Oh no, “She’s” really a He

I don’t remember exactly how I first found Bulldog‘s blog when I started with WordPress about a month ago, but somethng Bulldog wrote really spoke to me and I commented.  And lo and behold said blogger was so kind as to return the favor!  Thus began our friendly discourse via comments.

Poor Bulldog, held prisoner in Hampton Roads. How I felt for that poor poochie with those to-die-for eyes.

Loved “her” writing style, wit and political views.

But um, could someone please turn back time until just before I cited “Her” on a very prominent blog because it turns out Bulldog is not a Her.  Not even remotely a Her.  Has not been a Her at any time during or before our discourse.   Had I checked Bulldog’s complete Blogger profile it would’ve become wildly apparent that “Male” was a rather prominent part of his description.  Hey, I figured that dude in the photo from 1861 must’ve been of one of “Her” ancestors.  (Photography was more or less widely available back then, right?)

And ladies like bulldogs too, don’t they?  Bulldogs even come in females.

Dear Lord, Jannie.

Upside, Bulldog is a true gentleman. With a great sense of humor, as is apparent from his comments on my post yesterday.   And from his wonderful blog in general. 

Just goes to show how great the Internet can be, that it matters not whether you’re a man or woman – if your heart is true you will connect with others and the bloggin’ love will flow.

Bulldog, you deserve some nice juicy meat on those bones. If you’re ever in Austin, the steak’s on us!

A Poem by Mardi Wareham

Almost  3 years ago I met a spunky gal named Mardi Wareham at a songwriting seminar and 5 weeks later she, two fun-loving guys and I thrilled the Universe with our debut show as “The Funsters.”

Here’s a photo taken by Stevie’s wife, Anna, at our first rehearsal.

Steveee             Mardeee             Janneee                  Traceee

Here’s a photo of me with said poetic maven about six months ago.

And now… Mardi’s poem.  What do you think of it?

After a 7 a.m. Swim at Stacey Pool

By Mardi Wareham

Stopped at a red light at Woodland and I35

No car behind or beside me,

I notice this morning is cool, golden, guileless

I am dizzy with sunshine caressing the long brown grasses

I want to know all its secrets

I want to know the wisdom of the trees

Solid, strong, timeless

Instead of the tumultuous, cascading waterfall of human emotions and thoughts

I must go into the woods now.