatulas who were lost, but not forgotten) might have fared better off if the snakes lethal bite had been successful. Things like this could be gods way of trying to help out the human race, by not passing along the stupidity from one generation to the next.  But alas, in this case we will never know.

Tune in next time, when i will discuss the second runner-up to this guys brilliance: the guy who told his friend to pull his truck over so he could catch a rattlesnake in a garbage bag, then jumped back into the bed of the pick up with said bagged snake... *sigh.

[bryandeam-blog]

mode of funk

it doesn't happen too often, but i find myself in a 'funk' sometimes. we all do. every now and then, i realize that's just what it is, and i decide i need to sort of 'talk myself' out of it. this is a poem i wrote once, to help me do just that.

every single keystroke, every letter on the page.

its something like a misspoke or a prisoner in a cage.

entrapped by what your senses bring, your fingers move alone.

you lose all of control and wish that you were safe at home.

your energy is gone and still you have a happy face.

putting all aside you keep it in a secret place.

but then it gets filled up and starts to ooze out of your pores.

the times that you’ve felt bad with all the sadness you’ve ignored.

it isn’t fair to do to you, and yet you do it still.

like lighting that last cigarette against your better will.

you wish that you could stop you know its not the way to be

but then you think you’re just a whiner, saying, “why? poor me”

it is a slump, of sorts you’ve felt a few times in the past

and in the end you know its always you who finished last.

so why not just get over it, and stop the blankness now

that’s something you would do if you could figure out just how.

still... you know that brighter thoughts and moods are on the way

and all you need to know, is that this is just one more day.

and when it’s over all that you have thought of will be gone.

perhaps your solemn soul will grin to hear your favorite song?

you’re tired and your wary and there’s not much more at stake,

so suck it up and be yourself, you’re YOU for goodness sake.

and that is what the others have been seeing from the start,

your smile, warmth and effervescent joy and open heart.

it isn’t gone, its simply in a state of rest and peace,

and typing this last line you’ll find your mode of funk has ceased.       

     ...and it worked too! i put on one of my favorite songs right after i finished and was totally over it!  

[bryandeam-blog]

Last of the MoFleacans

so this morning i found myself defending the vigilance with which i have kept my cats (and apartment) flea-free for the past 9 months, to my significant other. (perhaps he'll read this and get an idea for why i can never let my guard down) ;)

flea and tick repellent isn't cheap, and with a mischievous-sea-monkey for a cat, who LOVES to sneak into the shower and get soaked... (he's crazy) it can be even MORE costly: when he washes most of it off of his neck.

nevertheless, it reminded me of this piece i wrote a while back, about my all too recent battle with the tiny bugs. 

THE LAST OF THE MOFLEACANS by Bryande Murray

The day of the attack was one I remember quite well. I had awoken after entertaining friends the night before. We’d been drinking and telling stories by a campfire in my backyard. The mess was minimal, but I tidied up and got ready to take a shower. Though it didn’t seem too buggy by the fire, and despite my dousing of bug spray, I noticed several small welts on my legs, and one on my stomach. I quickly disregarded them as wounds from stealth mosquitoes the night before.

I emerged from the shower, partially dressed and shaking a towel about my soaking head. I noticed my eldest cat, Chester, scratching profusely at his neck with his back leg: a move I had seen him execute regularly over the 4 years he’d been in my care. As usual, I thought nothing of it.

After drying my hair and fully dressing for the day, I exited my bedroom, hung the damp towel on the bathroom doorknob, and began to sort my things for a daytrip my boyfriend and I were to take. It was then I saw my little cat, Ruby, scratching too at her neck, and then biting at her stomach. For some reason, this observation stopped me in my tracks.

Perplexed, I called out to Chester. As he closed in, rubbing up against my ankles and cooing in character, I reached down and tumbled him onto his side. He sprawled across the floor, extending all fours as far as they would go, in preparation for a “tummy scrub.” Each day when I would arrive home from work, it was a ritual for Chester to roll around and get a serious rub down, most specifically on his stomach. Over time the maneuver, based on it’s scrubbing like motion, evolved into the famous “tummy scrub.”

This time however, I was not so much “scrubbing” his tummy, as I was searching it. I parted his hair, checked his underbelly, and found the first of many intruders. “FLEAS!?” I exclaimed, both angrily and with a question of severity.

“Ruby!?” I called out sweetly, to get her to come for an examination. Upon investigation, I discovered she too had the same tiny invaders setting up camp on her furry little belly.

“How? How do my indoor cats have fleas?!” I wondered out loud. I instantly flashed back to the night I saw a commercial for a popular, topical flea and tick control product. I thought that night, “Oh! I have some of that still, somewhere. I should treat the cats with it.” After moving from my apartment into my current residence, I knew I had two vials of Frontline™ in a box. Where the box was, was an entirely different question. I searched, briefly, and thought, “Nahh. They’re indoor cats. I’m not gonna’ tear the place apart looking for it now. When I find it, I will treat them.” Bad move.

Standing in my living room, I realized action needed to happen fast. I had dealt with fleas, on Chester, one other time. Born on a farm, it was no surprise to me that my new, sweet little kitten was riddled with the tiny terrorists. At the time though I was living in a place with a leather couch, and hardwood floors. A simple bath (and I use simple very lightly, as bathing any kitty, especially for the first time, is not exactly simple) was all it took to rid the little guy of the pests.

Today, I stood surrounded by brown carpets, cloth couches adorned with quilts and throw blankets, and realized my little kitty angels had 24-7 access to every inch if my place. Which meant so did the fleas. Time was of the essence if I wanted to launch a counter attack on behalf of my feline companions.

And despite my instincts to run right out to the store, upon polling a few close friends, I waited one night before buying and treating the cats with flea repellent/killer. Bad move number two.

Though I did venture to the pet shop that night, I stood in the aisle, the flea aisle, peering over dozens of products that claimed they would take care of the problem: topicals, collars, sprays, shampoos, powders and more.

Baffled and not wanting to harm my kitties, I was skeptical of buying something over the counter. Would it work? Would it kill them? (The cats) Ruby had never been treated with anything before. I asked an employee what she recommended, and left the store with a natural flea and tick repelling topical.

It was the following morning that I put it on the cats. I went to work, and hoped for the best. I hoped that the few fleas I had seen would, in turn, flee them selves; realizing their hostile takeover had been compromised by a few tubes of mint-scented insecticide.

Instead, when I returned home, I discovered something that confirmed the worst of my fears. My burgundy ottoman was covered with cat fur, dander and what I had preemptively looked up on line, (in a late attempt to be proactive) flea eggs and dirt: tiny, white eggs, and small, curling black specks. As I loomed in closer to the ottoman, I even saw several larvae wriggling about. As I contained the vomit rising to the top of my throat, I quickly made moves towards the vacuum. I turned it on and vacuumed the ottoman, couches and quilt. As they disappeared, I felt a small amount of comfort, knowing they would no longer be on my ottoman, and were now trapped inside of my vacuum, where they could seemingly do no harm. Which leads me to bad move numero three: I never emptied the vacuum.

Though I didn’t see any more eggs or dirt in the morning before leaving for work, I was still wary. I thought, “If I saw that many there, were there other places I couldn’t see them? Would they hatch and keep multiplying? Or will the treatment really drive them away?” Seeing as I had already been taste-tested by a few fleas myself, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of the flea repellent driving them to feed on me.

I went online again, reading more and more horror stories, and looking up the best way to get rid of/avoid an infestation. As day three of what I consider to be the preparation for battle, I needed to know what I was really up against. And I couldn’t help thinking about the kitties. How irritated (no pun intended) they were and tirelessly they were scratching themselves. I needed to stop playing games, and really be rid of them once and for all.

With hope that the fleas, despite what I had read online, were not that bad, and vowing to do whatever it took to help my kitties and myself, I went to the pet shop again, and bought: the shampoo, more topical, a furniture and upholstery spray and a flea comb. No more beating around the bush.

I combed the cats, drowning all 10 fleas I pulled off of them in dish detergent, and water, as instructed by the pet store clerk. I was relieved to only find 10 fleas all together on the cats, but my training told me that for each of them there were at least 10 more somewhere in my house. I quarantined the cats, and sprayed my whole apartment: carpets, couches, curtains and all. And then I waited.

Waking up on day four, I felt a little more secure, knowing I had hit the fleas with a good amount of poison. I combed the cats quickly before going to work: no fleas. “Nice!”

But it was coming home on day four, when I reached my all-time low. It was the one time I doubted my ability to win this war. The one time, I let myself go, and felt the stinging reality that these guys weren’t going away so easy. Eggs were everywhere: the kitchen table, the stove, the counters, the ottoman, the couch, and my blankets, the TV stand… I felt my head start to spin as I wondered, “How can this be? Where is it coming from??”

With my right arm in a cast due to a skateboarding injury, my wanton desire to turn my apartment inside and out, and vacuum and spray every single inch was merely a pipe dream. I couldn’t do all that by myself! In pain, and fury, I burst into tears. I called my mother/neighbor, weeping, telling her I didn’t know what to do. She came as reinforcement, and started chucking blankets, pillows and anything else that would fit out of my second story picture window. My best girlfriend called during the meltdown, and she too volunteered to serve in my time of need. (I have some really amazing people in my life)J

I knew now that I had treated this much too lightly from the start. These fleas were in no way the likeness I had seen in classic cartoons: A single flea, strolling onto the scene with a polka dot hobo sack on a stick and some cut-off overalls. Wearing and straw hat, and singing, “Doh de doh de doh,” he makes himself at home on the cartoon kitty and builds a campfire which upon smelling the smoke from it the cat goes berserk, and dips his rear end in a bucket of water, with a sigh of relief, to put out the fire. The silly little flea then proceeds to make a sandwich with everything: lettuce and tomato and wheat bread-well, everything but the meat. He then so conveniently would pinch up his meal from the kitty and take a large bite, sending the cat into frenzy. Then, when the tidal wave of soap and water came through he’d leave saying: “Shucks! This ain’t worth it!” then migrate to the family dog.

These fleas were the real deal. Small in size but large in numbers. Lead by what I can only assume is a fearless leader, who broke from his former regime to dictate and take over his own territory. They had found a great place to set up camp, with two sources of food, and endless fibers to nestle into and reproduce (which fleas do at the rate of 50+ eggs per day). This meant war. Full on, unrequited war. After gutting my apartment, vacuuming and emptying it into a bag outside, I once again, only more so than both times before, felt a sense of relief.

But I wasn’t going to back down. The next day, I was online researching what the best flea bomb was, because I was going to send little suckers back to meet their maker. While creating a pros and cons list between a fogger and a bomb (which I still don’t really know the difference between) I called my mother to ask if she would be willing to set one off, and watch the cats while I was at work that day, if I bought one and brought it to the house. It was then, that she alerted me to a covert connection she had made with a sort of “special operatives” expert. Mike the bug guy. That was his name.

He had stopped by my parent’s place a year or so ago to ask permission to hunt on their property. He mentioned if they ever needed an exterminator, to give him a call. This was his time to shine.

One phone call. One cage. And $50 later, he was at my house ready to jump into action. The cage was donated by my parents to keep the cats outside and out of harms way. The $50 covered only the cost of the can of heavy-duty flea killer he had equipped himself with. I was told the cats needed to be out of the place, as well as any breathing mammal, for three hours. So when I returned home from work, it would be safe to enter. He also said to vacuum every, single, day. No excuses. “The vacuum is your best weapon,” he counseled.

It’s been two weeks now, since the last assault on the fleas and their minions. I just recently re-dosed the cats with another topical flea killer. I believe I saw one of the last fleas, or at least what I can only hope was one of the last fleas, dying, tangled in a curtain thread, just the other day. I still vacuum. And I still check the cats. My bedroom door will remain shut, and my heart heavy until the day I can walk into my home, and know that the very last of them is dead and gone.

[bryandeam-blog]

In.spur.a.shun

Inspiration brought me here, quite literally and not.

Right on this very page appears, the very thing I thought.

  The thing that made me stop my work, and open up this rhyme.

Cause inspiration doesn’t wait ‘til you’ve got extra time.

  It comes when you are sleeping, sometimes, waking you at night.

Sometimes, while you are weeping or conversely, from delight.

  It rides in on a beam of light, cascading through the clouds.

It’s brought on by adrenaline, or when you’re feeling proud.

  It’s not always that obvious what inspiration brings.

All forms, and shapes and sizes, and all different kinds of things.

  A picture taken just as sunset’s sinking in the sky.

The music played with fireworks, the 4th day of July.

  A gust of wind that tears your freshly washed clothes off the line.

Purple lilacs permeating, bundled up with twine.

  No matter where it comes from, it is something to behold.

Cause inspiration doesn’t wait until you’re grown and old.

  It barges in demanding that you give it ample mind.

It makes sure that you don’t move forward, leaving it behind.

  At least that is ideal if inspiration has a say.

Depending on its source it really can go either way.

  I’ve come to learn that often times, when inspiration comes,

In this case, for example, it’s like 700 drums.

  All being played by 700 little angry men,

Just thump and pounding like they’ll never go away again.

  Until I’ve launched this gift of inspiration on it’s course.

Creatively, to outlet what this muse is from the source.

  A picture painted, simple sketch or pen and pad in hand.

Whatever it may be, most often times it turns out grand.

  I always think it will be brief, or lacking in repose.

To stop and give consideration, simply said in prose.

  But often times, it’s when I least expect things to be great.

That letting inspiration loose was brought upon by fate.

  Cause that’s what inspiration is, it isn’t just a thought.

It’s something from within you fishing, ‘til your mind is caught.

  Hook line and sinker, that is inspiration’s goal it’s true.

To captivate your mind when you have other things to do.

  So when it comes and you have other things still going on,

Remember that it won’t be long before your chance is gone.

  To grab a hold of inspiration, right between the eyes.

And let your motivation take you places by surprise.

  It’s what just happened here, you see, as stated at the top.

Inspiration brought me here, quite literally, and not.

  By Bryande Murray

[bryandeam-blog]

this is my super cool custom skateboard design, created by my friend katie guiffre. (she rocks my world) it isn't new or anything just awesome, and on nice weather days i've been using my lunch breaks to skate around a park near my office. so i just wanted to put it out there, and give a shout out to my homegirl katie for hooking me UP.

check out her site:

http://www.kateguiffre.net/

[bryandeam-blog]

who, me?

let's see....i'm a writer (of sorts). though when casually engaged i prefer lower case 'i's' and upper case 'F's' for appearances sake. (at least when handwritten) what else? ... i'm high energy but low impact with a laid-back casual attitude that blows the minds of many who know me. (i guess i just don't see the sense in getting too worked up over things, esp. when they're not going so well, cause then you're just worked up AND in whatever trouble your in... what a waste of energy) growing up in a small town left lots of room for my BIG imagination. and over the last 27 years i've learned many lessons and experienced many blessings. nowadays i conjure up 'words of whimsy' as i like to call them; poems, narratives and general observation and opinion pieces.  for the most part i've never really shared much of my musings with anyone in the outside world. but through the urging of loved ones, i've been swayed into believing that someone, somewhere might find my spastic rants and silly doodles entertaining. so here they are. enjoy!