The Best Part Of Waking Up

The best part of waking up is not Folger’s in your cup; it’s not being dead. I average about four hours of sleep per night, so I am never fully-rested, fully-cognizant, or fully-functioning. It is one of many thorns in my side. But I keep waking up each morning, before the sun, before the rooster crows, still breathing and being alive.

In the time it’s taken you to read this, about 100 people have died. Yep, approximately 6000 per hour.

So consider yourself lucky! If you’re still here, you’ve still got a mission to accomplish. Maybe it’s tackling that in-box. Maybe it’s chores. Maybe it’s fighting an illness. Maybe it’s a kind word to build someone up today, or just putting one foot in front of the other. But you’re not still sitting here, converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, for nothing. My guess is you’ll make it to the next minute as well. Hey, that’s better than the 200 people who died since you clicked on this post. Cheers to life, buddy! Get another cup of coffee (free trade, fair trade, or whatever) and enjoy the morning.

Critter Curls


Dames from 1946

Dames from 1946

I’m not saying they did hide varmints in their hair; I’m just saying they could.


Before Olan Mills and Glamour Shots, amateur photographers had to direct their subjects with options and tips like:

  • Crane your head to the right, as if you hear screeching from over there, over there.
  • Keep your lips together, indicating you are slightly miffed or you smell B.O.
  • If you part your hair down the middle, you must stare directly at the camera.
  • Pearls. Always pearls.
  • Rebels may cock your chins to the left, akin to yoga’s “warrior pose,” which lets your enemies know that you have vanquished them. Wearing the bow signifies future enemies will perish, so don’t even bring it. I’m talking to you, June.


Bedroom Eyes

Please. You know I’m not going to talk about Dharma Bums or On The Road. I didn’t get an English degree for that. And plus, I’m not my 1995 boyfriend, trying desperately to have a deep conversation, so…

This is not to dismiss Jack Kerouac’s writing; if that’s what you want, check out another WP blogger. If it’s shallow and unnecessary judgment you need, you’re in the right place. And this isn’t about his cup of liquor or his pipe or his gingham or his lustful stare. It’s about how he was reincarnated as Nathan Fillion.



With a dash of Mike Rowe.

Well, this shot of a dirty hitchhiker doesn’t look too much Kerouac. I might be wrong. Perhaps I should do some more research, just to be sure.

Research is totally important.



Sorry, straight guys. Go cleanse your palate with some pin-ups.