Will ya still love me will ya still need me if I always misspell words?

Calling all Emily Littles. Hellloooooo.
The renowned and famous Emily Little told her brother that she'll post here if I ever explain my user name. See Anne's explanation below, Girl. Now blog your heart away. Favorite New York detail? Least favorite? C'mon. Haven't heard from you for billions of seconds, and you know how I hate talking on the phone.

Did you know that my health would be 76% less at risk if I would take care of my stress and emotional health more appropriately? I took a test yesterday and that's what it said. Ha. That would be nice if it was that simple, huh? www.webmdhealth.com/utah. The only good thing about this depressing website is that I get 40$ off my insurance premium every month now. Cool, huh?

the mysterious "Sky Scatcher"

I have been wondering about the mysterious name "Sky Scatcher". It sort of sounds like a Canadian province, or a song from Fiddler on the Roof. "Sky Scat" (like scatological) could refer to the large loads of crap that the universe seems to dump on you on a fairly regular basis. My favorite guess has kind of a Native American flavor, "Skies-Catch-Her." I imagine you trying to hurl yourself off this sorry planet into outer space, but caught by gentle clouds and bounced back to earth to keep trying till you finally get it all figured out. Or grinding along full of worry or sadness, when suddenly you are caught up in an amazing sunset or the radiance of the huge harvest moon.

(Actually, I really know that you just accidentally left out the "r").

http://quotation-marks@blogspot.com (I am enclosing this link because I just used so many quotation marks and am feeling aware of my non-English-majorness, so wish to deflect your attention to this "funny" website).

I read your writing, the Spanish poem and heart of darkness. They are beautiful. Moving.

I like the red for this picture, too. One of my new favorites. I played with pictures of you and Beau yesterday (not on the computer, of course, not that talented, unfortunately). I tried different formations on three different walls, in different frames that I bought recently. Finally satisfied late last night. I love pictures, especially of people that I love.

And I agree about the whole Conan-Crowman-Peanut Butter thing. He creeps me out, too. I think there's something really wrong with him.

Conan the Crowman & Peanut Butter

I still can't stand him. He's disgusting, irritating, and ego incarnate. Almost always when I'm trying hard to go to bed at a decent time, guaranteed to grant me instant health, I turn on TV to catch news or music or an ancient Carey Grant film, and guess who pops up on the screen--skin and bones with a suit hung on him in the dressing room, probably by people paid minimum wage who cringe when he pulls at his collar, a constant habit that, I'm certain, he does in his sleep, in the shower, and at his grandmother's funeral. His face barely has enough skin stretched across the sharp angles and pointed nose and chin. Like Chucky--he's my worst nightmare.
My friends say, "Stay with him; he's brilliant in interviews, smart, funny." I usually trust my friend's judgement, so, I try to get past his floppy hair--I make it--then he moves into shaking his arms like he's got a bee stinging his elbow--I'm there--he starts his chicken dance from the '70's--and I'm fading fast. He starts pointing at the audience. Why? Why does he point at the audience?
"Nooooo, stay, give him a chance, you'll love his interviews, we promise," my ghost friends dance up and down on the couch, forcing me away from the channel changer, even grabbing it to throw across the room. Then, it comes.-- The jump.
What is that? Why does he do this thing? It's not even a real jump. He squats down, then winds up, brings his arms higher, looks to the left then to the right, and waits as if he's saying "and now, here it comes . . . ready?. . . everybody watching? . . . and I have to turn away because he reminds me of every little geek in high school that I felt sorry for and wanted to befriend because they didn't know--they never knew they were loud, tasteless, in-your-face, creepy geeky. . . . Then Conon springs, bringing his feet straight up to his suit coat. When his feet hit the ground, his bony face with the indescribable smirk jerks backward . . . I AM PRINCE HAMLET. LOOK! LOOK AT ME! I AM ODYSSEUS RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE, and you poor smucks are so lucky to see me, have me, hold me close to your chests, and love, love, please love me. He points again at the audience: "Ahhhh, yeah, I know you; you glad; you glad and you and you, so glad to see me. Then, barely able to contain my gulping nausea, I watch this insecure, gawky excuse for an entertainer smooth his red hair one more time and that's it-- I'm scrambling for the remote--beating off my ghostly friends with whips and sabers, hoping I can flip the channel before I shoot the screen out with my new 22 pistol.
Conan O'brian embarrasses me. I hide my head under a pillow. He doesn't even know his stupid, hair-flipping prancing makes him look like a complete idiot. Sorry. I just can't do it. I can never make it past his flagrant love affair with himself to listen to his "brilliant interviews." It feels like eating Peanut Butter. I want to eat Peanut Butter; I want to like it because, I've been told, it's a good source of protein; all my friends like it; my family loves it; but it smells like rotten peanuts and sticks to the top of my mouth and . . . I HATE PEANUT BUTTER.

I love you, Mom. I'm so excited for your next book to come pouring out of you.

River runs through Idaho Autumn

I wish I had a true camera to capture the true colors. Josh you need to come home and visit your mom. Can you see the ducks? Em, you desert rat, eat your heart out. You should have hitchhiked from Utah. We could have put on early Santana and built a night fort out of leaves.

I'm the new guy all over again

Writing Assistants are still wearing those vests, at least they are in the pictures on the web page. Why didn't we go with camo coats again? Better, why didn't we decide to wear pink hair nets? The vests are easy to lose in a crowd, but a pink hair net - especially when two peeps are leaning over a some thematic prose - truly distinguishes an assistant from an assanythingelse.

My name is Tanner. I don't have a cool handle, and I don't know which handle corresponds to which of my friends. This is just like the first meeting I attended in the basement of the Smith building, only I can no longer hide behind the false confidence of a returned missionary at Rick's College. Erin - handle Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom - is understandably wondering how I got posting privileges on the blog without an application or interview. (I apologize, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom, if I didn't spell her name correctly. We both know that she is still on the all-time cute baby list.)

I'm new to this whole blogging deal. I thought it was just a brain burp forum for disturbed sorts. I was wrong. There is some fine writing on this cyber-slate. I don't even pretend to know how to write anymore. I no longer write to communicate; I now write to argue. Law school, legal research, and legal writing put the kibosh on creativity. But, recognition is the first step in repentance - returned missionary at Rick's College card.

I loved the Writing Center in the summer. The whole campus seemed drowsy in the summer, and the Writing Center was the perfect vantage for observation. Jen - handle Coyote - didn't swear as much in the summer, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom only got crabby when I skipped meetings to golf, and Jill - handle Satellite - could be seen smiling occasionally.

This needs proof-read, but I'm afraid to re-read and re-do the whole thing. I know that the boss has administrative permissions to block me from future postings, but I pray for mercy.