Tag Archives: George^*++

October 12, 2024 · 3:19 pm

00440309 (Rose T.)

She resided in Dairy so she thought it was appropriate to start her long delayed *diary* here. To begin: renaming the place after the book. Aisle of Diary it is from now on in the writing. Or Isle — either one perhaps, depending on, let’s say, the weather. Sunny right now. Isle, then.

Dear Diary,

Today I begin my life anew. Beautiful day here in the Isle, let’s call it. Edward D. is cooking up breakfast, no dairy. I’m allergic to dairy now. Milk, cheese, all of it. My diary makes it so.

I want to first talk about Dr. Kelp and how the two timing f-er stabbed me in the back and replaced me with A. Pond. I want to talk about the lie that is Edward D., because I made him up, name just off the the top of my head back there. Let’s see, 5 sentences back now. Oh here he comes now, breakfast in hand. “Thank you dearest!” I say to him, putting down the loaded down tray beside the keyboard in front of me, planning to nibble on it for the next hour or so. Writing and dining, two of my favorite activities. 5 sentences, 5 bites (so on). I don’t do dairy. I sip on the glass of milk he also provided (“Thanks again, dearie!”).

The breakfast turns into a sandwich loaded down with at least peanut butter as the sun becomes square and black, Skippy and Jiff both chipping in (skip). Aisle it is.

I think of po man’s George Washington (Carver) not for the first time today. Nor the last.

(to be continued)

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March 13, 2024 · 4:55 am

00420304

“Are you disappointed that she didn’t want to sell the castle property back to you, Shelley?”

Sigh. “No, not really. Gave me an excuse to look around the place, see what she’d done. That’s good enough. For a consolation.”

“It’s pretty expensive still,” says Arthur Kill. “Baker only pays about 1 1/2 times that amount for the Aisle of Palms rental as a whole and that’s about, let’s see, 2 1/2 times as much land.”

“Do you still speak to him?” Shelley Johnston Struthers asked eagerly.”

“N-no. I thought *you* spoke to him.”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm, indeed.” Both understood that Baker Bloch, owner of the virtual town we as a family rent now, didn’t seem to know the couple’s whereabouts. They were off the radar. And then both also thought about George, aka The Musician. Was it the same with him?

“We should go down into town tonight. Go shopping and dining.”

Shelley looked out the window on their perch atop Yellowmoon Ridge at all the snow falling. Then she looked around the house at all the elephant decoration. Just came with the rental — no planning on their part. “Nah, I’m fine staying here tonight. That special on indie animation is debuting on Youtube at 8. Then they’re replaying a doubleheader of ‘The Pink City’ and ‘The Amazing Digital Circus’ at 9.”

“Love that stuff,” opined hubby Arthur, envisioning other stuff at 10. This 3rd honeymoon (or was it their 4th?) was working out swell. Cheap rental *exactly* on the spot where the old Ant Castle use to exist. Current owner didn’t even know anything about that storied history. Arthur had a hard time believing it — still does. He checks his watch not on his wrist. 7:45. Time to pop open the first bottle of wine? Why not.

They ended up drinking the 1st glass to Biff Carter, which was a strange toast indeed. Have to think about that.

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March 12, 2024 · 4:00 am

Walsh County (Pitch Darkly)

“Look dear, I caught another one (!).”

“Hold on, Mary. Hold on. It’s Baker calling.”

“Baker? Hi!”

(reply)

“Yeah, we’re getting along great. A little cold of course but it is North–”

(reply)

“What was that? Hold on, let me take this darn Russian cap off with the ear flaps and all.”

—–

“Okay go ahead, sir.”

(reply)

“Yeah, I heard that now.” He covers the phone with his hand and whispers over to fishing Mary. “Baker says he needs to talk to us as soon as we get back to town.” He listens again…

(reply)

“Mary Ball, eh? Well that’s *one* of her names.”

(reply)

“George, right.” He removes the phone from his ear but doesn’t cover the face up this time while saying over to his wife in a louder voice: “He wants to know how you acquired the Killing Shack, you know, the one over in Epping Woods.”

“Why does he want to know that?” She was happy fishing right now. She didn’t want to be reminded of that horrendous past on her well deserved vacation. Calm, she said to herself. Caalllmm.

“I’ll ask him.” Phone to bare ear again. “Baker, what’s going on?”

(reply)

“Virginia neck country again, eh? Just like with—”

(reply)

“Dead ball era, huh? That’s *my* era, where I came from. Where the *ERA* was real low, he he. Get it? My era. My ER–”

(reply)

“Okay, thanks. See you when we get back.”

(reply)

“We will. Thanks.” And Baker Bloch hangs up on the other side.

—–

“Did you mention the antipoison?”

“No,” Baker responds to Hucka. “I thought he’d had enough to chew on today.”

“Agreed I suppose. So we’re on for next Tuesday?”

“8 o’clock sharp.”

(to be continued)

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March 10, 2024 · 9:40 pm

00420302

“I found this in the same county as White Stone, Hucka. Merry and Mary, just like in St. Merry’s (?) Church.”

“Follow up on that,” she requests. So I did. I talked to Pastor Ziegler about the weird conjunction.

—–

“That’s interesting it’s Mary Ball there as well.”

“As well?” I prompted.

“Yes. Mary Ball is the mother of George Washington. And it happens that it’s Pitch Darkly’s Mary’s maiden name too. Can’t be coincidence.”

“Again,” I replied.

“Especially since they also have a kid named George, come to think of it. Not sure how old the boy would be now. Maybe even a teenager?”

“He was growing up fast the last time I checked,” I agreed

“Anyway (*sigh*), this is certainly a mystery indeed. Another Virginia neck mystery.”

“First Susan and Shadow. Now this. Lively… variant names of both Pitch Penny and Catch Penny, inferring a battery in baseball. Balls are more lively than they use to be back in the dead ball era, before the death of Indian Ray Chapman via beaning and the cleaning up of (the ball and) the game, giving hitters the upper hand over pitchers (and catchers) from that day forward. Martyr, some say because of it.”

“I’m glad you are confiding all this to me,” spoke Pastor Stephan Ziegler of the 1st Church of St. Merry’s — yes, that’s the name — who seemed just happy to be part of the town story again. Aisle of Palms… stated he loves it in all its interesting twists and turns. I thought to myself that he’s probably just glad I didn’t instead go to Rev. Amos T. Sandman across the street at the rival Fries with Cheese Church with my insights — gives him the upper hand there as well. But of course Amos is rarely in the building because of the smell. Allergic to cheese of all things. And they built the church out of the material, as traditional states. No one can really stay there that long without wearing clothes pins on their noses, and so that became part of their traditional as well, part of ecclesiastical lore.

Fries with Cheese office manager Martha Lamb takes note of Baker’s exit from her second floor office window while getting ready to go home herself. She can free up the nostrils at last. Worst part of the job — everything else she loves, just like Stephan, who she perceives as a direct arch-rival, assuming that role for the mainly absent Reverend, she feels

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October 18, 2023 · 1:43 am

a punk is born (zooming in on yellow (1st thing in the morning))

Many famous musicians have walked the roads of Gaston, and many famous musicians have left from such roads. Not George, though: he remained glued to the town through his car as it were, white in the daylight here but silver at night, as silver as Maxwell’s Hammer.

And now his soul has returned as the strumming punk known as Ketchup Tom because of his red mohawk if not visa versa, Marsha “Pink” Krakow his new drummer in tow, owner of her own VW Bug and one she perhaps is glued to as well, and even perhaps the *same* bug. Paired silver and gold as we’ve mentioned before — or white and yellow in the daytime. The Portal. Mimosa. Probably dusk and dawn as I’m writing and thinking this out.

George also existed here as Duncan Avocado, a character very important to the blog and attached photo-novels up until and including 31. 3-1 (March 1). His birthday which was also kind of his death day, at least in my eyes. He lay in a blue-yellow tent on the floor of the Collagesity library after that, a virtual structure last seen in Constantynople which has recently been destroyed/derezzed, with a final friend in the library *still* a friend — but simply too busy with a young kid to have much time for anything else, including our promised hikes. Important thing: I don’t hold it against him. And I should probably get over my disappointment with Duncan too. Put it in the rear view window. Thing is, we’re *doppelgangers*.

Red blue yellow houses in a row to begin. Again.

“Ugh, my head. W-where am I? And *who* am I?”

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October 15, 2023 · 9:25 am

00400411

“Definitely silver,” he rechecked through the past observing tool locally known as the chronovishmach. “So definitely George.”

—–

In the past, Hucka Doobie was eating alone. But in this alternate version she had the guts to walk up to Marion Star Harding and ask him on a date. Just after this she continued her guttiness and told Ozzie Osbourne, another star, that his gig was up in Gaston and that he’d have to return to Meat City for future concerts like these. Still on an adrenaline rush she goes back to Marion at the bar and gives him a kiss full on the lips, saying that’s to tide him over until tonight. Just arrived Ketchup Tom, aka The Musician (aka *George*) walks into the club, wanting to check everything out while Marsha was unloading the car, especially the structure of the place, trying to determine if his music would collapse it like before with that huge piece of coal for a bar in West Virginie. Hucka Doobie assured him that all had been prepared and that a non-collapsing spell had been cast by a local wizard. Club Rhino: definitely at a crossroads between various dimensions. Why Hucka Doobie was here in the first place, she finally determined after much lamenting and gnashing of teeth about her “entrapment” in Gaston. “Damn you Tammy Whatammy!” she cursed aloud a lot at first. “Damn you evil, conniving Casey One Hole!”, the root person to blame since Tammy was just following orders when she pushed her through that imprisoning collage back in photo-novel 7. Such a long time ago. She knew alternate versions of herself existed elsewhere. But she only existed within the body, the *vessel* of this here one. And she’s tired of complaining about the darkness. “When in Rome,” and so on.


“When in Rome” (2018)

And so in this version she dines and drinks with Marion Harding instead of doing so alone. And other things have changed: no “Welcome to Mimosa” on the sign, you’ll notice in comparing the last photo of this here blog post with the one above, anything that was once golden having been lost in the transition. Silver now. Night. Dark. Welcome to Gaston.

“We better get to the gig,” Marion requested after 2 wines, hoping to move to his more standard pot soon. Levon would have some, he knew. And Levon liked his music over his money, women, anything else. He’d be at the gig for sure.

“Oh,” said disappointed Hucka to this, wishing they’d just skip to whole gig thing and move on to that other stuff she had in mind. Bases, although obviously safe at home still — home base is definitely off limits tonight. But 1st, maybe 2nd? In play, she envisioned in her mind. Was she still desirable? she couldn’t help wondering as Marion got up and she followed suit and then looked at the back of his suit as it made pleasing motions while he walked toward the Rhino.

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May 13, 2023 · 7:08 am

I buried Paul.

And Ringo. And John. Especially John, though. Can’t be dug out. Will always remain in the Cavern where I first learned of them. SODA.

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January 18, 2023 · 5:13 pm

00360513

She received clarification in another witch house near the Head Line in Hooktip, her old stopping grounds. PCH Forest — many a day she could be found roaming these woods for magical trinkets, practicing magical spells. This is where, for example, she came up with a mate named George, a future husband she declared to him after he physically manifested before her, not quite mature but getting there. A boy 13 to 10 to 13 to 10 over and over (as it turned out), always gaining 6 inches to reach the upper extreme, always with horns or antlers by that time. On sunnier days he could even glimpse 18.


from the files: bigger George. With horns or antlers.

Anyway, the new, proper board’s planchette further indicated or emphasized the importance of the 5 point star to add to the already highlighted ending/beginning Z, obvious reference to her cat Mysti, long long left behind but still the best of friends, we assume. She even named herself that after the cat in one of her incarnations (switching the i and the y), an homage to the past in more ways than one.


from the files: Misty.

Yes, she recalls that. Quite close to here, in a retro town defunct for several years now. Took up all or almost all of Myron, a couple of sims directly west of Hooktip. Arthur was also there in a way. Except she called him Septimius. Septimius Felton, a name which has resurface recently. Darn full moon, darn wandering feet on a full moon. She ended up beside him, which now was a her. But it was still Arthur in a way, in a manner. Too hard to explain to him, though. Must keep that a big secret still — the trip to Red Marsh and Maroonville, sometimes called Redtown because of the overarching sim. Santa was born there, some say — legend goes. Santman.

She also found a book with a golden butterfly on the front, mirroring the name of the property: Golden Hours. Inside she read about herself.

(to be continued)

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January 3, 2023 · 10:31 am

00360314

“Over here, Arthur. Behind the bushes!”

—–

“Black against white. As it should be.”

—–

“You’re not ashamed of us still?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, well. The bushes.”

She sighs. “It’s just so we could get more romantic. Towel has a better view of the rocks over there I like so much.”

“Ropes, yeah.” Arthur stared out, thinking of George/Musician. “Have you heard from him lately?”

“Him?”

“You know. Him.”

—–

“Strange dreams, yeah.” Continuing, he thinks to himself.

“Moon is bright tonight. Better get you back to the hotel.”

“Okay.”

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December 30, 2022 · 12:32 pm

00360306 (New)

He approached cautiously from below.

—–

He’d been saving up presents for some time, preparing for the worst. Flood! they warned. Global warming gone rogue! they cried. Thus the ark.

Or so the story goes.

After a return trip to the box, they ate Christmas dinner up top. “Shelley, you seem depressed,” he spoke. Probably just leftover effects once more, he rationalized.

“Oh. Just thinking about The Moon again. Where are we on it?”

George/Musician didn’t bother to correct this time. “Tranquility, love,” he said instead. “Remember? We landed there, all of us Americans through two specific Americans. All in the Family.”

Shelley Struthers buried her suddenly aching head in her folded arms, trying to forget everything. The nearby lemons and drink bottle were reminding her of something she didn’t want to see.

“Would you like to open a present?” offered George/Musician. Maybe that would help her mood.

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