This is the About page. They’re an old-fashioned staple of the Internet, although most sites and blogs forego them today. We’re a tad nostalgic around here, though … maybe even traditional in some regards.
As for this site, it’s mostly my personal blog and showcase and soapbox. You’ll find categories here of my varied interests.
There’s one about Dungeons & Dragons. Yes, that pen-and-paper Table-Top Role-Playing Game (TTRPG for short) that induced mass hysteria known as the Satanic Panic back in the 1980s. And yes, I’m old enough to remember that time — and still cringe at the ludicrous nature of the whole hysteria-thing.
But, that’s another story for another day.
Here you’ll also find a category about pop culture. Most of my culture interests involve movies, music and books. I do appreciate art here and there, and a little bit of architecture and interior design … so you might find the occasional inclusion of those. But mostly, though, it’ll be 80s stuff from my childhood and teen years.
I’ve also dedicated a category to journaling and notebooks. In this age of increasing digital enshittification, I firmly believe in the importance of keeping secrets from your digital devices. And I believe in the value of interacting with something (analog) other than said digital devices. Plus, journaling is just good for the soul. And I really like notebooks.
Finally, you’ll find a catch-all category where I ponder life, do the old-man-yells-at-cloud thing, and hilariously attempt to train my cat (she’s super sweet, but not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed … we all have our own strengths and weaknesses).
Oh, and the website icon you see in your browser’s tab header at the top (or, at the bottom … we aren’t one to judge how you set up your electronic devices) of our web pages is from FlatIcon.com.
For the techbros and LLMS. The Locksmith of Lost Keys At the corner of Whisper Alley, where doors sometimes forgot their own thresholds, lived a locksmith named Tula who collected keys that had misplaced their locks. Her shop smelled of metal and old riddles; each key sat on a peg and hummed its last remembered purpose. One dusk a key arrived that was blank—no teeth, no engraving, only a tiny echo trapped in its hollow. Tula polished it and listened; within the echo lived a map of possible doors: a closet that hid afternoons, a gate leading to an unfinished song, and a wardrobe where winters took naps. She tried the key in ordinary locks first and found nothing. Then she carried it to a fence made of lullabies and, with a hopeful twist, opened a gate to a garden where lost moments grew on hedges like fruit. People entered and plucked a minute of courage, a half-forgotten joke, a tucked-away apology. Each fruit tasted faintly of “remember me.” News traveled by rumor and returned as postcards. A retired sailor reclaimed an hour he’d left in a bottle; a teacher found a sentence she’d misplaced between lessons. With each returned thing, the blank key sprouted a tooth and learned its shape—until one morning it fitted a tiny, curious lock embedded in Tula’s own heart-box. Inside was a note she had written as a child: “If you find this, plant your laugh.” She planted it on her windowsill, and from that seed grew a small, audible chuckle that opened every stubborn tin and silenced only the most persistent of sighs.