caveat emptor

Forty Years, But Still Too Soon

Working in Dallas, I pass the infamous "grassy knoll" every morning and every evening on the train. When you see something like that so often, it loses its significance for you. It's just another downtown street corner.

Nevertheless, writer's block being what it is, I've been grasping at anything to write about, any source of inspiration. I've already written two pieces inspired by the famous knoll.

The first is a one man play told from Lee Harvey Oswald's point of view. It's called I'm Acting Alone.

The second is a children's mystery novel called Jack and the Magic Bullet.

Next I'm going to write a short "un-memoir" from the perspective of a man who witnessed the event but who's now developing Alzheimer's. I'm going to call it I Don't Remember Where I Was.

Then there's the Warren Commission exposé I'm writing called Sins of Commission: Lone Gunman My Ass.

And last, but not least, I've written a recipe for Superbowl Sunday that I call J.F. Queso. The recipe makes so much cheese dip that there's no way you can finish it working alone. It's physicially impossible. There has to be at least one other person.

Later. Love.

P.S. - New post on my cogito writing site. I think it's funny. It's called Paradox Cafe. Check it out, if you so desire. Thanks for stopping by.

Quips at Lunch

"I wonder if Copernicus would have gotten into as much trouble if he had discovered that the earth revolves around the pope."

---

"So, is the Ultimo Burrito really the last one?" he asked, smiling.

The old cashier didn't even miss a beat, "Yes. That's it. After that, no mas." He was clever, and his slow, Mexican accent added irony somehow.

"Well then, you might want to charge more for it."

"No. We just want to get rid of it and free up the line on the menu."

---

"I wonder if there's a pledge of allegiance to the Hyatt Regency flag."

---

"I usually just cross the street for lunch," I said.

"That doesn't sound very filling," he replied.

"Ha ha. I cross the street to a restaurant - to eat food."

"By yourself?" he asked.

"No, I usually go with a coworker."

"What do you get?"

"Are you asking me, 'What do you get if you cross a street with a coworker?'"

He lost it. It was an odd joke, but we like it that way. He couldn't speak to respond.

"Fajita salad," I said, and then I lost it too.

---

"That drawing is amazing. Wow. Is there anything you can't do?"

"Well, I can't think of anything."

---

"Sometimes a metaphor is just a metaphor."

---

"Are you implying something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"An implication."

In Texas

Stephenville:   I was born there.

Hamilton:       It's my father's hometown. I lived there as a kid.

Fort Worth:     I've done everything in Fort Worth. I lived here as
                a baby. I moved back in third grade and lived until
                I was married. I moved back again between the birth
                of our daughter Robyn (our second) and the birth of
                our daughter Rayn (our third). I've been here ever
                since. 2 elementary schools, 2 middle schools, high
                school, 1 seminary, 6 churches. I was in a band. I
                worked for the Parks Department. I flipped burgers.
                I repaired broken furniture. I did commercial
                landscaping. I was an associate minister at a
                church. I was a music minister at another church. I
                resgined from ministry and turned in my credentials.
                I got married. Fort Worth is my home, and I love it.

Granbury:       I learned to swim and to mow lawns at my Grandparents'
                little vacation lake house.

Denton:         My mother took my sister and me to a truck stop to see
                our dad for a few minutes a few years after he left.

Seadrift:       My mom and her boyfriend took us on the only vacation
                we ever had.

Mineral Wells:  As a kid, on the way to Mineral Wells the van
                filled with a choking cloud of battery acid and
                we had to get out of it and find a way home.
                Later, when I was a youth pastor, I took the
                youth group rock climbing in Mineral Wells. Rick,
                my high school friend and former roommate, was
                our instructor.

Eagle Pass:     I stayed at the little motel on several occasions so
                we could cross the border to Piedras Negras and then
                down to El Morales to volunteer at the orphanage.

Glen Rose:      I hung out at my Drew's house almost every weekend in
                high school. Then, a few years later, I sang and
                acted in the outdoor passion play.

Padre Island:   Five times our youth group went here for "summer
                camp". We hung out at the beach. It was pretty
                fun.

Boyd:           Toadman.

Matador:        We were the band, and I was the lead singer and bass
                player.

Lufkin:         I repaired the Mini computer.

Austin:         We saw the concert and then the car broke down on the
                way home so that I lost my job the same day Susan found
                out she was pregnant.

Waco:           We stayed with Susan's friend at Baylor when the car
                broke down.

Waxahachie:     We lived here for five years after we were married.
                We had two children. I was Director of Computer
                Services for the college. I earned a bachelor's
                degree in Biblical studies.

Salado:         We spent our anniversary at the hotel.

Ennis:          I was a youth pastor and music minister at a little,
                country church.

Cleveland:      Twice I took Susan and the kids to meet my father.
                Hell, I was really just meeting him myself.

Hico:           We always eat at the Koffee Kup Kafe. They have great pie.

Houston:        I opened a transcription business.

San Antonio:    I closed down a coding business.

Jacksboro:      We woke up with ice on our sleeping bags.

Midland:        I installed software in the emergency department. A
                cloud of dust surrounded the city as I drove in over
                the flat, dirty Texas plains from the east.

Galveston:      We preferred the pool to the ocean.

Fredericksburg: We ate German food and bought rocks.

New Braunfels:  We went to the water park and saw deer.

Gruene:         We ate at The Gristmill.

Dallas:         I was VP of a couple of corporations.

DeLeon:         We go to Easter with my father's family at his 
                youngest sister's house.

Killeen:        I visited my sister.

Palestine:      I visited my father in prison.

I'm sure there are cities I'm forgetting. What about you? Pick one state, your "main" state (like Maine, for example). Or, if you'd rather not, then don't. I'm still glad you came by.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a new story on my cogito writing site. It's a true story about my teen years. It's called I Missed the Call of the Wild. It's a little long. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Morning

For some people, every morning is exciting. For some people, when their eyes open in the morning, they realize that they can get up right now and get an early start on the day. They can start the day right. They get a little jolt of excitement.

I am not one of these people, but I wonder if I could be. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the sense of satisfaction that comes from proactively pursuing some quality of life. Typically, however, I'm not so energetic. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I'm overwhelmed with tiredness, and my main thought is of how much longer I can sleep without creating a crisis.

In truth, I am not a late sleeper. I'm not a person who could, if I had nothing to do, lay in bed all Saturday and sleep. That would make me feel awful or depressed. I can, and do, get up with no pain whatsoever after eight o'clock. On weekdays, however, when the alarm goes off at four forty-five or five o'clock, I get up with dread and resentment.

Late nights have always been my refuge. They are the time when no one expects anything from me and I can truly relax. I have always been loathe to abandon this time and go to bed early. Now that I'm commuting on the train for two to three hours a day, however, I have this time to write and read and think. I could even draw, I suppose, if I brought my pencils and sketch pad. With this luxury, I'm almost willing to head to bed at nine thirty or ten o'clock each night, to make the morning less painful. Almost. Old habits die hard.

Well, anyway, I'm just thinking out loud (actually, since I'm typing, it's more visible than audible). What about you? Early to bed? Early to rise? Do you sleep five hours? Twelve? Love the morning? Hate it? I'd love to hear your opinion.

Later. Love.

To Be Or Not To Be

Ishmael, the talking Gorilla, seems to think we should cut back on technology and agriculture until we are living a lifestyle that is sustainable. The people who would not be fed, the people who would die for lack of food, those are the surplus of the species. Those are the people that should not be alive, because their existence is not sustainable.

Setting aside the fact that society would never consider doing this, for economic reasons alone, without even scratching the surface of the ethical questions, what do you think of this idea? It reminds me of a similar idea I heard expressed once. A man once told me that we should stop manufacturing medicines to treat conditions like asthma and even depression because we were just allowing these weaknesses to spread in the gene pool and weakening the species. In nature, according to this man, natural selection would have taken care of these people, protecting the gene pool.

There is a kind of logic in these opinions, but I reject them. My opinion, which is passionate if not intellectually rigorous, is as follows: Species survive by trying to survive. For a species to lay its survival on the altar of some moralistic principle masquerading as science would be contrary to nature. Rather than deciding not to survive, we must be diligent in allowing our increasing understanding of our world to shape the manner and mode of our survival efforts.

I guess my point is this: If nature wants to kill us nature can kill us. Nature cannot ask us to kill ourselves, however. That would be unnatural.

Or something. What the hell do I know? Here's a thought I had during a "Moment of Silence" I participated it on this past September 11th:

You can create noise, but you cannot create silence. You can choose not to make noise yourself, but silence takes cooperation. You can create light, but you cannot create darkness. You can choose not to create light yourself, but darkness takes cooperation. You cannot create the absence of something, you can only choose not to contribute.

Hello, hello. I'm glad survival of the fittest has brought us all together here. Tell me how you're doing.

Later. Love.

P.S. - A tiny young lady sat across from me on the train today. She was knitting, and had a certain look about her, so I wrote a little poem about her and posted it on my cogito writing site. I hope it doesn't seem mean-spirited. That's not how I intended it. It's called Mousy. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Pig Thumbs: You Cannot Oppose Them

No matter what I do, no matter how humble and inconspicuous I try to be, I always end up starting new trends that spread around the world like a mighty, rushing wind. This is, no doubt, something all of you discuss each day as you stand around the water cooler and laugh or sigh with your coworkers about my recent exploits and/or shenanigans. "That Scott," you say, shaking your head and smiling. "That Scott."

This is how I imagine the world, but not really. Wouldn't that be great, though? Wouldn't it? No? Oh, okay.

So, anyhoo, we are apparently trying to jump start a new expression. The expression? Pig Thumbs. Yes, you read that correctly. Pig Thumbs. It all started like this:

1. She said: Pigs don't have thumbs.
2. I said: Then where does the expression "Pig Thumbs" come from? Oh, that's right, I just made it up. Man, I've really got pig thumbs tonight.

And it was decided that pig thumbs would become ubiquitous or we'd die trying.

So, what does it mean? Well, that's what I'm trying to decide. "Pig" implies greediness or gluttony in most cases. Thumbs? Hmmm... There's "green thumb", implying skill in working with plants. There "thumbing my way to Houston", hitchhiking. "All thumbs" implies a lack of manual dexterity. To "thumb your nose" at someone means to snub them. Mick Jagger has that dirty dog that once held him down "under his thumb", meaning under his control.

Of course, it could always be used like "bee's knees" or "cat's meow". You could say, admirably, "That Scott takes the cake, I tell you. He's awesome. He's the pig's thumbs." Hmmm...

Now, I'm an odd person, with a dry sense of humor. I would find it funny to invent an expression that you could just throw in anywhere and it could mean whatever you want it to mean. Its lack of specific meaning, or abundance of general meaning, is, in itself, a funny joke to me. Some people, however, have to have everything pig thumbs, you know. The expression may not catch on, may not become the pig's thumbs, unless it has a clear definition and usage.

So, what do you think? You guys are smart. Heck, you're the pig's thumbs in my book. Guide me. Lead me. Mold me. Bend me, shape me, any way you want me.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I put a new post, specificity, out on my cogito writing site. It's an exercise in telling an event several times with increasing specificity. It's a tad long, but, if it souds interesting to you at all, check it out. Thanks for stopping by.

A Simple Book Review: Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

Over the weekend I read the Neil Gaiman book Neverwhere. It was a fun read. The story was well-told and interesting, and the characters were colorful, if shallow. The action was a bit swift, meaning that, in my opinion, Gaiman has the patience to introduce a conflict and wait a few chapters to resolve it, but he does not, in this book, have the patience to spend much time in the elaboration and telling of the incident itself. When a scene builds for several chapters, or for most of the book, and then completely unfolds in a paragraph or two, it is disappointing, at least to me. This sort of swiftness is why I cannot read most young adult literature. Being a Tolkien fan, I enjoy more description. One doesn't have to go to Tolkienesque levels of elaboration, but authors like Gaiman, Rowling and C.S.Lewis leave something to be desired in this department, in my opinion.

Having said that, Gaiman strikes me as what I'd call a storyteller. I like that about him. In this book, and in the book American Gods, which I read several months ago, Gaiman is simply telling a story. In those rare moments when I contemplate writing, I get bogged down so easily in the philosophical or social point I'm hoping to communicate through the story. There is something to be said for successfully communicating an underlying message in fiction, I think, but there's also something to be said for the pure fun of telling, and reading, a great story.

Beyond that, the book didn't leave me with many ideas. It was like watching a good movie. I recommend it for that reason. I also recommend American Gods, which is possibly more accessible to Americans vis-a-vis its vocabulary. Neverwhere is written by an Britsh man about London, and Americans may have a tough time understanding the lingo unless they have heard a lot of British media or read a lot of modern British writing.

That's all for now. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you're reading.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I added a silly little post called Warped to my cogito writing site. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Howl

I can still remember the elation I felt
  When I first realized I had magic
  That I could do things that cannot be done
  In ways that were impossible
  I remember like it was just five seconds ago
  Because it was

But magic is nothing, you know
  Can you feel it
  Can you feel the real power
  Bob Dylan is singing to Mr. Jones and playing the electric guitar
  For some people electric Bob is blasphemy, but not for me
  It was meant to be, and it's brought us here

There's an Asian vibe to the dance music
  To the deep throb of the bass
  The strings sound like Kashmir, not China
  They sound like Bangladesh
  You cannot sit still
  You must move something, if only slightly

Where will the homeless sleep tonight
  In the relentless Texas heat
  They will survive, most of them, until tomorrow
  They will sit, some of them, and play chess
  At the sidewalk tables outside tomorrow evening
  They will play against businessmen and artists and college students
  Some they know and some they don't
  The chess homeless are proud
  They never ask for anything

Do the gods cry when Bob Dylan sings with acoustic guitar
  Is it for joy or for shame
  Is it all their fault, the pain in that harmonica
  The lyrics that make your chest feel hollow
  While your toe taps to the beat
  Do they know they are to blame
  For the plight of women and men
  That could drive a Minnesota man
  To medicate away his mind
  They must cry

How can I work magic
  If I cannot dance to this music
  How can I write anything that's not written yet
  That Bob hasn't said

I can still remember the sadness I felt
  When I knew there was no magic in the world
  I remember like it was just five seconds ago
  Because it was

Contentment Plan

I want a car that's powered by writer's block. I want a pillow that gets cooler when it touches human skin. I want a word processor that knows what you would say if you could put it into words, that can translate sighs and blank expressions into perfect descriptions of the feelings behind them. I want a pet that takes care of itself and does my laundry. I want a car that doesn't need gas. I want a car that, when you open the gas tank at a gas station, shoots out a couple of bucks so you can run inside and get a little snack for yourself. I want a back garden that's motivated to make something beautiful of itself just to please me. I want a job that pays me enough money and only requires that I do something interesting all day. I want a god that talks out loud and sits with me in the morning and has a cup of coffee and teaches me wonderful things.

That's really it. That's all I want. Please send me, by close of business tomorrow, a proposal (with pricing) to provide all of this. I'll choose one of you as my selected vendor by the end of the week. I look forward to working with you.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a short dialogue piece called Passenger Seat Imbalance on my cogito site. Check it out, if you so desire. Thanks for stopping by.

A Gnome By Any Other Gname

"May I ask you a question?" He was rearranging the pile of bricks behind the shed. I couldn't tell what, if anything, he was trying to accomplish. The new arrangement looked as random as the old arrangement to me. He didn't respond. He just kept working.

"Are there other...uh...," I was going to say gnomes, but then I was afraid that would be insulting or something. He never told me he was a gnome. I just assumed. "Well, if you'll pardon me for being direct, Chuck, what are you?"

"What are you?" he responded quickly, which was unlike him. He didn't stop working, or playing, or whatever he was doing.

"Well, I'm a  human," I said. "What are you?"

He thought for a moment, and then said, "Maybe I'm a human too."

"Hmmm," was all I could think of. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. "I don't think so, Chuck. I think you're something else. There are old stories about little people called dwarves or faeries or gnomes. Until I met you, I never thought those stories were true. But, here you are."

He turned and looked at me for a minute, trying to determine something. I think he was judging me somehow, sizing me up. Then, he turned back toward the bricks. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Well, I've been thinking of you as a gnome, but I'm wondering what you really are."

"No, I mean what do you think of this?" He patted the brick structure.

"Oh." Looking at it for a second, I couldn't discern any pattern or purpose for the new arrangement. "It looks good," I said, trying to be polite.

He looked at the bricks for a minute, smiling a little. "Gnome is good," he said.

"Is it right, though? Are you a gnome? What do you call yourself. I mean, what do you call the thing that you are?" He always just accepted what I said. I felt like I was getting nowhere.

"Gnome. I'm a gnome."

"Okay," I sighed. "So, are there other gnomes? Do you have friends like you? Family?"

But he was gone. Sometimes he was like that. He's a funny gnome.

Mr Mojo Risin

I've decided to start my own Eastern-style religion. It will not be based directly on any understanding of other Eastern religions, because this new religion considers research a waste of "Mojo" (the religion is going to have a New Orleans voodoo influence as well, in that it uses the word "Mojo").

Mojo, you see, is the force that connects all interesting things, all cool things, all things badass. Mojo flows through all of us (well, some of us) and is the power that will, one day, bring us all together into one all-powerful being: "The Fonz". Do not picture Henry Winkler with a leather jacket and motorcycle at this point. The one true Fonz never jumps the shark. The Fonz will usher in a glorious new age of enlightenment. The Fonz will save the planet, making it green and beautiful and asian-styled with serenity gardens and lots of bamboo.

And how do we become the Fonz? By being tranquil, by laughing and, most importantly, by weeding lawns. This is the primary discipline of the religion. As we pull weeds we build character and we prepare the planet to be Fonzie's garden.

Anyone can join. No money required. You can even keep your old religion going on the side, as long as it's a cool one and not one of the hateful ones.

May the Mojo flow. I'm the Fonz, you're the Fonz, we are all the Fonz, except for some people.

Later. Love.

P.S. - Three new posts on my cogito site. Blame it on the train (isn't that a song?). Here they are:

• When God Was a Kid: Short, Funny (to me)
• West Texas: A Poem
• A Weed By Any Other Name: Short dialogue

As always, feel free to read them or not. I know you have full, busy lives. Thanks for stopping by.

Google? Whack!

That's why I hate Google sometimes. Would you like to use an obscure quote, a reference that will only mean something to the initiated? Sorry. Cut, paste, enter. Here are 6,000 web sites to explain everything you've ever known and everything you didn't know about the song or movie or book or whatever. I'm going to start making up references to pop culture that never existed, just to screw with people. Why? Because screw Google, that's why.

Later. Love.

We've All Got Baggage

I love my black, leather bag. It's not that old, really, but it's well worn.

A few years ago, when I was a VP in the Healthcare Solution Group with ACS, Darin, the president of the group, gave all of us bags like this at our fiscal year kickoff meeting. That very day I abandoned the cheap, square bag that came with my laptop and moved the computer and it's various attachments into this leather bag. I've been through several computers since then, several jobs even, but the bag is still with me.

It's a good bag, made of good, strong leather. The various buckles and clasps were a little cheap, and most of them haven't survived the miles. When I need to keep the bag closed, I have a leather strap that I've added to tie the opening flap to the metal loop that used to accomodate the closing buckle. Most of the time I don't bother with it.

The shoulder strap is from an old piece of leather luggage that was damaged and had to be discarded. It's strong with good hardware. It will outlast all of us, I believe.

I think the bag itself, the leather, still has several good years in it. I hope so. At this point, I don't think I'd know how to behave without the old girl by my side.

What are you attached to? What have you worn or carried or used every day for so long that you'll really miss it when it's gone?

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a new short story on my cogito site. It's called Art Lessons and Anatomy. I like it. As usual, feel free to check it out, or not. Thanks for stopping by.

On Books and Privacy

"Hey, uh, Chuck. Do you know what this is?" I held the book out to him.

He was lying in the wheelbarrow I had left out last weekend. He had rolled it a few feet into the shady spot between the fence and the shed, next to the compost pile. He looked quietly at the book in my hand for a moment, and then reached for it. I watched carefully how he handled it, wondering if he knew books at all. He handled it correctly, and even opened it.

"Oh. Yeah. I've read this." He tossed it back to me and, although it surprised me, I caught it.

"Really?" I asked, sounding a little too surprised. He didn't answer. "I mean, uh, when did you read it?"

He stared up into the sky, so I figured he wasn't going to answer. "Four hundred and seventy five days ago," he finally replied. That was a little over a year ago, I quickly calculated.

"So, uh, where did you read it?"

A pause. "Inside," he said, nodding slightly toward the house. This really surprised me. I guess I assumed he'd never been inside the house. For a minute I thought I should feel bothered, as though he had intruded. In truth, I found that I didn't mind, so I shrugged it off.

"So, uh, did you like this book?"

As always, he thought for a minute before responding. "It's pretty accurate," he finally said. I wasn't sure what to think about that, so I said good evening and headed inside. I'm not positive, but I think I might have heard him laughing softly as I rounded the corner.

Masked Transit

I'm pretty sure that everyone on the train except for me is a cleverly-diguised secret agent for the CIA, Her Majesty's Secret Service or some other such agency. I wish I could crack the secret code they use to discuss the important details of their important cases, but they do an amazing job of using this ingenious code. Everything they say sounds like they're discussing mundane details of boring, frustrated lives. The talk is all about husbands and wives and annoying coworkers. They discuss political problems in church committees or personal slights by in-laws. To the uninitiated, like me, it's impossible to see all the fascinating issues of international importance that are hidden in these conversations. They must be terribly important, however, for so many to have gone to such lengths to mask them so very, very well.

Dinner with the Garcias

The evenings and mornings are getting bearable around here, vis-à-vis the heat. The afternoons are still unbearable, but the evenings and mornings are getting bearable. That's good. In a few weeks, the afternoons will be bearable and the evenings and mornings will be nice. It will stay that way for only a few weeks before winter, but it's a lovely time of year around here.

It's the time of year when I love to go to Joe T. Garcia's. It's good Mexican food, but not the best in town. The back garden, however, is one of the most beautiful places in Fort Worth. It's an old brick and stucco building, an old Mexican villa, and it meanders over almost an acre of land. Between the outer wall and the "house", the garden is paved with patterns of brick and terracotta tiles, with flower boxes and flower beds scattered around. The garden is divided into three sections by low brick walls, covered in Mexican pottery and sculpture. There's a beautifully tiled pool in the center section.

Then there are the plants. Beautiful bald cypress trees, honeysuckle vines, flowering trees of all colors, lush, green bushes and flowers are everywhere. It's like a botanical garden, but with appetizers and tequila.

Around, under and between all of this, there are large metal tables with white cotton tablecloths and big, sturdy, comfortable metal chairs (when you're a big guy like me, the chairs are often a factor in evaluating restaurants). The waiters are friendly and the prices are reasonable. It's like heaven, but spicier.

I love to go there with interesting people in the evening during those nice weeks of autumn and spring. I love to get a table by the pool, under the branches of the bald cypress tree, with my back to the low brick wall, and eat and drink margaritas and talk and laugh.

The evenings and mornings are getting bearable around here. Soon. Soon.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a new story, Something. Something Else., on my Cogito site. I'll be honest, it's not a very happy story, but I kinda like it. Feel free to read it, if you'd like. I always love to hear what you think (especially you). Whether you do or don't read it, thanks for stopping by.

Things and Other Things and Something Else

Guess what? When Susan, my wife, went to Vegas with her mom, she apparently became a vampire with powers of mind control. Don't believe me? Look.

See? She has ways of making me talk. Oh well. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

She's much, much prettier than I am. She is, in fact, well out of my league. My being with her is one of the great injustices of the universe. Ha! In your face, universe!

I also wanted to point you to Very Zen Again, a blog set up to help Amanda and Scott Brumfield, a nice couple that raise animals and blog and got hit pretty hard by Hurricane Katrina. They're going to post a little post I wrote later today, so you can check it out if you'd like. There's a link there to a wish list that some friends have talked Amanda into creating to let people know what they need. It's a good cause, and some of the writing is very good (there's also some writing by brando, but, hey, it's for a good cause) (brando's wife really IS from Transylvania. Scary!)

Anyway, that's all for now. How are you? I'm okay.

Later.  Love.

Roll on Down Those Tracks

Good morning. I hope you are all well this morning (I know, it may not be morning anymore when you read this. I’m no psychic, though. I live in the now.)

I wrote a new little story, Red Rock, on my Cogito site, which is where I put writing. The site your currently reading is where I talk to the world (that’s you). Red Rock is about a place I frequently visited when I was a boy. It’s short (the story, not the rock, although it’s also short), and I think it’s okay, if a little slow and dull (like me). Feel free to check it out (or to not check it out) if you’d like.

Today I started a new phase in my life, the “Riding the Train to Work” phase. I can catch the Trinity Railway express at 6:17 AM in downtown Fort Worth and ride for about an hour and twenty minutes to downtown Dallas. This train is large and comfortable, with two levels and tables for typing (I’m on the train now as I’m typing this). From there, I get on a smaller, subway-like train that takes me, in about twenty-five minutes, directly to my building. It’s a pretty good ride, I can write and think, it saves gas (compelling at $3 per gallon) and it only costs $35 per month to get a pass through my company. It saves money and is better for the environment. All of this almost justifies the hour of sleep I lose in the morning. Almost. Almost. I’m going to try to stick to this, but, DAMN! I’m not a morning person.

Well, I hope you have a good day, I really do. Tell me how you’re doing. I’d love to hear.

Later. Love.

One Hundred People Surveyed. Top Five Answers Are On The Board. Here's The Question.

I know that everyone out there has been waiting for my response to the whole Katrina hurricane event. I've started writing five of them, each with a different emphasis drawing from some different emotion. None of them felt right, though, so I've not finished any of them. The more I think about it, the less I have to say that's actually sayable. I have a few opinions that I'd love to communicate with certain populations, but 1) what difference does it make what I think and 2) the people with whom I'd love to communicate don't read this site and, probably, wouldn't listen anyway.

So, after much consideration, here's my official response to the Katrina hurricane: damn.

It's not much, but it's sincere, and it's the only common thread running through my angry and frustrasted and sorrowful and shocked opinions.

I hope you're all well and safe and sound of mind and body. I wish you were here with me, in the same room, and we could talk and laugh and maybe even share a few ideas that can't be written down without more skill and focus than I possess. That would be great.

Later. Love.

Musing Over Muses

Have I ever told you how much I love J.R.R. Tolkien? I suppose it's predictable. I'm a computer programmer who loves to read and to write, so I'm sure no one is shocked to hear that I'm a Tolkien fan.

When I was a teen I used to draw elaborate maps and write long stories after the example of Tolkien. I even made up my own languages, with script and grammar. I know, I know, this means I was a geek. I'm okay with that.

Someday I hope to sit at a coffee shop on a grey day and have coffee with Tolkien. I know, I know, he'll probably have tea and not coffee. And I know, I know, he's not alive anymore. Nevertheless, I hope to accomplish this somehow. If it transpires, I'll let you know.

I wonder if Chuck (the gnome that lives behind my shed) can read. I think I'll ask him. I'd love to hear what he thinks of Tolkien. I wonder if Chuck has any magical powers. I've never asked, because I was afraid that might be a rude thing to ask a Gnome.

If he reads the books, and likes them, maybe he can get me an appointment to have coffee with Tolkien. He can come along, if he wants to.

I wonder if Chuck likes coffee. Hmmm...

Well, nothing to say really. Here's a sketch of Tolkien I did once. You can click it for a MUCH more detailed view. See you tomorrow.

Later. Love.