Though you'd have no clue to that effect from this blog.

I'm busy, semi-retired, sick, well, sick again.

There are many reasons I haven't updated Temple of Me.

Most of them have to do with priorities. Temple of Me fell far low. Below washing socks.

I'm posting this primarily due to a bit of research.

In the column below I reported Jack Kapica's correction to his column about boingboing and Violet Blue.

Kapica left the Globe and mail after that correction, and at some point the news site removed the column containing the correction.

The original column, with the incorrect information, is still on GlobeandMail.com.

In the interest of clarity...that original column is still in error. Kapica's following correction is still valid:

"In my July 4 blog entry on a controversy over the removal of all references to sex columnist Violet Blue from the boingboing blog, I referred to another blogger, called Domoni, who had printed some criticisms of boingboing in his blog, Domoni's Temple of Me. Domoni has just sent me an e-mail pointing out that the criticisms he made of boingboing were not in reference to the Violet Blue controversy, but in reference to another issue entirely; Temple of Me had, in fact, not made any comment on the Violet Blue matter. I regret the error." -- Jack Kapica

Though you'd have no clue to that effect from this blog.

I'm busy, semi-retired, sick, well, sick again.

There are many reasons I haven't updated Temple of Me.

Most of them have to do with priorities. Temple of Me fell far low. Below washing socks.

I'm posting this primarily due to a bit of research.

In the column below I reported Jack Kapica's correction to his column about boingboing and Violet Blue.

Kapica left the Globe and mail after that correction, and at some point the news site removed the column containing the correction.

The original column, with the incorrect information, is still on GlobeandMail.com.

In the interest of clarity...that original column is still in error. Kapica's following correction is still valid:

"In my July 4 blog entry on a controversy over the removal of all references to sex columnist Violet Blue from the boingboing blog, I referred to another blogger, called Domoni, who had printed some criticisms of boingboing in his blog, Domoni's Temple of Me. Domoni has just sent me an e-mail pointing out that the criticisms he made of boingboing were not in reference to the Violet Blue controversy, but in reference to another issue entirely; Temple of Me had, in fact, not made any comment on the Violet Blue matter. I regret the error." -- Jack Kapica

Here is my email to Jack Kapica:

Mr. Kapica,

For many reasons I've been a non-reader of boingboing for quite a long while. So, while looking at the Metafilter archives I was surprised to see my name mentioned in relation to the boingers.

The link led me to your column of July 4, 2008 at 9:40 AM EDT.

"Another, called Domoni, called it the "death knell of boingboing," expressing further disgust with a refusal to capitalize the blog's name."

Thing post you mentioned from my site was written March 10 2006, more than two years before this latest Violet Blue controversy. So, I most certainly didn't call removing the Blue posts the "death knell of boingboing."

Also, no disgust was expressed by my using "boingboing" instead of BoingBoing or Boingboing of bOINGbOING...each being ways the site and magazine had been called.

Since comments have shut down for that article, I would appreciate a correction published. For the sake of being correct if nothing else.

Thank you,

Domoni

or domoni

or even dOMONI if you like.

PS: If you need proof this is the same person that wrote the article you can check out my home page from the link you gave.

http://domoni.com/me/

Update: Mr. Kapica was quick to publish a correction:

"In my July 4 blog entry on a controversy over the removal of all references to sex columnist Violet Blue from the boingboing blog, I referred to another blogger, called Domoni, who had printed some criticisms of boingboing in his blog, Domoni's Temple of Me. Domoni has just sent me an e-mail pointing out that the criticisms he made of boingboing were not in reference to the Violet Blue controversy, but in reference to another issue entirely; Temple of Me had, in fact, not made any comment on the Violet Blue matter. I regret the error."

I appreciate the correction and the speed to which it was delivered. That's proper "old-time" journalism.

"Green Pills in the Dresser"
Was (Not Was)

A woman and her partner arrive in Miami to take a cruise. A woman and her partner of 18-years. With their children. The woman has a brain aneurysm. After 18 hours she was pronounced dead.

18 hours where her partner and her children weren't allowed to see her.

At a Miami news conference, Langbehn, 39, broke down when she recalled the eight hours she and her three adopted children — now ages 11, 12 and 14 — sat in a hospital waiting room with little knowledge of Pond's condition. "As I sat there wracking my brain, I would go outside and scream into the Miami night," she said. "I felt like a failure for not being there holding her hand."

Langbehn said she was allowed in to see her partner only for about five minutes, as a priest gave Pond the last rites.

Langbehn is suing three Jackson Hospital personnel for approx $75,000.

But when Pond suffered a massive stroke onboard before the ship left port and was rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital, administrators refused to let Langbehn into the Pond's hospital room. A social worker told them they were in an "anti-gay city and state."

$75,000 is a slap on the wrist. A reminder that their actions were morally wrong. However:

Linda Quick, president of the South Florida Hospital and Healthcare Association, said she did not think Jackson broke any laws or rules and chided the family for seeking money from a public hospital.

"Whether [Jackson] could have been more culturally sensitive, maybe. Do the [the family members] deserve an apology? Probably," Quick said. "But that's tax money they are trying to get."

Well, Ms Quick, I'm one of those taxpayers. That family deserves more than $75,000. I suggest the salaries for one year from each of those employees.

Pond, Langbehn and the children arrived in Miami for a Caribbean cruise with R Family Vacations, a company run by Rosie O'Donnell and her partner Kelli Carpenter that caters to gays.

Ms O'Donnell, may I suggest R Family moves their cruise port to a place that is not an "anti-gay city and state?"

Then Norm walks in and everyone greets him.

I've so little to say to the blogging community right now. I've stopped reading the "in" sites so long ago, I have no idea if they're in anymore.

I went from a feed of over 1000 blogs to 3. And even those I hardly ever read.

I tried making a comeback a few months ago, but it was forced. You could tell.

So, let's call it a night. No promises of return. Maybe I will. But don't keep checking. It depresses me to know I've let you down again.

Maybe someday I'll write another personal blog. If I do, I'll prove myself with a BlogSpot address for at least three months. If I stay solid, I'll come back here.

Jesus, I sound like Ricky Henderson.

(Don't watch this in the office...or in the library.)

Ok, I liked that, but I'm not turning this into the Temple to Youtube. I'm just in my blue period, and you won't buy that until I'm famous.

Which, by the way, will never happen.

My wife heard “Angels” the first time also, but it’s always been “raindrops” for me.

I’d like to know why as the singer starts to scuba she suddenly develops a Southern accent with the line "“these are a few of my favorite things.” Also, doesn’t it sound like she totally loses pitch for the final “so bad…”?

And since my wife and I like this other commercial, I link it here. Well, actually back there.

Update: And here it is....

(I had missed it because I spell the title's first word "favorite.")

(Yes, the jig is up. I see you read this site.)

Anyway, dear reader, I am sure you watched Pushing Daisies tonight. Well, because you also loved Wonderfalls and Dead Like Me.

No need for IMDB links. You have them bookmarked.

Did you notice the name of the town?

You saw it too? Couer d' Couers

Yes, that is wrong on two levels. First, spelled correctly it would be: Coeur de Coeurs

And we both know that final "s" isn't needed. That's not correct French grammar. The show translated an English idiom directly to French to make Heart of Hearts sound exotic.

And still didn't get it correct.

You look at the next pump. The young driver has his hood up and is pumping gas into the carburetor.

You are correct. That is not the normal procedure.

He then puts the hose into his tank and props it to pump gas.

If you are familiar with the fact that gas in the carburator can help a car start you know why he put gas in the carb.

You would also know that just a spritz of gas is required. Not the healthy squeeze you saw applied.

You would also know that placing gas on the carb is not recommended as many a car fire starts that way.

And with only a spritz. Not a squeeze.

You, in an effort to spare your young child, would decide you no longer need to fill your tank. The couple of gallons you've pumped will be enough. You will, in less time than it takes to read this sentence, stop pumping gas, close the tank, start your car and leave the gas station.

Expecting a fireball the likes of which are reserved for cheesy police procedurals of the 1970s.

You will be relieved not to see, hear, or feel such fireball. But will nonetheless drive away in what would best be described as "lickity-split."

But I doubt you know a kid in the first grade with that name. You see, Charles was once one of the top ten names for boys. But starting in the 1960s the name began to slip. It's not even in the top 50 anymore.

I bring this up, because I have deduced there is a secret cabal in Hollywood dedicated to killing the name completely.

In a few short weeks we've been subjected to:

I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
Good Luck Chuck
Chuck

In addition, two new series feature a Chuck: Pushing Daisies and Gossip Girl

I figure the cabal follows the orders of Charleton Heston.

PS: I am not the only one to notice this. Though the others didn't dare speak of the cabal.

After riding my bike I reached into my pack to find my phone missing. If this happened to you, you might assume you lost it.

I didn't. Many times I think I have the darn thing with me, but I've forgotten it on a table, or in a couch, or a pair of pants, or a potted plant (don't ask).

So, I calmly went into the house and called my cell. I do that to hear the ring from the hamper, the couch, my desk, or the refrigerator (don't ask).

No answer. I walk outside with the cordless and call again. After all, it could be in the grass, under a bush, on the driveway, or in the compost (don't ask).

No strains of "Strawberry Letter 23" (My ringtone. Don't ask.)

But someone answers my phone! "Hello?" Relieved, I say, "Great. You found my phone! Could you..."

Click.

I call back. I hear street noise. I hear "Hello." I say, "Hi, you've found my..."

Click.

I call back. Same result.

I had only ridden my bike in a 5 mile loop. I could find that street sound. I call my wife. Explain I've lost my phone. She understands immediately she needs to call it. (Don't ask.)

I interrupt to explain the new twist.

I ask her to call it over and over as I retrace my steps. Someone would be walking the street listening to "Smooth." (My wife gets a special ringtone.)

I search the streets. No luck.

I stop and call my wife. Another twist!

My wife explains after a few similar hang ups, a woman called her to explain that her daughter had found my phone. I could go to their home and retrieve it. That makes sense. My path took me by an elementary school.

The retrieval deserves a post of its own, but some things are best left unwritten.

I go home and check out my phone.

That elementary school child who found my phone? Well, she took a picture of herself. She looks 20. I guess I had that wrong.

Plus, some calls had been made to numbers I don't recognize.

You need to know a couple of things about me. My number is always blocked. I call from my cell and it doesn't show up on any residential caller ID. Also, I have no method to check my cell number from the phone. So, if you find my phone, there's no way to give the number out so you can use it.

There is no moral to this story. Except, while writing this I realized my phone isn't on the stand by the door. I'm afraid to call the number.

If this doesn't make sense to you, you shoulda been here yesterday, when the donuts were fresh.

That was the high point of my day.

Now you know why I haven't written lately.

I have dilemma. I have a wonderful young daughter, but I write little about her daily life on here. This isn't a parenting blog.

I have a fear. I don't write about my job. There already has been one Dooce.

I have a concern. You don't really know me. No, seriously, I'm not him. I'm the other one. Who sounds like him. And if I write too much you might find out who I am. And then what would be the point of having a blog?

I have a problem. Really, there should be quotes around problem. I've got good days and bad. The good days I'm uninteresting, and on the bad, I worry people.

I have a dream. No, different than his. I'd love a blog written by a group of people. Each one using "I" and all signing the entries Me. No names. No identifying information. I don't know who'd read it. Well, I would.

And, Sister, that's where I've been.

Yes, I know. That was anti-climatic.

Mind's eye. That just seems a piss poor way to say it

I have a folder of photographs. Most are color. A few singed; and a few were taken out of the developer too early. They're stored in chemicals and electricity. I carry them in my head.

It was in Pensacola. The early 1980s. I think I was on an east-west road turning left onto North 9th, or maybe North Davis. It matters which. But not for this moment.

I had my window down. I often couldn't get the window to stay up. I drove a Chevy Chevette. The Bic Disposible of cars.

He leaned into my window. His face obscures my left peripheral vision. He wants to inquire about my relationship with Jesus. He's talking nonsense, or scripture. I don't remember the words.

I remember looking to my right. There's an old building. Not well kept. A business. Probably closed.

Spray painted on the wall is a peace sign following a name:

John Lennon

I told the man John Lennon was Jesus. The light turns green. I let go of the clutch. Jerk. He pulls back.

I drive away.

Later, I took a photo of that graffiti. I used a Canon AE-1 Program. I misplaced the photo.

That was 25 years ago.

1) I'm a lesbian....

2) ..trapped in the body of a man...

3) ...an old, decrepit man. How I got here, I haven't a clue, but I've become accustomed to my skin. It's a good thing. I'm not strong enough to be a woman.

4) I'll die too early. Not early enough for some. But way too damn early for me.

5) I do too know that.

6) I make liberals wonder if they are truly "centrists."

7) I don't believe in the death penalty, because juries can not be trusted. However, I believe "lifetime with no parole in solitary confinement with absolutely no communication" is not cruel and unusual for anyone who harms a child.

8) I removed Number 8.

9) I'm not as upbeat as I used to be. I'm whipping depression, but it is getting a few licks in.

10) I absolutely love my wife. There has been no greater positive influence in my life.

11) My mother made me the human I am.

12) I have three sisters. Years ago, after my mother died, I wrote one off. It pains the other two, but I see no need to bother with her again.

13) I just thought, "Man, you're depressing everyone. Say something funny."

14) Three ropes walk into a bar. They sit at a table and get no service. Finally, one hops to the bar and asks for three beers. The bartender motions to a sign that says, "No ropes served." He growls, "Get out you slimy rope!" in such a tone the rope unravels a bit and slinks out of the bar without a nod to his friends. The second sees, but doesn't hear, and goes to ask what happened. he gets similar treatment, with the added bonus of seeing the business end of a Zippo lighter. He rolls out; a bit singed. The third rope sees and hears all, but being a rope of character, pissed that the man could hold him down, decides he'll get that damn beer. So he rushes into the bathroom. A glance at the mirror, rope hands mussing his tuft, he twists himself into a pretzel and hops to the bar. He looks the bartender in the eye and calmly states, "One beer, barkeep. A draft. Dark and hearty." The bartender squints and inquires, "Are you a rope?" The rope smiles and answers, "No, sir, I'm a frayed knot."

15) My older daughter loved that joke as a child. She still laughs today. That is love.

16) If you believe there is a kinder, gentler, more giving child than my little one, you're mistaken, or haven't met her.

17) It amazes me that two such wonderful people carry my genetic code.

18) There is one true religion in this world. It is baseball.

19) I love the work of Milan Kundera, Ranier Maria Rilke, and Warren Zevon.

20) As I finished it, I threw L’Étranger across the room. Every time I pee, I am looking into the eyes of Camus.

21) Seriously, I have a photo of Albert Camus above my toilet.

Willie, Louie, and Vlad

OK, maybe she had some help naming them. But, in my defense, she was too young to speak.

In her pantheon, they are brothers. Willie is the oldest, and most favorite. He goes everywhere with her. From morning breakfast to his own pillow next to her at bed time.

He also rides in the car with her. And that's where he was left, when I had to quickly drop off my daughter and wife, before taking a short trip out of town.

I discovered him when I reached my destination. Of course, my daughter wasn't happy. I sent her the cameraphone photo above to explain Willie was practicing his keyboard in preparation for his world tour.

It didn't fly. She wondered which toutou (French for stuffed animal) she'd have beside her head at bedtime. I suggested Willie's brother Louie, who'd never had the chance to sleep in the big bed. She grudgingly accepted.

When I returned home, I made sure I brought Willie in before my luggage. I know the priorities in our home.

My daughter's eyes lit when she saw me. She ran laughing and grabbed Willie.

Like I said, I know the priorities in our home.

She grabbed Willie, danced around, and stopped dead with a serious look on her face.

"Willie, I slept with your brother."

Connie Talbot

Will I get a kiss on your cheek when I get home? How many?

2? OK.

4? Uh-huh

16? That's a lot.

256? Too many!

65536? That's crazy!

4,294,967,296? Uh. Thats. I don't want to say.

No, honey. Go ahead. What are you thinking?

You'll be dead before you give that many kisses.

The above exchange is almost verbatim. Only the numbers have been changed to protect the innocent reader. The progression was far less steep.

I just felt like capitalizing that.

I've got a couple of A.P.E. stories of my own. And, since this has become a stream of consciousness blog...

I'll start with the little one. On a family trip to Montreal we decided to act like tourists as we drove. One destination: The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. One road block: the Cleveland Pride Parade. It seems we parked on the wrong side of the parade route. We looked down the street and saw the paraders were ending just past the entrance into the Hall of Fame.

So, we joined the parade. The photo is my daughter after we made up the steps and to the garden in front of the museum. Age two and half and she's obviously gay.

Somewhere in the early 1990s I met up with my Dad in San Francisco. He was helping a friend move there and I had decided I needed a vacation. When I go on vacation, I try to pay no attention to the news. If I'm really out of touch, it's a good vacation. So, one morning I decided to take dad over to Oakland to see an A's game. I had read who'd be in town before I'd left home.

As we got on the bus, the driver told us it there was no charge. Obviously, it must have been a holiday. Especially since the bus was packed for a weekend morning.

My father was in his mid-60s and looked 80. He was surprised when an Asian teenager jumped out of her seat and offered it to him. He gladly accepted. He was a bit overwhelmed by all the people. He was a small town man at-heart.

As I stood beside him, I noticed Dad had noticed legs. I think he noticed the high heels first. In those days my eyes moved faster than Dad's. I wanted to make sure he wasn't offending anyone. He wasn't as subtle as he thought he was.

I mentally willed him to stop at the knees. But he didn't. I think I could hear his neck crack as his head snapped sideways to look back at the floor.

He had noticed the short-skirt wearing, high heel clad legs were topped by a man with a heavier beard than mine.

"Welcome to San Francisco, Dad," I thought.

I wasn't fazed by alternate dress. At the time, I was doing volunteer work handing out condoms in gay bars. I gave a bit of information too, but most just wanted the free condoms.

As we exited the bus, even I started to wonder what part of Kansas we'd landed in. It seemed every Friend of Dorothy wore a brighter outfit than the next. Dresses were de rigueur. Barely vested were bare-chested or properly trimmed. Men were wearing outfits you wouldn't see outside the Gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. On the way into the BART station, I had to take his arm. The poor man had never been to the French Riviera. He wasn't used to women walking around topless. He didn't know where to look.

I realized what was going on. I was taking my dad through the outskirts of a Pride event. In a large city known for its Pride. My Dad was a tolerant person. He just wasn't prepared for the diversity of style that was passing by his eyes.

The BART train to Oakland was a quieter affair. He had some minutes to relax. I figured there would be little to shock him at the game. He seemed to be enjoying himself until the announcement that smoking was permitted only in a certain room under the stands. I enjoyed the game and the nice weather. He told me the TVs in the smoking room were nice.

On the way back home he saw more of the same, but not as many people. I broke down that night and watched the news. They mentioned San Francisco had one of its largest Pride parades to date. I'm glad I got to share that little bit of history with my dad. I don't remember who won the game.

1) Why is an 80s music act running for president?

2) Weren't all those guys British?

3) He looks like hell. Is this what happens when weightlifters fall from grace?

4) If he promises to drop "Hail to the Chief" and walk in under "I'm Too Sexy," he gets my vote.

5) Why wasn't #4 a question?

6) Which reporter will be the first to ask him "What do you know and when did you know it?"

7) Why doesn't the sentence in #6 get two question marks?

8) Is he trying to hypnotize us in that photograph?

9) I thought Fred said, "Right." Why is he using his left hand?

10) Will the Democrats run Frankie against this guy?

I say Relax.

The illustration is intended as a parody. If it offends you, please write about it on your blog. Link to me. We'll do lunch.

or...Did You See What Sister's Wearing Today?

That's it. All I've got is headlines.

Let's tally the hate:
"Confederate by Choice Union by Force"
"Stop All Immigration"
and a No symbol on the Rainbow Flag.

That's a Florida Agriculture tag. The money for that tag goes to Florida Agriculture in the Classroom, Inc. (FAITC). The company is "a non-profit organization that develops and trains teachers and agriculture industry volunteers in its agricultural curricula and materials, which they in turn use to educate students about the importance of agriculture."

I bet the students they teach include gays, former Northerners, and most assuredly, children of immigrants. I wonder if the driver asks that his tag money is only used by teachers in KKK sponsored schools?

Yes, I could have muted ESPN's telecast of the White Sox - Yankees game, but I would have missed the roar of the Cominsky crowd. Yes, they're now quiet enough to sound like Wrigley fans, but I am at least close to announcer free.

I fear Rick Sutcliff wants to be the Tim McCarver of his generation.