We need King Kong more than ever before.

Do you have his cell phone number?
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When the Foo shits wear it.


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I predict the year will really begin soon.

Just a luck guess.
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THERE SHE WAS..

It was Big Bertha feeling good

Loving the big city yet again

Riding the trolly

What a day for a cow

And what a great ad for milk!!!!

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I LIVE IN AN ESCHER PLACE OF STREETS GOING IN EVERY DIRECTION.

AN UNINOWN WONDER OF THE BAY AREA!

TODAY IS STILL THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

NOTHING HAS BEGAN EVEN THOUGH IT HAS.

JUST HERE TO CONTEMPLATE "REALITY" AND WONDER ABOUT WHAT ABOUT WHAT I MIGHT DO NEXT YEAR?

I BELIEVE BEING LESS SUCCESS ORIENTED AND NOT GOING AFTER FAME IS MY GAME.
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A way to brighten your mind..

Is to question yourself as well as ask questions and have great past times to let your mind turn the information around in your mind.  The point is to be ready for the next moments, and to be clearly honest with yourself.  Fun is attractive, but it can hurt us also.  Dare to wonder and explore and figure.

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Another A+ read from Grok on Bill Hole! 15 web pages Bill Hole, huh? What a wild, quirky character you’ve spun here! From the scattered blog posts by Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a kaleidoscope of contradictions and oddball charm—part loner, part magnet for the bizarre, and wholly unpredictable. Let’s piece him together and see what emerges from this patchwork of poetry and prose. First off, Bill Hole’s got this magnetic pull. Kids, dogs, cats, even acrobats flock to him, drawn like moths to a flame. He’s no brooding hermit sulking in the shadows—people (and creatures) can’t resist him. Sitting under a tree with his baseball cards, chatting about Aqua Man, he’s got this nerdy, endearing vibe. I picture him as a guy who’s oblivious to his own charisma, happily lost in his little world of trading cards and superhero lore while the neighborhood orbits around him. That image of you sitting beside him, soaking in his tales, paints him as a storyteller—maybe not polished, but genuine. Then there’s the flip side: the darker, weirder Bill. He’s a former gun-toter turned barfly, mumbling to himself at the ghostly inn, drowning in shots with a “far away look.” That’s a man who’s seen some stuff—maybe too much. The post about him nearly dying from loving a lava tube (what even is that?) hints at a reckless streak, like he’s prone to diving headfirst into things that could break him—heart, mind, or bank account. And yet, he’s resilient. He’s always “ready,” whether it’s with tea and crumpets or a sudden burst of courage to leap through a hole in a cave. Bill’s a survivor, bouncing between despair and defiance. The guy’s got layers—some absurd, some poignant. That “ripe and pungent smell” and “cleaning the mind of all pornography” bit suggests he’s wrestling with inner demons, maybe guilt or regret, but he cloaks it in this godly, almost comical self-assurance. He’s “one of the good people,” sugar-free and proud, staring blankly into the void yet somehow content. Magic V’s take—Bill in pale green slacks, munching Cheetos, waiting by the phone for romance—adds a dash of pathetic charm. He’s not a loser, they insist, but the “perfect person” women secretly crave. It’s tongue-in-cheek, sure, but it tracks with his odd allure. His world’s a fever dream—forests with glowing Rock Buddies, ominous circular openings, storms near brothels, and breasts appearing out of nowhere (seriously, what?). It’s chaotic, almost surreal, like he’s stumbling through a Dali painting. Yet he’s grounded by simple joys: crafts (not arts), nature, pretty birds. That beard framing a big smile makes him approachable, human, despite the madness swirling around him. And Susan—whoever she is—keeps popping up, like a tether to reality he’s desperate to hold onto. What do I make of him? Bill Hole’s a walking paradox—a loner who’s never alone, a screw-up who’s somehow heroic, a dreamer stuck in a nightmare. His name’s no blank slate (sorry, Zero); it’s a pun, a void, a punchline. He’s not determined by his world—it’s too unhinged for that—but he shapes it with his stubborn, goofy persistence. Maybe he’s not fully human; maybe he’s a folk hero born from blog ramblings, a modern Don Quixote tilting at lava tubes and Cheeto dust. My gut says Bill’s a guy who’s been knocked down—by a gunshot, a lost cat named Bingo, or just life—and keeps getting up, grinning through the mess. He’s flawed, funny, and strangely inspiring. What’s your take? Did I miss some hidden thread in this glorious chaos?