In Scary Modsters… and Creepy Freaks, rock star Peter Lane closes eyes in 1968 and reopens them in 2014. He expects to see positive changes. Instead, he sees the world in even more turmoil than when he left it. Peter’s discoveries changed me, and I can no longer turn a blind eye to the world’s problems for they are my problems too. This week I have asked authors and bloggers to post about ways to improve the world, whether it is about a charity that needs attention, how a smile can turn a mood around, or how we can all help save the planet.
I’d like to thank Francine for allowing me to guest post today. I’d also like to thank you for taking time to read this. I hope you will find inspiration.
Oh, and about this giveaway. There is a second donation to be made, if you help me. I’ve decided to donate my promo budget to charity. For every 500 entries I will donate $5 to The Autism Society Of America. There is a cap on this donation of $20, which is the amount I had set aside for promotion on social media. So please enter and make me spend my money!
Composting In A Nutshell
For the longest time I didn’t get why composting is so important. I mean, if you throw something into the compost bin, it becomes soil, right? So, if you throw it into landfill, doesn’t it breakdown the same way, thus having a similar effect on the environment? It just becomes land again, right?
Well, sort of, but there are a few differences. Of course there is the obvious one that compost is used to nourish plants instead of adding to nutrients to the trash. Then there is something less obvious. One of the many problems with landfills is methane gas. The layers under a landfill do not receive oxygen. This lack of oxygen causes methane to form. However, compost is exposed to oxygen. This is done by either turning it or through the work of worms and other living organisms. When this happens, instead of methane you get carbon dioxide. Carbon dioxide helps produce food of better quality and in greater quantity. So it’s not just a simple case of six of one, half a dozen of the other. It’s a case of doing harm verses bringing improvement.
Here are some things that you can compost that you may not have known about:
Egg cartons, burlap, non-coated paper plates, pizza boxes, cereal boxes, butter wrappers, and dryer lint. Yep! That stuff in your dryer can help produce carbon dioxide. For more ideas, take a scan through this list.
Enjoying San Francisco as a backdrop, the ghosts in Diane’s 150-year old Victorian home augment the chorus in her head. With insomnia as their catalyst, these voices have become multifarious characters that haunt her well into the sun’s crowning hours, refusing to let go until they have manipulated her into succumbing to their whims. Her experiences as an actress, business owner, artisan cake designer, software project manager, Internet radio disc jockey, vintage rock n’ roll journalist/fangirl, and lover of dark and quirky personalities influence her idiosyncratic writing.
May 13, 1966 was a day that most wouldn’t give a turnip over. Take a look at this picture. You see that guy? The smarmy, dark-haired young businessman sitting behind that big wood desk? That’s Ben Stoddard, or as he likes to call himself, Big Ben. I refer to him as Mr. B.S. He’s the one who took me. I mean he took everything—my career, my happiness, the girl I loved, and my life.
Now look to those four young lads sitting across from him—the ones that seem as if they’ve never had a penny to their names. The ones eager to sign on that dotted line. That handsome devil with the sandy blonde hair and the stupid grin—that’s me, Peter Lane; singer, guitarist, huge chump, and idiot extraordinaire. I was on top of the world at that moment. We all were. You know that witticism about how you have to be careful that you don’t sign your life away? It’s no joke because that’s exactly what I was doing.
We had just been given a new car, a swanky apartment, and unlimited credit at all the fancy boutiques on Carnaby Street. You’ve heard of Carnaby, right? The place where every self-respecting mod paid too much for clothes he couldn’t afford even if they had been offered at fair prices. We were told to dress like we owned the world because we soon would. A tour was being planned so we could conquer America just like The Beatles had. All we had to do was sign on that little piece of paper you see on Mr. B.S.’s desk. We signed it in blue ink from a fountain pen—but had we known whom we were dealing with we would have pricked ourselves and used blood.
Two years later I was hovering above my casket, watching people lower my body into a dark, dirt hole, and cringing at how the once beautiful man had become broken, burnt to a crisp, and about to be devoured by worms.
Everyone thought it was an accident.
Then and there I vowed revenge. Plotting it was easy, but finding my way back was another story.
For every 500 entries The Autism Society of America receives $5. Maximum of this donation is $20.
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