Reverse number lookup

I got a call but he missed it. It was a missed call. Fortunately, the number was on my phone when I pushed the button to retrieve the missed call. The number didn't have a name with it, which means that it wasn't the number of one of my contacts. I put the phone back in his pocket.

Why didn't I hear it ring?

My phone's on vibrate. Why didn't I feel the vibration?

Is my phone on vibrate or has it been silenced? I checked. And the phone logo with two lines on each side indicating motion let him know that his phone was on vibrate.

Why didn't I feel the phone?

I was walking to work and movement of my legs might have caused vibration enough to counter the vibration of the phone, or the movement with the motion makes sensory impossible.

I continued to walk, crossing streets heading down sidewalks through neighborhoods and across the bridge the whole time wondering who it was who might have called.

Could it have been an employer? Someone to tell me they wanted to interview me? Could it be someone to tell him he had been passed up for a job he had inquired about? That's possible but didn't they leave a message, or at least I hadn't felt another vibration, an indication that a
voicemail was left by the caller, but I hadn't felt the phone ring or rather vibrate in the first place, so not feeling the phone vibrate, which it does once indicating there's a message, was more likely that feeling the phone vibrate. I pulled my phone out of the pocket a second time
to check for the logo but he didn't see it. They didn't leave a message whoever the they was.

found page of travel diary

TUESDAY July 1,

Left Albuquerque, finally driving west. Refuse to stop in New Mexico. Wait until Flagstaff, where we detour towards Canyon. Grand Canyon South Rim, walk until sunset. After dark return to campground (Mather) make (precooked) chicken. Drink wine, play scrabble, sleep.

WEDNESDAY July 2,

Wake at 9, pack up camp, see canyon again. Drive East Rim through Navajo Reservation. Great [?] barrier on eastern side of road showing great symbolism of separation. Drive up through canyon west to Page and then to Glen Canyon Dam--enormous in size. Powerlines encompass upper portion. Lake forms north of dam. Lake Powell a wonder to the eye. Colors everywhere: water blue rock red, white, pink and brown; sky clear. Camp after getting stuck on sandy road to beach. Swim in cold Colorado River water for hour. Return to tent for dinner. Wind prevents fire.

New Press

Three french presses make up my posse. Please.

The first I got for a camping trip. It was a road trip, really. A month long tour of the northwest put me in my place. I moved here first.

The second was left for me, a glass number, by my friend Sean Price, when when he went off to Europe to follow his dream of becoming an international peacekeeping. And to follow love. I heard he's back delivering mail in Corvalis. Love letters to others from no one he knows. I don't think I met Sean.

The difference between theses two presses: the camping one was plastic and taller. The glass piece was short but had the same circumference. Why is this important?

For some reason I lost the screen for the first. The screen is important--it presses the grind down making the coffee cleanly. Without the wire sifter you are pressing down a shaft into your muddy water. I put the whole think in the cabinet and concentrating on the the shorter, glass press. Which is nice.

The glass beaker to this--your second press--rests in a metal cradle with the lid and press part separate. It cleans better than the first because of this, it's glass and comes apart from it's base. I made a lot of coffee continuously. Tightened many screws.

But then something tragic happened. While I was cleaning it one morning. I thought cleaning was easier with this one. I was at the trash bin--metal and modern-- and tapping the glass beaker to get out the rest of the grinds, stuck there on the bottom from yesterday's brew. The metal connected with the glass or the glass the metal. The thing crack. Glass broke off, even. I ended up dropping the whole thing into the can. That's sad.

I was crushed. I went to the cabinet having forgotten about the missing piece to my carafe. When I remembered I tried various combinations: plastic carafe with the glasses lid. Too short the shaft to effectively press. I had the grind but nothing to make coffee in. How bout the screen, at least? I detached the metal screen from the lid of the press that broke. I tried to attach it to the shaft to no avail. Metal and plastic don't make good mates.

Determinded I put the kettle on the burner. I put beans in the grinder and crushed em til they were find. Dropping the grind into the plastic beaker, I waited for the water to boil. I had a plan.

When I mixed the heated water with the grind below there was a confluence of wet and dry. The muddy water you were talking about. But hot. Like lava.

I decided to put the disc like screen on top and the bubbling quelled. With the plastic base of the press I pushed down the loose screen and with it the whole thing down. I was able to drink coffee again. But this act every time?

Then I got a gift. I opened up the box: a press. What's this, cords? Lids? It's so big...

Second Brew is All You

Big Truck For Sale

So,

Hey. I gots a big truck I'm trying to git rid of right quick. Gas prices are lo an this truck be high off the groun. This is a great opertuntity for you. See, I got laid off my recently from my construction job so don't need my for-by-for. But maybe you do. I jus need some money to pay this puppy off. Also I got to feed my little un. He growing so fast. Least I got this truck. Well, could be yours. Make me offer. I'll git you the keys.

Bye now,
Big Mike

Reasons for being cold

I type tonight to pass the time. I'm waiting for later. I don't know what I'll be doing later. It just won't be now. My wrist hurts. Not as much as before but still there's some pain. My nails are too long. They are cracking and pitted on some of my digits. My lips are chapped and my scalp has an itch. It's cold inside. Maybe colder in here than out there, though, I'm still not sure how that's possible. Maybe it's the wood floors, or the uncovered window panes that make it seem like tundra conditions in my kitchen. I sit on the toilet and yelp. Cold seat on my seat. Still, there are colder places I could be. I keep my fingers moving on the keyboard. Circulation. If they sopt moving they might shrivelup into balls and then where'd we be? I can't feel my toes. I have socks on--not even cotton--and dry shoes. They aren't on feet that are walking, though, and that might have something to do with it. Again, circulation. Still, where would I go? I walk up and down stairs to move and to stay in the house. If I leave I'll be colder, I think. I'll want to walk to the Ship. I'll order neat whiskey, well and a beer. I'll drink and want to go home but won't want to as well. Instead I'll sit here tonight exercising my fingers. Sipping red wine. Laundry.

Rising from the ashes