Friday, October 26, 2012

Fourth Date

Email: Sassylady to Misplaced

Re: Your Profile
You don’t say how much you earn and while it might sound shallow I don’t want to waste my time.

Email Misplaced to Sassylady

RE: Your Profile
You mention in your profile that you are 45 and want 2 kids. Yea, you may need to fast track a relationship

Date #1
No Date #1

As you can see it has turned quite nasty in the world of Match.Com. That was never my intention. What I had hoped for is that I would meet a nice woman that I could wander around the city with, hit bookstores together, chat over coffees late into the night and maybe share medical records. (Note what a cheap date I am). The purpose was to "get back out there" after the divorce left me somewhat disillusioned with the notion of love. OK- I've become bitter and jaded on the subject.

I can't get passed the notion that when we commit to another that commitment is actually saying "I will commit to you until something better comes along- I promise". I'm probably over thinking it, but anything worth thinking is worth over-thinking. The most any of us can really say- is that I love you at this moment and I think I want to be with you forever- unless at some point in forever I change my mind and then all bets are off.

So I cancelled the tentative coffee dates I had set up with a note saying that I didn't think this was for me. I decided to take a little break from the world of on-line dating.

I received this reply from one woman.

"It's a shame, you didn't give us a chance. It seems that we have so much in common- New York, Paris, no drinking. Give me a call if you change your mind."

See, that's how we get got. Hope. Maybe this is the one.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

When I reopened this blog I decided not to enable the word verification on the comments section. Basically it verifies that whoever is leaving a comment is a person and not a computer. To do this it asks you to type in the letters they show- these letters run into each other and are basically meant to be too hard for a computer to read and copy and this will eliminate spam in your comments.

As I’m sure you are aware, my mind is much like a finally tuned computer so much so that I can never read the letters I’m supposed to copy. Having this kind of high-end instrument has it’s benefits such as having an incredible memory except when it comes to names, dates, history, things I’ve said to you or things you said to me. The downside is that I am completely without emotion and I am unable to feel love. I’m like Spock from Star Trek except I have awesome hair and he has a job.

Anyway, some of the more flattering comments sent in are computer- generated and as an added bonus they often link me to porn to thank me which none of my real readers have ever bothered to do. So here are a few highlights of how much the computers love what I have to say.

"Undeniably believe that which you said." (Porn)
"You managed to hit the nail upon the top as well.” (PokerDownload)
"Will likely be back to get more.” (Hermes-Birrkin)
“Viagra bestellen schweiz…” (Viagra)
“Personally I think strongly regarding this” (Turbo-slim)
“This web page is really fastidious and the viewers are sharing fastidious thoughts” (Same Day Loans)
“I really like reading through an article that will make men and women think” (porn)
“I joined your rss feed and sit up in search for your excellent post” (digital camera)

So there you have it- please feel free to comment. I sit up in search of your fastidious thoughts.

Monday, October 22, 2012

I’m sitting outside a coffee shop in the East Village with a pack of cigarettes on the table.

“Mind if I sit down?” a guy asks. He has one of those great New York accents.
“Donald” he tells me as he lights a cigarette and extends his hand- we shake.
“We are a dieing breed.” He says, motioning to his cigarette. I laugh even though I’ve heard and said that line a thousand times. It’s how smokers begin a conversation- it oils up the talk.

A fire truck goes by and all the firemen call out to Donald and wave. He smiles and waves back.

He asks where I’m from.

“Good people in the Midwest” He says when I tell him. “Pretty part of the country too.”

I agree- it’s funny how you don’t notice those things until after you leave.

“I’m about to make a terrible mistake- in about 15 minutes” he says- dragging deeply on the cigarette.

I don’t press it, he doesn’t offer.

He’s a retired firefighter who broke his back in during 9/11. He was hospitalized and forced into retirement. He had been off heroin for many years before that but with the pain medication he slipped back into using. He’s been clean now for 3 years.

The bad decision he is about to make is that the corner we are sitting on is the same corner his dealer works.

“Funny, I woke up today, walked around and found myself here, on this corner." He said smiling. "I found myself here, after taking two trains and walking 10 blocks” I just found myself here.

I told him a bit of my own past demons.

"Good people in the Midwest." He says again. "I mean there are assholes everywhere but there seem to be fewer there.”

“I’m wondering if this move to New York was a bad idea.” I say in response.

“It’s not”, he replies but doesn’t tell me why it’s not a bad idea, some information I could use right about now.

“Want to know how we would find the bodies of firemen in the towers? The smell of the burned equipment. Civilians we couldn’t find, there was nothing left of them. But the firemen in the protective gear, it’s a smell you never forget. They turned to jelly in those suits”

There isn’t anything I can say to that. So I stay quiet.

“I started taking meds for the rods in my back and the dreams- next thing you know I’m shooting up and ended up in the vaults." He explained, "The key to the vaults is you got to crush an orange around your nose and mouth to mask the smell. The vaults*.” He motions over his shoulder, beyond Thompkins Square Park. (I may have mis-heard the word "Vault" I looked it up and could't find any reference to it)

I’m looking toward the corner to see if I can see anyone that resembles a drug dealer. I don't even know how to respond because I can't even imagine how it feels to live through that. I do understand the 'urges' so I talk about what I understand.

“The beauty of having three years off heroin is that you won’t get dope sick if you don’t use today. You can always use tomorrow- it’s too pretty of a day to throw three years out the window. Tomorrows supposed to be shitty- I’d wait until tomorrow.”

He laughs “Yea, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow's always a good time to start back up”

I like Donald- he’s a nice guy.

He smiles, “I know I’m not going to shoot up today. I knew the moment I told you I was going to”

I understand the notion of "telling on yourself" but I have to ask. “Wonder why you decided to tell me. What made you sit down next to me and tell me?”

“Guys like us can spot each other a mile away.” He says. "I'm going home to see my wife."

We shake hands and he walks toward the subway, away from the corner. I wish I had gotten his number so I could check in on him but maybe we were just supposed to meet over a cup of coffee and a cigarette on a pretty autumn day.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Third Date

Date #1
Character: A psychologist who specializes in theater people because she was once a performance artists. (red flag)

Scene: Caffe Dante in the West village

How it all went terribly wrong: (Misplaced) "Wow- I didn’t even recognize you. You don’t look anything like your profile picture."

Date #2
No Date #2

Friday, October 19, 2012

Metro-sexual: A straight man without a beer belly, likes to dress somewhat well, reads, travels, has a certain amount of empathy toward his fellow man, hits the occasional museum and doesn’t grab a woman’s ass in a crowded bar. Essentially it’s a man in touch with his feminine side but he doesn’t menstruate.

These are good traits to pursue. No one wants to go back to the John Wayne era of stoic masculinity. It isn’t healthy and it doesn’t lead to a very fulfilling life. So we men got in touch with our feelings and began expressing them. Before you think too highly of us- we only did it because we thought we might get laid a bit more often. But it turns out that expressing feelings is fun, therapeutic and might keep us from firing a high-powered rifle from a bell tower- and so we expressed away.

Here’s the problem; we didn’t stop. We wanted every thought, feeling and discomfort expressed. We wanted you to feel our pain. We wanted complete strangers to say, “Damn, that fella sure got the short end of the stick on that whole soy latte transaction.” We basically began to express as much as women express- and, no offense to women, but you all express a lot. Grown men began to believe, “I’m in a bad mood right this very moment- I know that it will pass in about a minute but before it does I want to tell you exactly why what you are doing hurts my feeling and makes me feel less than “

I knew men were gone when they started using the term “emotional affair”, which is a nonsense concept, which basically means I’m really jealous and insecure so I don’t think you should talk to members of the opposite sex at work. It is emotionally no different than buying an 8 ball of coke and getting a hotel room with her for the weekend. Trust me, it's different.

So men expressed their feelings- and unfortunately, their feelings are basically the same feelings as a 5 year-old child’s whose mom wont buy him candy in the checkout line of the grocery store.

I wonder if women realize how large a part they played in the ‘Pussification of the American Male” (trademark denied). A woman friend of mine, in a peak of frustration with her new, sensitive, feeling expressing boyfriend screamed “Metro-sexuality has no place in the bedroom!!”

Well ladies, it is here and here it shall remain. Sorry the sex sucks.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Don’t you hate when you’re talking to a friend and it seems they are just waiting long enough for you to shut up about your life and other really important matters so they can tell you something that probably has nothing to do with you at all. And when you finally stop talking long enough to take a much needed breath they jump in and say, "I had the weirdest dream last night."

And you know that no matter how much you roll your eyes and sigh with impatience they will continue to tell you their stupid dream which means nothing to anyone except for the person who actually had the dream. I hate that.

Anyway, I had the weirdest dream last night. I’ve had nothing but weird dreams all week. Weird, in the sense, that they are in high definition- very vivid and always wake me up at 3:00 AM. Disturbing enough that they have actually thrown off my sleep patterns, which some guy told me was called “bad sleep hygiene.” Don’t worry I smacked him in the head for all of us.

Anywhozits (a word I’m trying to bring into the language)- about my dream. A group of men wearing business suits are in my kitchen wrestling. I’m also there - and I might be wearing a suit but I never look down- all I can see is their suits, ties and maniacal grins.

Dream Interpretation: It’s my creative-self wresting with my practical-self . My practical-self knows I need to get a real job and my creative-self says that I should write.

I choose to interpret the dream this way because otherwise it’s a homo-erotic dream and with all the changes in my life lately that’s the last thing I need to grapple with.

For those of you who are saying, "Ya know misplaced, you could get a job and write." I can only respond with, "Shut up, you stinky poopoo face."

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

I have to say it’s been a tough couple of weeks. There has been a seemingly never ending parade of rejections on the job front. I stare at the computer ready to send out the next patch of cover letters and resumes, which will be ignored or thrown out. It has got me feeling quite grumpy and I’m sure that’s reflected in the negative posts that I’ve been writing. You have to know when to step away and look for some good in the world. So I send them out, put on my ubiquitous sport coat and take a stroll around New York to find a better outlook on life.

I saw a tiny door, which seemed very important.

I dispelled a few stereotypes. Three orthodox Jews in a boat and they appear to be tipping

I watched the boats

I listened to a father tell his son he was doing it all wrong. I rolled my eyes at the son and the boy laughed

I went down the rabbit hole

I saw a wedding party and didn’t think “divorce count-down 10, 9, 8…”

I saw an empty shell, but on further inspection I saw a bubble and 2 girls talking.

I sat with an old man named Saul who agreed the espressos were terrific

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

I was thinking about my New Zealand friend. For those of you who don’t remember, I met him for the first time in a library in Paris and he annoyed the hell out of me.

I reconnected briefly when he was in New Zealand- a newspaper gave him an RV with the instructions to pick up hitchhikers on their way to see the All Blacks play and write about. Since rugby isn’t a real sport and New Zealand isn’t a real country I only half listened to him. Last I heard he had crashed the RV and a string of hitchhikers had gone missing.

Turns out he’s living in London. I sent him an email trying to convince him to write a post for my blog.

Misplaced: How’s it going? I was thinking about how tough it is in the world today- financial hardship, wars, famine- actually we may have licked the famine issue but still, times are tough all around. I was trying to find something positive to write about and all I could come up with was, “Christ, can you imagine having all of those dark forces in the world and being from New Zealand?” This got me thinking about you, the wrecked RV and all those poor hitchhikers that just wanted to see a rugby match. I thought you might want to write a couple of paragraphs about what it’s like to be an unemployed writer from New Zealand for my blog. I think it would really make my many readers (5) appreciate their own lives.

New Zealand: You need a ghostwritten blog?? What the fuck are you doing with yo’self.

Misplaced: A lot of people have asked about you. (this, of course, isn't true but we need to throw a kiwi a bone every once in awhile)

New Zealand: How much? How many people said no before me? Goodnight

Misplaced: I’ll buy you a coffee next time I see you. I asked a retarded kid down the street and he is considering it. At least I think he is, I laughed so hard when he spoke I might have misunderstood.

New Zealand: Write your own blog you shaggy American fuck. P.S. How retarded?

Misplaced: I’ve been blogging for a week and I’m out of ideas other than posting my grocery list and a detailed list about how the 82 year-old Hungarian neighbor has done me wrong. Maybe I’ll just post these emails so people can see how selfish New Zealanders are.

New Zealand: no response

No response means- you have my permission to post my private emails.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Isn’t this a beautiful scene? I took it awhile back, a lovely woman playing classical music in Washington Square Park. So peaceful; or is it? Beneath this idyllic setting lie 20,000 bodies.

The area that would become Washington Square was originally used as a potter’s field for the yellow fever epidemic. Between 1797 and 1826, if you were poor, you were probably buried here. Whenever they do renovations at the park they usually come across a few bones. In 1965, when Con Ed was running lines, they found a set of stairs that lead to a crypt with 29 bodies- they left them there. That's the official policy, finish your work and put the bones back where you found them.

I’m reading about this in the park and my first reaction, after saying “eeek!”in a high pitched squeal, is to re-enact the Poltergeist scene, grab the piano playing woman by the lapels and scream, “They just moved the head stones! They didn’t move the bodies!” But that wouldn’t be entirely true and probably considered assault. There are no headstones- if you could afford a headstone you probably didn’t have to be chucked into an open pit. Unless you’re James Jackson, an Irishman (of course). Recently they came across his head stone buried 2 1/2 feet down.

James Jackson From Kildare Ireland died 1799. They found his headstone buried 2 1/2 feet down. Leave it to an Irishman to bring an expensive headstone to a pauper’s grave.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

I'm on a crowded train during rush hour. Everyone's grumpy and tired of smelling the person next to him. We pull into Grand Central Station. A guy getting off the train, pauses, turns around and addresses us all in a loud voice.

"Smile New York, it wont mess up your hair!"

Friday, October 12, 2012

Second Connection

Date #1
Character: Waitress from Long Island

Scene: The Modern Museum of Art

How it went all went terribly wrong: (Waitress) “So, what do you do for a living?”

Date #2
No Date #2

Thursday, October 11, 2012

I go to Mud Coffee in the East Village almost every day. It’s a great place and the women behind the bar can make a fine cup of coffee and when I say “fine cup of coffee” I mean they are attractive and they talk to me.

I’m thinkin’ some pretty deep thoughts n’ shit when there is a disturbance. A guy with his girlfriend orders a half-caf/ decaf soy latte to go.

“Sorry" says the beautiful barista that may or may not want to run away with me. "We are out of soy milk"

It becomes quiet- too quiet. Somewhere, far off, a dog barks.

There’s a photo of the allied soldiers when they first open the prisons at Dachau. The faces of the allied soldiers are haunting- as they try to take in and comprehend the inhumanity they are seeing.

That’s the look in the eyes of the idiot in line. He turns to his girlfriend and says, loud enough so that all of us can hear his pain and outrage.

“Can you believe this shit?”

His girlfriend shakes her head because that is some shit she cannot believe.

He storms out of Mud Coffee vowing to never return.

Since I have copious amounts of free time on my hands I ponder this. When did men become such pussies? (I realize that’s an offensive term but it’s the only way to describe men that act like…well…pussies). Since I’m a huge fan of finger pointing I’ve decided to blame metro-sexuality.

Metro-sexuality is a good thing but somewhere along the line it morphed into the Pussification of the American Male (trademark pending).

More on this later- I need to wash my doily collection.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

My first date on

Date #1
Character: A very attractive woman that works as legal council for a large, prestigious university.

Scene: A restaurant/ bar on the Upper Westside

How it all went terribly wrong: (Misplaced) “Wouldn’t it be fun to start this date by admitting all the things we lied about on our profiles”

Date #2
No date #2

Monday, October 08, 2012

I may have to reconsider one of my biggest pet peeves. When walking down the sidewalk of any bigger city I always get stuck behind those three people, with arms interlocked, strolling down the avenue without a care in the world, and no place to be. I dodge and weave to get around them; estimating the oncoming pedestrians to see if I can slip by and get back in the right hand lane. Wishing I had paid attention at the high school math problem; If a train leaves D.C. at 6:00 and travels at 40 mph and another train leaves Pittsburg …

On 86th there is a threesome leisurely strolling down the street, shoulder-to-shoulder, deep in conversation. Behind them is a couple pushing a double baby stroller bobbing and weaving to get around. The game is afoot.

“Excuse me!” says Mr. Stroller. “Trying to get through here. You’re taking up most of the sidewalk.” The threesome form a single file line and the Stroller family quickly go by with a nasty remark concerning etiquette. I take the opportunity to get passed the threesome too. I’m to turn on 3rd Ave but decide to continue following the family (ok- it’s creepy I know).
“I have no patience for that.” Says My Stroller to his wife
“Unbelievable” agrees Mrs. Stroller

We get to the crosswalk and wait for the light.
“Good thing you made it to the stop light so quickly.” One of the threesome yells as they settle in behind us.

The stroller man’s wife gives them a sneer. “Happy Holiday to you too.”
I realize she’s referring to Columbus Day, which would be an awesome insult if the threesome were Native American but they aren’t and so it’s just a bit confusing.

The Strollers look at each other and shake their heads,
“Unbelievable” they say in agreement.

The Strollers continue down the street.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t stop!” Mr Stroller yells at a woman in front of him that slows to look at a window display.
“Jesus, don’t just stop in the middle of the sidewalk I almost ran into you.”
“Unbelievable” his wife agrees.

This goes on for two blocks; complaining whenever someone has the audacity to get in their way, or be of any inconvenience to them at all. Their kids say “beep, beep” as they approach anyone walking slower than they. I’ve had my fill and decide to take a right down 1st Avenue to grab a cup of coffee. They stop in front of a salon that the Mrs. Stroller is going into and, I kid you not, I accidentally run into Mr. Stroller.
“Jesus! Dude watch where you’re going” he shouts at me.
"Unbelievable" his wife agrees.
“Have a nice holiday” is all I can muster.

Sunday, October 07, 2012

I am standing outside my apartment on E. 80th Street smoking a cigarette. A pretty woman approaches walking her dog. She looks at me, then at my cigarette and scowls.
“Disgusting” says the woman carrying a bag of dogshit.

Writing this reminds me of an incident in Chicago. A friend and I had been walking around the city for hours- no place to go, no particular destinations, just strolling about aimlessly. While walking through the park we saw a woman bend down to clean up after her dog. We jokingly said we should start a website called “Hot Chicks Picking Up Dogshit”. It would just be photos of, well, pretty women picking up dog crap. We laughed, running with the joke much longer than it deserved. Then it got quiet.
“You know” he said, “There might be a market for something like that.”
“Might be a chance to make a bit of money.” I responded.
“I’m mean, there are a lot of weird fetish site.” He preached, to an already converted choir.
“Hell, all we do is walk around anyway- we’d just need to bring a camera and muster the courage to take pictures of hot chicks that happen to be picking up dogshit.”
“It could be a subscription website- but we’d have advertisers. We could make some good money.”
It’s a pretty solid business plan.” Said the Sociology major
Definitely” replied the English major.

Long story short (too late?) there already is a site devoted to pretty women cleaning up after their dogs and its called

All the best ideas have already been taken.

Friday, October 05, 2012

What a difference a week makes.

Day 1 On crowded New York subway
Misplaced: “My god- this is incredible- surrounded by people from every walk of life. I love New York and her people.”

Day 8 On a crowded New York subway
Misplaced: “Jesus Christ, quit touching me! It sounds like a goddamned TB ward in here!”

Thursday, October 04, 2012

My new life coach, who may or may not be a doctor, a wee bit insane and possibly an alcoholic, directed me to 3 dating sites to get me back into the romance game. It should be mentioned at this point that I have no game with women. I bemoan this fact with a woman friend and she explains that my not having game was, in itself, game. While I appreciate the pep talk I’m not buying into the observation. It would be like saying my inability to time travel is precisely what makes me able to travel in time so well.

But I’m ready for a change so I look at the three sites she gives me.
1. Ashly Madison. A site for married people that want to have affairs. Since I wasn’t married I thought it would be dishonest for me to join that one.
2. Plenty of Fish. A free site and I love fish so that’s promising. Unfortunately, Plenty of Fish has a lot of fish with meth mouth.
3. is a paid site so there will be women that are invested in dating on it. “A classier kind of lady” my new life coach explains.

I am already on something I had forgotten. My 12-year-old niece, concerned with my pathetic social life, set up an account for me. She was on the computer with her friends, twin 11-year-olds, all three giggling. I don't know if giggling kids are allowed to be on the computer without supervision so I rat her out to her mother, my sister-in-law. It is then we discover they are filling out a profile for me. Instead of being beaten their mother and grandmother join them in creating a profile. They are a little dismayed by the lack of Jewish women on and suggest J-Date. I'm a little dismayed that they are family and aren't aware I'm not Jewish. I’m not certain what they wrote but soon I am receiving a plethora of emails from extremely overweight, black women in their 60’s. They seem to have struck a demographic chord.

I call my niece, get the password and re-do the profile. I remind myself that the purpose is to sell me. Any photos that are chosen have to put me in the best possible light (preferably non-fluorescent); there will be no double chins, no t-shirts tightly stretched over a widening belly- in short, a photo that doesn't look anything like me at all. I tout my attributes, a soul searching process. The only thing that seems to be a selling point is the music I like but to most people that in itself is probably deal breaker. I downplay any negative characteristics- for instance, I don’t mention that I probably only hear 50% of what anyone tells me. It isn’t a hearing problem; it’s a lack of interest problem. My Life Coach suggests I emphasize that I am ‘Renaissance Man’ and de-emphasize the fact that I am ‘Unemployed Man’. Essentially I’m lying. Everything I write is true- but the things I leave out are blatant. But I have to remember I’m a product, like toothpaste, and toothpaste must be sold

At this time I’m wandering around a bit- a few months in New York, a few months in Seattle, Ireland, back to Seattle, San Francisco, back to New York, D.C.

I settle on New York City and move to the Upper East Side September 1st, 2012.

Wednesday, October 03, 2012

I was floundering. There is no doubt about that; divorced, unemployed, cat-less and without direction. At the suggestion of my family I go to a life-coach to help me get back on track. This should tell you the amount of desperation I am feeling.

Thirty minutes before the first session my life coach cancels because she is hung over and still possibly drunk from the Paul McCartney concert. The second session I see a diploma on the wall, which appears to say that she’s a doctor. I say “appears” because diploma was on the wall behind her desk and kind of high up- the type was too small to read. Still, she might be a doctor, which is impressive until you realize that chiropractors are also considered “doctors”.

I speak with her for an hour I tell her of my life, my failed marriage, my failed career, my non-existent dating life, my past troubles with alcohol, all of it. I laid it out- all the cards on the table. In my desperation for the next right action I got truthful. After the hour is complete she give me the answer.

“Go to Afghanistan”

That was it. I apparently hadn’t emphasized my cowardice to her.

“Don’t people get shot there?” I ask- suspecting she hasn’t kept up with current events.

She waves her hand dismissively, as though my negative thoughts might be the root of my problems. She is convinced, and excited for me. So excited that I began to get excited.
“Yes” I think to myself “Afghanistan- how did I not see it?”

I raise a few questions, playing devils advocate, so it doesn’t seem like we are going off half-cocked.
“What if someone tries to kill me?”
“Will a bullet proof vest make me look fat?”
“Do they even have ice cream there?”

She answers with the deftness of a trained doctor.

“That’s just stinkin’ thinkin’” motioning to a shelf of books that must somehow relate to stinkin’ thinkin’

I pause, letting this truth wash over me.

“But I’d like to develop a relationship with a woman- maybe date again, I don’t see that happening in Afghanistan.”

She gives me such a sad, pitying look and speaks slowly so I can understand.

“When you are in Afghanistan, you hire a woman to clean for you and part of the deal is she has sex with you.”

“But, I’d like to consider myself the kind of guy that doesn’t go to prostitutes”

“Prostitution” she explains “is such a western term.”

“huh?” I queried

“Assignment for next week!” she shouts, clapping her hands and awakening me from my stupor. “I want you on 3 dating web sites!!”

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Here’s a quick run down of my life so far.
1. Move to Paris, the most romantic city in the world with my beautiful wife- get a divorce.
2. Return to my little corner of the Midwest to a sinking economy- lose job.
3. Take comfort in the fact that I have the love of my cat, the tri-colored bitch from hell- cat gets eaten by a coyote in Seattle.

I think that sums it up.

What’s an unemployed, divorced, middle aged man with a cat shaped hole in his heart to do?

Hmmm- I have an idea- move to New York City without a job and where you have no friends and try to make a go of it.

Even writing that makes me think that I've made a huge mistake. I take comfort in the words of Jesus and the Buddha which state, "The grass really is greener on the other side of the fence" and "There are no problems too big that they can't be run away from". I have always tried to live my life according to my misunderstanding of our great spiritual teachers.

Monday, October 01, 2012

It took me forever to get back on my blog. I forgot the password and whatever email address I was using to log in. I even had to google "Misplaced in the Midwest" to find the site. Turns out several other "Misplaced in the Midwest" sites have cropped up. I was going to get outraged by the lack of originality but it occurred to me that I might have lifted my blog name from someone else. Man it's dusty and the air is thick on this site- I'm going to open a window.