Boiled Egg

I am looking at the title of this Blog. Seems like I'm going in all different directions. And it's hot. So I want to lay around. I just ate a boiled egg.

I feel guilty for not doing anything.

So I am blogging to get warmed up to "doing something". Above is a picture of My Dad, my brother John and the "Blue Bag". Also my daughter Sarah is holding the volley ball. I bought her that at the Huntington Beach Pier. It was six dollars.

The blue bag is a relic from before our family broke up. It goes way back to when we were kids. When we went on a family vacation, or to the beach, or waterskiing, it was always "where is the blue bag?". It was stuffed with necessities. Snacks. Towels. Sunglasses.

A metaphor for a womb. And it kind of looks like an empty womb doesn't it? Just dangling there. Dad has it hung on a hook in the garage. His garage is so clean and orderly. I wish mine were like that.

The freakin blue bag doesn't look much different. But we do.

Now here is another picture I really like. This is Sarah and her best friend Tara running to the ocean to jump in. Can't you just feel the sand and remember doing the same thing as a kid?

Young girls on the brink of life. Running toward a bright future, their whole lives ahead of them.

Ya know, I've done a lot of trying real hard at a lot of stuff. Know what? I've got a resume five miles long. But check this out:

Here's my sister and I. We're doing some kind of hand thing that means "flower". Point is we're best friends. She is my right arm. And I'm her left foot. I look a bit like my mother. Tracy won't like this picture of herself, so I'll put up another one so you can see she reallly is a hot bitch like she mentioned in her last post:

Here is my sister wading in the ocean. And Sarah and Tara are on the body boards.

We're one of those familes from Orange County. Once upon a time, not so long ago this picture could have been my mother, with Tracy and I in the water.

Tracy was always a great student. The validictorian. A smart person. Level headed. I got the crazy "gene".

I guess I can blame A.P. Simpson, our great grandpa who did time in San Quentin. He wasn't a criminal. Just a Preacher. And a Pimp.

He was some kind of charismatic or other and he convinced his followers to hop a train from Iowa to California. And he started pimping on the side.

I imagine that ride at Disneyland - you know, the "Haunted Mansion" where suddenly you pass a mirror and these ghosts are in your little car with you and you are surprised and delighted.

The world is so full of ghosts and imaginary things, it's hard to cut through all that, know what I mean?