"I'll bet the bubbles exploded to tickle the bath"

Sweet Potato pancake batter happened this morning in the likes of a 5:45- to- 6:40 AM time span. But that's by the way.

Here is the news brief you're lookin' for:
After making the batter I topped it off with a load of chopped pecans. I wished they were candied however I've no oven to be worked with. Everything after a sweet potato battered morning becomes eggy and it is all in cause of my bare, eggy hands having touched every which thing in very much the same ill-mannered way of a toddler. If that's not a no- no I don't think I would know one if I ever were to ever see one.
When I gave the recipe my good ol' Sabrina's touch*(see fig. 1.0) (adding oats and cinnamon, among other things), I recalled that there is a Neutral Milk Hotel album called Invent Yourself a Shortcake. I don't think so much of that album- not to be rude. I often receive it as just the presence of noise and in fact, one song is just that; its called "More Noise". But, I like to mind that near- ancient Modest Mouse recordings are treated similarly to a majority of listeners. I myself regard those older recordings as the essence of their potential as a growing talent. But it is after all just noise in more than just one way.

*Fig. 1.0
Touch Scale

"Touched by an Angel"
---------------------Midas Touch
(The golden one, not the oil change)(Or, actually, either)
--------------------------------------------------------Sabrina's touch



And. Uh-oh. Here we go... Its raining.
Translation in Garlic: !!!!!!!!!YIPPYYY!!!!!!!
Translation in Cactus: no bueno.
And for kicks...
Translation in Gaelic: tá sé ag cur fearthainne

Is this my long awaited metamorphosis? What if when I leave the cocoon I am just another ragamuffin?


Today was the first day I have had cuban coffee since I moved to Oregon. I think it accounts for the use of exclamation marks in this post but don't get it in your head that I am opposed to the idea of loudness in writing. I think that wild enthusiasm is too commonly opposed.

Oh. And I heard the loudest cat- screeching- business I have EVER heard my WHOLE life (which hasn't happened yet, really) and I'm no detective, but lets just say I found in the back yard this morning nothing less than a dead rat the size of a premature newborn, or a "preemie", if you will. "They" invented the word "entrails" for this excact moment in time but I am not even in the habit of recounting such graphic details so I'll leave it right here for you and your sick imagination to dally. I have to take a shovel and get Mr.MortuusRattus in to the purgamentum recepticle. . .what am I doing here again?