Singing the Brews

“Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.”  “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.”   The man in the front of the room encouraged on the followers,  “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” The old, respected guru was about to enter. What sort of cult was this?

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The Birds And The Bees

There comes a time in every person’s life that a certain discussion needs to be had, either as the presenter of certain life-affirming facts, or as the recipient.  While I suspect most of you gentle readers would consider yourselves well versed in these facts, perhaps today I can shed a new light upon them.

Yes, today we’re going to talk about the birds and the bees.

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And The Hills Bleed Paint

The rainfall grew, starting softly to moisten the dried dirt and clay, then growing to create rivulets of water, streaming down the hills. But it was not a simple muddy brown runoff; yellows over there, maroons there, ochers, reds, oranges, greys, shades of brown from light tan to dark brown ran and collected. It was as if a giant Jackson Pollock had one too many drinks, and in his drunken stumble kicked over all the cans of paint in his studio.

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Spring Break

Winter.

Here in the good old USA, numerous folk are “enjoying” the style of winter that is often considered the exclusive domain of International Falls, Minnesota and their robust Canadian friends further north.  Temperatures are brutally cold, well south of freezing, accompanied by ye olde insidious wind chill and ample amounts of that white stuff that wanted to be rain before Mr. Freeze squeezed its little liquid heart. While the Canucks and Minnesotans may shrug it off, for those less accustomed to this winter thuggery I offer a Spring Break – a reminder of things to come.

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