Reinventing Tim

"I'm tired of being Elvis Presley."
--Elvis Presley

"I'm tired of being Tim-Elvis."
--Tim-Elvis

We are who we think we are. That was the premise of an article I was reading about memory the other day on Psychology Today's Web site. In it, the author suggested that our conscious and subconscious minds reinvent our past and in the process, our futures. It's a memory thing. We sometimes remember things the way we want to. That in turn reshapes who we are or want to be.

I don't think it is a bad thing. It helps us rewrite that screenplay of our lives in hopes we'll have a happy ending.

I think the Web is the ultimate illustration of how easy it is to reinvent ourselves, at least in the virtual world. I read all the time about people in chat rooms and on dating sites presenting themselves as completely different people (including fake photos). Of course, this is not really the type of reinventing one's self I had in mind. That is just lying. If you really are trying to connect with someone, presenting yourself as single, HWP and well adjusted when you are married, obese and majorly messed up, is basically just wrong. But it happens all the time.

It's the blog world that really allows us to reinvent ourselves. I get a kick out of the names people pick for their blogger identies. Some use nicknames. Some pick names that represent a fantasy. And some just use their own names or hyphenated versions thereof. Because in the blog world, the user name becomes who we are.

Which brings me to Tim-Elvis. It started as a joke more than 10 years ago. It was the mask I put on when I ventured out onto the Information Highway and stuck out my thumb. And it was fun being Tim-Elvis. But I am kind of tired of being Tim-Elvis. So I've dug out my tools and have begun to tinker with reinventing myself as myself (or myselves).

This is not to say that I will now only refer to myself as Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent (which is catchy, but kind of a mouthful). I'm just going to start embracing my inner multiple personalities and break away from Tim-Elvis as my sole Web personna. Because being Tim-Elvis is very limited. For that reason you will very likely see my blogger profile shift randomly according to my varied whims. What won't change is the name of my blog. Dizgraceland will always be my home.

Now this is also not to say I'm changing the types of things I post on my blog (including Photoshop enhanced images which I create because I like to). And this is not a whiny gimmick to try and get more Web traffic or solicit more comments. I, Tim, just feel like I need to let go of Tim-Elvis (odd as that sounds). I'm not even sure why I feel compelled to explain something as ridiculous at this other than the fact that not everyone accepts even the slightest change in our sometimes dysfunctional little virtual community.

So ladies and gentlemen, Tim-Elvis has left the Blog and the King is more or less dead.

And long live Tim Edwin (at least for now).

The Thornewood Fairies Project: Earth Angel

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF SOUND AND IMAGE RECORDINGS FOUND ON DIGITAL CAMERA ON THE GROUNDS OF THORNEWOOD CASTLE, MARCH 2006

8:09 a.m.


Thank god it's morning. I was awake all night listening to running water coming from somewhere outside and I had this tremendous urge to get up and go. But there was no way I was going to get up in this haunted castle and relieve myself in the dark with some ghost watching.

That sound…I must go to bathroom.

8:10 a.m.
Wow, ...that's weird, I don't remember this urinal being here, whatever...Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….(sound of water)

8:11 a.m.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….(sound of water)

8:12 a.m.
That's better...whoops...hey, wait a minute. This isn't a urinal. It's a sink. Oh well. A drain is a drain.

8:17 a.m.
While Tess is still sleeping. I'm going to go out and check out the garden. I’m heading down the hallway now.



8:18 a.m.
Oh god, another orb and some stupid arrows pointing at them. How yesterday…yawn.


8:19 a.m.
Okay, I'm opening the door and going outside. Cool, I love these big knockers.



8:20 a.m.


Damned fountain. Now I have to go to the bathroom again. Hmmm...no one is around. A fountain is essentially an outdoor urinal isn't it? What the heck... Ahhhhhhhhh......

8:21 a.m.
Whoops, the lions are watching. Hey, lion, hey...don't cause an upROAR…you look stoned, anyway! Ha, ha, ha…



8:22 a.m.
I’m approaching the secret garden now. The legend tells us that this garden was built on the site of an ancient fairy mound. Fairy mounds are places where fairies live. Considering the satin pillows we found stacked on the love seat in our room last night, I think a few of the fairies live in the house, too…I crack me up.


8:23 a.m.
Oh my god…what is that? Is it a fairy? Naww..it’s just a statue. I believe it is a statue of a fairy archer, though. I’ll take a picture of it. Hey dude, you look stoned, too! Smile so I can take your picture! Ha, ha, ha, ha....


8:25 a.m.


Hey, check out the chick standing in the cement pond. She’s holding a Grecian urn. Hey momma, whazzzup? What’s a Grecian Urn around here? Minimum Wage? Ha, ha, ha, …somebody stop me.

8:27 a.m.


Gross, that cherub is picking his nose. Hey dude…what are you doing? Digging for clams? What’s with the plastic owl strapped to you? Ahh, you don’t give a hoot, do you? Ha, ha, ha, ha….

8:29 a.m.




Whoa…check out the angel. Hey, Sweet Thang, it must have hurt…you know when you fell to earth from heaven.

8:30 a.m.


Hey, don't turn your back on me, baby. I'm winging it here, but you must be an angel. And is it hot out here or is it just you?

8:32 a.m.


Wait a minute…what gives? Are those fairy lights?

8:33 a.m.


Holy mother of god, what is happening here…

8:34 a.m.


Help……what are you doing…no, no...argghhh....

THE NARRATIVE ENDS HERE BUT THERE WAS ONE LAST PHOTO

Coming soon to a Blog near you!

In March of 2006, an blogger disappeared in the garden of Thornewood Castle near Lakewood, Washington while snapping digital photographs...

A few days later, his digital photos were found.

What critics are saying about The Thornewood Fairies Project:

"Why are the photos so blurry?"

"I've read more interesting plots on the back of a cereal box..."

"It's rare that a generation is able to witness work of such magnitude (and this generation is still waiting."

The graphic images are coming soon to Dizgraceland...

.... but not tonight...Lost is on...I mean Scrubs.

The Orbs of Thornewood Castle (or I think I saw dead people)

What is fear? It's just a word. You take the "f" out of it and all you are left with is "ear." And that means absolutely nothing.

Thornewood Castle is haunted. It's a fact. I read it on the Web. Chester Thorne and his wife Anna (and potentially their son-in-law) have never left the castle they called home. I knew this going in yet I have always been compelled to meet a ghost...or a celebrity...or a celebrity ghost. So as we stepped out of the car and walked toward the massive wooden doors of Thornewood Castle I felt a certain sense of uneasiness mixed with excitement. And just as we were about to knock on the door (with very impressive knockers I might add) it creaked open.

"You can't park there, you need to move your car to that open space over there," the housekeeper/cook/desk clerk told us sternly, pointing toward the horizon. I looked at Tess and she looked at me and we knew that our adventure with the supernatural was about to begin (just as soon as we moved the car).

After moving the car we walked back to the castle and stepped through the doors. The first thing we saw was a massive stairway winding its way up to...well, we could only assume the second and third floors. I snapped my first photo (any experienced paranormal investigator knows that the only real way to see spirits is to randomly snap photos and capture them with their astral pants down).



There. Can you see it? Right out of the chute I captured my first spirit photo -- a distinct orb if I ever saw one. I believe this is Chester, but I can't be absolutely certain. Take a closer look.


Yes, I believe that is Chester Thorne, the castle's builder. I snapped another photo of the nearby dining hall and boom...


Yes, another orb. I believe this one is Chester's wife, Anna. At this point, both Tess and I were giddy with anticipation. We climbed the stairs to the second floor and put our bag in the Blue Room and quickly ventured out to explore. We gasped as we entered a small room obviously trying to give us a sign of some kind..


I'm not sure what the owners were trying to tell us, but we quickly crossed the hall to the library and made a startling discovery.

There in a bookcase containing oddly enough a crown was another orb, hovering over a TV Guide promoting Stephen King's mini-series Red Rose, the exact same mini-series that had been shot in...Thornewood Castle.

We backed out of the library and walked down the hallway. And for some reason I kept thinking someone was watching us.


Despite my fear I kept snapping photos. And then I snapped the most horrifying photo of all.
The orb is distinct, massive and obviously supernatural. After brightening it up in Photoshop, I make an even more startling discovery.


This is the first orb photo I have ever taken that obviously shows the spirit taking on its more corporal, human shape. It's hideous yet compelling at the same time.

We returned to the Blue Room to face the long night ahead. That's when we found even more evidence of a force in the castle that was trying to tell us something.

All of the pillows that had been piled on the bed were now on the loveseat in the room. Who or what had done this? Why? And why so many pillows?

Ice water flowed through my veins (along with some pretty decent red wine) as we crawled into bed to face the long night ahead. As Tess slipped off to sleep, I could hear her gentle snoring as I lie awake listening and wondering. I couldn't help thinking about the movie Sixth Sense and the scene where the little boy gets up to go to the bathroom and the hideously disfigured ghost scuttles past the doorway while he relieves himself (obviously dead people have no sense of decorum). So I lay there holding it in, praying for the morning light because I no longer wanted to see any dead people and I really had to go.

Tomorrow I continue my strange and fantastic journey into the unknown and take you on a tour of Thornewood Castle's secret garden where the fairies are supposed to dwell.

King to castle

Tess suprised me on my birthday by taking me to stay at a castle. What made it even more suprising was that she hadn't been reading my more recent blog entries about my obsession with being a king or at the very least, a knight.

I had heard about Thornewood Castle in Lakewood, Washington and have been wanting to stay there even before I began my quest to become a king. For one it is supposed to be haunted and two, it was the set for the 2002 Stephen King mini-series, Red Rose (and don't think the irony of me staying at a castle Stephen King has used in a movie escapes me either).

This one was built between 1908 and 1911 by a wealthy Washington financier named Chester Thorne. Many of the materials used to build this 27,000 square foot mansion were canabilized parts from a 500-year old English mansion Thorned had shipped over at the turn of the century.

Although Thorne died in 1927, apparently he decided to stay on. The current owners, who operate the place as a bed and breakfast have apparently seen him and his wife Anna at various places within the house and in the garden (which is described as a "fairie mound" by some...not that there is anything wrong with that). Thorne's son-in-law also shot himself in the castle and some say he has been seen as well.


Anyway, we stayed the night in the Blue Room on the second floor. And tomorrow I'm going to chronicle our haunted night in.....DUM-DAH-DUM.....

Thornewood Castle.

You'll change the way you look at bed-and-breakfast's (and very likely your underwear) after you hear my strange tales.

ohhhAHHHHH....HA, HA, HA, HA, HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Oh Brother...

Time it was

And what a time it was
It was
A time of innocence
A time of confidences
Long ago ... it must be
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They're all that's left of you

"Bookends Theme" by Simon and Garfunkel

As I've been sifting through the photographs I've been scanning as part of my family tree project I've run across quite a few shots of my older brother Dan and I. That's him on the left in the photograph above.

Dan's birthday is coming up tomorrow, the day after mine. This always confused me as a child. He is my older brother yet his birthday was the day after mine. In my toddler brain, that should have made him my younger brother.

I can imagine me being born the day before his birthday pissed him off. He was the 4-year old baby of the family and boom, I came along and messed up his birthday celebration and moved him up into the middle child slot. I don't think he ever really forgave me for that.

I marvel sometimes how different my brothers and I grew up to be. Ted, my oldest brother ended up in a near nameless small town in Oregon working for the highway department. Dan stayed in Boise and became a teacher. I ended up Seattle and by default, marketing. And in this era where you reach out to someone on the other side of the world in the blink of an eye, my brothers and I rarely talk.

I sometimes wonder if it is because time creates distance that can't be bridged with small talk. It's hard to share hopes, dreams and disappointments in annual visits on holidays. I know the Cliffnote versions of my brother's lives, but that is about all. We share common parents, but not opinions or paths.

And it is not that I don't love or care about my brothers. I look at the photos and realize that they may not be part of my day to day life, but they will always be in my memories and in my heart.

So to my big brother Dan, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday and tell you I'm proud of you. I have always kept the newspaper clip that the Idaho Statesman ran about your first year teaching and I think you produced a couple of amazing children (though I don't think they realize how lucky they are to have an uncle like me). And I wanted to remind you, that just like at your wedding, I will always be the best man.

I had to get that shot in. He's my brother after all.

My Lucky Charms...

Orange, stars, yellow moons, they're always after Tim's Lucky Charm! So, in honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'm going to teach you an old Irish phrase I learned long ago:

WHALE OIL BEEF HOOKED!

Say it quickly and say it proud and everyone will think you are Irish today!

(after consuming an appropriate amount of Guiness)

Happy St. Patrick's Day anyway...

You can run but you can't Ides....

Yesterday was the Ides of March. It was the day Julius Ceasar was assassinated by the Roman Senate. The phrase, "Beware the Ides of March," was made famous by William Shakespeare in his play about Julius Ceasar. It now tends to have a connotation of doom. But as with many of those types of phrases, I doubt many people know or care where it came from or even know what it means anymore.

This would probably explain why I got odd looks yesterday when I randomly went around saying, "Beware the Ides of March." It really freaked out these Girl Scouts selling cookies outside the Safeway. I thought for a moment their mother was going to dial 9-1-1. That's what I get for trying to interject a little sophisticated humor in people's lives.

I was born near the Ides of March on March 18. I try not to read anything prolithic in that. But I usually do have a feeling of impending doom as my birthday nears. I used to celebrate it on St. Patrick's Day until I started doing my family tree and made the horrific discovery that it is highly unlikely that any of my ancesters originated in Ireland. So I'm back to celebrating on March 18 (which is just as well since that green body paint is a pain to wash off).

It's not an age thing, either. I stopped fretting about becoming middle aged after hitting 40 (which was celebrated by my friends taking me to a Hooters restaurant where I had to stand on a table while the waitresses threw chicken wings at me...it's a long story). I just have never really liked my birthday. For one, my mom wasn't big on us celebrating birthdays. Her interpretation of Christian Scientist teachings was that, since our material body didn't exist, birth and death were an illusion and birthdays didn't make sense (try explaining that to a five year old who really just wants cake and presents). Oh, she still made us a birthday cake and we did get presents, but each year she tried to tone it down a bit. By the time I turned 13 she just wrapped up a package of jockey briefs and tossed it to me on the morning of my birthday.

I have since switched to boxers (too much information, I know).

Another thing I've never really liked about birthdays is being the center of attention. I know this is very difficult to believe about a man who has superimposed his face on quesadillas, kalamata olives and more recently a Timber Wolf, but I am really quite shy. I never know how to react in a restaurant when the servers run out with a cake, slap a lobster bib around your neck, pop a bedpan on your head and sing happy birthday while beating a bass drum. It's even more embarrassing when it is your birthday.

Okay, maybe the whole age thing does tweak me a bit. I just think that whole "walk into the light" thing they associate with your soul leaving your body is very likely the candles on your last birthday cake. That makes it very hard to make a wish.

On that happy note, I'll leave you with Ceasar's last words on the Ides of March, "Etu, Brutus?"

Keeping the moon at bay

The lunatic is in my head.
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear.
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.
--Roger Waters, The Dark Side of the Moon

“Promises are like the full moon, if they are not kept at once they diminish day by day”
--German proverb

It was a full moon yesterday. I could feel it before I confirmed it with the calendar. Nothing seemed quite right and I couldn't blog for the life of me. Which is a bummer, because I'm really trying to write every day.

I did feel like howling if not writing. So perhaps I was just moonstruck. But I suppose thinking a full moon makes us looney is just an undocumented myth like the evils of secondhand smoke. All I know is that the full moon leaves me feeling a bit discombobulated. That and knowing that I very likely will not hear back from the Queen of the UK and won't receive my knighthood.

Which leads me to another big downer: I finally did find several sites online where you can get a title of nobility. The cheapest-- Peerage Confirmed, Authentic Titles of Nobility -- allows you to send in an application to be a Knight, Duke, Duchess, Count, Countess, Marquis or Marchioness. Once accepted (and you check clears), they will send you a genuine certificate stating you are whatever royal title you paid to be. The title is conferred on you by "Prince Douglas" who was "raised from the Rank of Baron to that of Prince in 1991 by the Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch (Jacobite Rite) The Lord Alexander II." That sounds pretty darned impressive to me. Becoming a Knight costs $150 U.S. And it costs $1500 to become a Duke. It doesn't say what it costs to be a Squire (sorry Mickey, The Incontinent).

Okay, call me a lunatic, but I'm thinking this deal falls into the same category as buying Sea Monkeys. I'd send in my check to get my titles and I'll end up with brine shrimp.

To top that off, I discovered the United States doesn't recognize any titles of nobility, so even if I got my certificate of authenticity from Prince Douglas, the nasty little bureacrats at the DMV wouldn't let me call myself Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent on my driver's license anyway.

Sigh. I'm going back up on the roof and howl. I think the neighbors are starting to get used to it.

But I think it still kind of freaks Tess out.

Everyone has their quirks, though.

Nine out of ten monarchs recommend a Crest!

In preparation for Knighthood and eventually Kinghood, I have begun to develop a family crest that best represents what the soon to be Sir Tim Edwin, the Fair and Flatulent stands for. Here are three potential Coats of Arms:


1) Three extended fingers stand out on a shield of royal blue, crowned by noble lion donning a gas mask in the face of all enemies.
The symbol of the gas mask floats on a sea of royal blue, crowned once again by a noble lion protected by a holy clothespin as he farts in the general direction of all who would oppose him.
3) A single match burns brightly on a shield of royal blue, crowned a third time by the royal and most flatulent lion wearing a royal gas mask.

I've begun shopping for royal furniture as well. Here's a throne I found in the Knights and Kings Shoppe at Sam's Club's Web site:

I'm picking out some new clothing as well...lots of white satin. Because everyone has heard about Knights in White Satin...

Sorry.

I'm just feeling giddy about becoming a knight.

In the service of Her Majesty

(Continued from Postcard)

Sorry about that, Ma'am, I wanted you to see my postcard so you know I already have a country to rule. It is Dizgraceland. But you probably have read my blog, so I won't go into it.

But as I was saying, I would like to be a knight and it seems the only way to become one is to be knighted by you. I did a google search to see if there was any online place where I could be knighted, but apparently it isn't like becoming a minister or getting a college degree (you can get those certificates online). Maybe you could talk to some of your people about selling knighthoods online.

I did find out that I could become a Knight of Columbus, but I would have to be a member of the Catholic Church, be at least 18 years old and pay dues. I'd just as soon you knight me if the truth were to be told.

Anyway, as I said, I would like to be a knight so I can work my way up to king. Don't worry. I don't want to be the King of the UK. I know Charles is in line for that (though I think I am actually better suited for the position than Charles...at least I have a beard and much smaller ears). I would really just like to be king of Dizgraceland and being a knight gives it tad bit more credibility (once you have knighted me maybe we can talk about the UK recognizing Dizgraceland as a sovereign state...I refuse to convert to the Euro, however).

Now I know that you normally only give out knighthoods to citizens of the UK (except for Bill Gates...excuse me, but what was that all about) and technically I was born in the United States. But I have never really bought into the whole American Revolution thing and if you look at my family tree, everyone came from England at one time or another. So basically, I'm British. I love the Beatles. And you knighted Paul McCartney, didn't you?

I also know that you generally look for knights who have done something worth being knighted for (like Paul McCartney). I have thought about this a long time and I think I am worthy of becoming a knight because:

1) I would look really good in armor (see my artist's rendition below):

2). I was a Cub Scout and almost made it to becoming a Webalo (I'm not sure what that was either but it was one step up from being a Lion and not quite an Eagle Scout).

3). I received a medal on a ribbon once from Commodore Cruise Lines (now bankrupt) for cruising aboard their cruise lines 25 times (I actually only cruised with them three times...this elderly lady who had cruised 25 times and already had one medal gave it to me...I think she thought I was kind of cute...I do want to note that Commodore Cruise Lines did make sure all of their burned out light bulbs were replaced...long story).

4). I am reading Don Quixote and he was dubbed a knight by a fat Innkeeper.

5). I chopped an entire cord of wood by myself once.

6). I am recognized worldwide as a master of the Claw Machine.

So that is the boon I seek from you fair You Majesty (see, I am already talking like a knight). I would also like to suggest a few titles I've been bouncing around to go along with my knighthood. It has been suggested that King Tim or Sir Tim isn't royal enough. I have admitted that my middle name is Edwin and would be willing to be known as:

Sir Tim Edwin the Fair and Flatulent (one of the medications I take makes me gassy, but as an added bonus, pull my royal finger and I am able to fart a pretty fair rendition of "God Save the Queen.")

Sir Tim Edwin, Duke of Earl (I can fart that song as well)

Sir Tim Edwin the Nearsighted, Fourth Earl of Blogdom

Sir Tim Edwin, Royal Clawmaster and Slayer of Stuffed Animals

If any of these grab you, let me know.

Anyway, I know you are pretty busy picking out royal china and stuff so I won't keep you. But please let me know ASAP about the knighthood. I need to order stationary and stuff and start working on a coat of arms (I think the flatulent theme will figure heavily in its design).

Thank you, your majesty.

Your most humble servant,

Soon-to-be Sir Tim Edwin