Working in a jail provides a writer an abundance of material, everything from characters to situations to catch phrases. The trick of course is to figure out how to use them without being too obvious and pissing off the people you work with. And then sometimes you have to be careful not to upset your wife.
One day we were cleaning out some files and came across a letter that was sent to an inmate, but the writer didn't list the inmates name in the address and no return address. Why it was kept I don't know, but being curious in nature I decided to read said letter for some clues.
The letter was from some love sick girl who babbled on about how she couldn't wait for the unknown inmate to get out so they could live happily ever after in some single-wide. Okay, she didn't say single-wide, but I think it's a pretty safe assumption especially considering...
At the end of the sappy ramblings I hit gold! This would be something, somehow I would use in my writing and it goes like this:
"I have a little something for when you get out. I got some of those edible panties and can't wait for you to use them. Unless I get a case of the munchies and eat them myself."
What?!!! That is awesome! Up to that point I had never heard of anyone getting the "munchies" so bad that they decided to break open their edible panties. I would have never in a million years thought of something like this.
So I decide that since this is headed for the trash I might as well hold on to it. When I get home there's the junk drawer that I empty my pockets into, keys, wallet, eye drops, letter, chap stick, etc.
Days go by and I forget about this white-trash correspondence. That is until my wife decides to clean out the junk drawer and comes across it.
"What the hell is this?"
I turn to see her waving the letter at me.
"Isn't it funny?"
"No!"
Then it dawns on me that unless you know that this thing was sent to a jail you're not going to know who the intended recipient was. "No, no, no. That's not for me. It was an old letter that had no names or addresses."
The wife still giving me the evil eye says, "And why do you have it?"
"You gotta read the last paragraph, it's priceless."
She does, still doesn't find the humor in it, and tosses it on the counter.
"What? Come on, munchies, edible panties. That's good stuff!"
The wife walks away shaking her head.
I still think it's funny.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Crack's List Mirror
So remember the couch and Eight Ball Annie? Well, I guess I can't lump all Crack's List sellers as deviants. The wife found a big free standing mirror and decided it would make a great item for the girls. We load up and head to an apartment complex to view said mirror. Of course I'm ready to meet another skunk mouth freak with track marks, but instead found what appeared to be a normal family a little down on their luck. Father, mother, son, and daughter; all who dressed, talked, and acted normal.
They were crammed in the little apartment that was clean and organized. The father explained there just wasn't enough room for the mirror, he picked up as a project.
It was what the wife had in mind, so I kindly parted with the $40. In turn the father handed it to the wife and told her to go buy dinner. Win-win situation.
So let the project begin...
Here's the mirror. A little rough, but nothing bad.
A little separation from a crack in the frame.
A little wood glue...
A couple of clamps and all's good.
Remove mirror from stand and...
Lightly sand. I used a foam backed 320 grit sand block. Flexes just right to get into all the details.
Time to paint. I tried this new Rust-o-leum product and gotta say I wasn't too impressed. Seemed like a lot of waste and a huge mess.
It did, however, cover pretty good.
The fumes were so much that I had to move the project out onto the yard with a tarp.
Thought about removing the back and taking the mirror out, but that would have been the easy route, so instead I covered it with tape and newspaper.
Time for part two of the wife's vision turning the back of the mirror into a chalkboard.
This stuff worked pretty good.
Here's the finished product and the girls acting silly as usual.
Flip it over and you can hold class.
Sorry, no crack heads, or incontinent dogs, but had to show off my white trash handyman skills. Note them skills with the spray paint, we don't need no stinking brushes.
They were crammed in the little apartment that was clean and organized. The father explained there just wasn't enough room for the mirror, he picked up as a project.
It was what the wife had in mind, so I kindly parted with the $40. In turn the father handed it to the wife and told her to go buy dinner. Win-win situation.
So let the project begin...
Here's the mirror. A little rough, but nothing bad.
A little separation from a crack in the frame.
A little wood glue...
A couple of clamps and all's good.
Remove mirror from stand and...
Lightly sand. I used a foam backed 320 grit sand block. Flexes just right to get into all the details.
Time to paint. I tried this new Rust-o-leum product and gotta say I wasn't too impressed. Seemed like a lot of waste and a huge mess.
It did, however, cover pretty good.
The fumes were so much that I had to move the project out onto the yard with a tarp.
Thought about removing the back and taking the mirror out, but that would have been the easy route, so instead I covered it with tape and newspaper.
Time for part two of the wife's vision turning the back of the mirror into a chalkboard.
This stuff worked pretty good.
Here's the finished product and the girls acting silly as usual.
Flip it over and you can hold class.
Sorry, no crack heads, or incontinent dogs, but had to show off my white trash handyman skills. Note them skills with the spray paint, we don't need no stinking brushes.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
ZAP!
Let me tell you something. I have a high pain tolerance. I know there are plenty of people who say this, but for me it is true. Some examples would be: I’ve been Tasered three times. I’ve had my face dowsed with pepper spray. I once slipped and ran a bow saw over my arm. I went two years with a torn bicep tendon hoping it would fix itself. When I was a kid I suffered through the night with appendicitis thinking the pain would just go away. Through all these things and many others I never cried or screamed or curled up in the fetal position (though the appendicitis was close). I’ve always been able to control and deal with pain. That was until…
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Melt-In-Your-Mouth Pancakes
My kids love pancakes. They must since I am the best pancake maker ever (according to them)! Here's my recipe for keeping the little ones thinking I'm awesome:
First thing first. Coffee.
Make sure you have at least two cups before you start, that way you can handle the incessant "Are they done yet? Are they done yet?"
Next is your ingredients.
1 1/3 cup soy milk (Just shut up and go with it. If you want to use whole or skim do it)
2 cups Bisquick
1 egg
2 tablespoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Add and mix ingredients in that order.
When you mix them (I use a fork instead of a whisk) you don't want to go gangbusters, just turn it nice and easy until the lumps are no bigger than peas. Don't mix all the lumps out (that's waffle batter).
Pour the batter into 4-5 inch circles on a hot skillet. Go with 325 degrees.
When the edge curls up and you start to see bubbles coming through it's time to flip.
While the other side is browning go ahead and rub butter on them. Go with salted butter. It's pancakes, are you really worried about your health?
Finally, slap them on a plate and dowse them in syrup. And make sure the syrup is heated. Cold syrup is for losers.
If you didn't quite understand my directions you can always look on the back of the Bisquick box. What, you think I came up with this on my own?
First thing first. Coffee.
Make sure you have at least two cups before you start, that way you can handle the incessant "Are they done yet? Are they done yet?"
Next is your ingredients.
1 1/3 cup soy milk (Just shut up and go with it. If you want to use whole or skim do it)
2 cups Bisquick
1 egg
2 tablespoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Add and mix ingredients in that order.
When you mix them (I use a fork instead of a whisk) you don't want to go gangbusters, just turn it nice and easy until the lumps are no bigger than peas. Don't mix all the lumps out (that's waffle batter).
Pour the batter into 4-5 inch circles on a hot skillet. Go with 325 degrees.
When the edge curls up and you start to see bubbles coming through it's time to flip.
While the other side is browning go ahead and rub butter on them. Go with salted butter. It's pancakes, are you really worried about your health?
Finally, slap them on a plate and dowse them in syrup. And make sure the syrup is heated. Cold syrup is for losers.
If you didn't quite understand my directions you can always look on the back of the Bisquick box. What, you think I came up with this on my own?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Crack's List
Like I don't put up with enough crap at work, my wife has struck once again!
I love the fact that she is our CFO and does a fine job at making sure our money goes the distance. But sometimes it's just not worth saving a buck. I think sometimes she gets a little too frugal. And sometimes I'm the sucker in the whole deal.
So she's doing her thing trying to make sure we don't spend the inheritance that the kids won't get by shopping on Craig's List. You may have heard of this thing. You know where people list items for sale like cars, furniture, jewelry; and sometimes they list services for sale like handyman or yard work or sexual favors or serial killer victim. I'm pretty sure those last two might be one and the same.
On this particular occasion my wife has decided that she is going to save us a bundle by finding a leather couch for dirt cheap. She calls me at work to notify me that we need to go look at a sleeper sofa. Are you freak'n kidding me?!
"Babe, it's been a long day (a 12 hour day)."
"Yeah, but this is a really good deal. $350 for this Lazy Boy."
"Babe, really."
"No, seriously, it's leather and lists for $900 new. The lady said that she's desperate, that they're going to come get her car if she misses another payment."
Sirens are now sounding in my head. "And where is it at?"
"Nokomis."
Sounding like Jim Mora I say "What's that? Nokomis? You talking about Nokomis, are you kidding me? Nokomis?"
"Listen, I've dropped the girls off at my folks and grabbed my dad's truck. Meet me over at Five Guys for dinner and then we'll go check it out."
Damn it! She knew she'd get me with the Five Guys offer.
I meet her there, down a burger, fries, and a hand full of roasted peanuts. Then we hit the road. I ask her what the directions and she reads me something like this:
"Go to Blackburn, but not the Blackburn you're thinking of. Cross over it and take your first right. Follow that road and it will be the first condo on the left."
And I'm like what?
"You don't know where that is?"
"It's frig'n dark out and that doesn't make sense!"
"You don't have to yell. Do you want me to call her?"
I jerk the truck off the road. "Call her."
We get somewhat better directions and as luck would have it we're right around from her. Pulling in, I see the first condo on the left and a piece of crap 1990 Cavalier in the driveway. Are you catching these signs?
I back the truck in and say into the steering wheel, "This is not going to be good."
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Pitched right down the middle. "But if it is, you figure out how to get us out of here."
How it became my job to develop an escape plan from a place I didn't want to be in to begin with is still lost on me.
As soon as we step out there's some little piss ant dog yipping at us.
"Come on baby, it's okay. Stop barking."
I follow the voice to, yep you guessed it, a crack head! All skin and bones and jittery. She waves us in. My wife catches my look and starts to giggle. As we step in the "smoke-free" home (yeah, smoke-free since the time my wife called you)it gets even worse in the light. This chick's hair has been died and fried so bad it's more of an orange color with a green sheen in the light. She looks like tarantulas are crawling out her eyes from the caked-up mascara.
So Eight Ball Annie begins her spastic impression of Vanna White telling us what a great deal it is and how bad she needs to get rid of it. She convinces my wife, and therefore me, to have a seat. My wife to the left and Eight Ball Annie on the right. At that point her Rat Terrier/Chihuahua/Pomeranian/ whatever ankle-bitter mix jumps on my lap.
"Oh, that's my little Pipsy. I had to rescue him. He's incontinent so they were going to put him down."
My wife once again manages to keep her giggles to an undetectable level from the rock monster whose skin is obviously irritating her to the point of scratching it off.
"So you said it's a sleeper?" my wife asks just to keep this freak show going.
Apparently my gaping jaw was enough to cause a Cheshire's grin to stretch across her face.
Eight Ball Annie leaps from the couch and begins to rip the cushions of the couch. I step back out of the way and just when I didn't think it could get any worse I suddenly feel the need to gouge my eyes out.
See, the lovely Eight Ball Annie is wearing this soft nicotine stained linen sundress. Of course the benefits of such a garment are its light and airy feeling and in some cases its sheerness, but this was not one of those cases. Because as Eight Ball Annie bent over in front of me she gave me a not-so-lovely shot of where that pink t-back disappeared. This, once again, amused the crap out of my wife. I thought my burger would join the pillows tossed across the room.
Fruitlessly, Eight Ball Annie tries to pull out the "never-slept-on" folding bed. It keeps binding on her and I figure this is the out we needed, but my wife is enjoying this entirely too much tells me to give her hand.
The thing opens to reveal a sheet stretched over the "never-slept-on" mattress. All I can think is Luminol and a black light would set this thing aglow.
Just as I'm about to say something bounding in from the front door that was left open comes a screaming three year old who begins jumping on all the furniture.
An exhausted elderly man steps in and tells Eight Ball Annie that her child, once again, came running into his place to hang out. He waited fifteen, twenty minutes but mommy never came to get her (and he couldn't take it any longer).
Now instead of irritating the old man the little brat is irritating me. Eight Ball Annie does a fine parenting job of ignoring her and keeps looking from me to my wife for one of us to whip some cash so she can run out and get her fix and turn the scream'n demon's shrieks into a lullaby. And just as I'm about to break her dreams I'm interrupted once more.
"Hey, hey, hey! Quiet down! Pot Head Pete says as he comes out of the bedroom apparently just waking up from a nap... At 8:30 pm? "Wus up," he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen type area looking in the variety of chip bags open on the counters. Must suck waking up with the munchies and a screaming kid. Oddly the strangers in the house didn't seem to phase him. Hmm...
"Well, I don't think it's gonna work. It's uh, too small. Too small for the space we're looking at," I finally get out and grab my lovely wife's hand.
"You sure? I'll take $300!"
"Yeah, sorry, even at $300 it's not going to change the size."
"Well, okay guess it's not going work," the wife says, finally showing me some support.
We show ourselves out and load back into the truck.
"Babe, what the hell?"
"Okay, okay you were right."
"There's a reason they say 'No shoes, no shirt, Nokomis*.'
"Look at it this way, at least you got some new characters," she says with a smile.
What could I possibly write and use that chick. I guess my blog.
*Just so it is noted, not all the losers in Nokomis are crack heads.
I love the fact that she is our CFO and does a fine job at making sure our money goes the distance. But sometimes it's just not worth saving a buck. I think sometimes she gets a little too frugal. And sometimes I'm the sucker in the whole deal.
So she's doing her thing trying to make sure we don't spend the inheritance that the kids won't get by shopping on Craig's List. You may have heard of this thing. You know where people list items for sale like cars, furniture, jewelry; and sometimes they list services for sale like handyman or yard work or sexual favors or serial killer victim. I'm pretty sure those last two might be one and the same.
On this particular occasion my wife has decided that she is going to save us a bundle by finding a leather couch for dirt cheap. She calls me at work to notify me that we need to go look at a sleeper sofa. Are you freak'n kidding me?!
"Babe, it's been a long day (a 12 hour day)."
"Yeah, but this is a really good deal. $350 for this Lazy Boy."
"Babe, really."
"No, seriously, it's leather and lists for $900 new. The lady said that she's desperate, that they're going to come get her car if she misses another payment."
Sirens are now sounding in my head. "And where is it at?"
"Nokomis."
Sounding like Jim Mora I say "What's that? Nokomis? You talking about Nokomis, are you kidding me? Nokomis?"
"Listen, I've dropped the girls off at my folks and grabbed my dad's truck. Meet me over at Five Guys for dinner and then we'll go check it out."
Damn it! She knew she'd get me with the Five Guys offer.
I meet her there, down a burger, fries, and a hand full of roasted peanuts. Then we hit the road. I ask her what the directions and she reads me something like this:
"Go to Blackburn, but not the Blackburn you're thinking of. Cross over it and take your first right. Follow that road and it will be the first condo on the left."
And I'm like what?
"You don't know where that is?"
"It's frig'n dark out and that doesn't make sense!"
"You don't have to yell. Do you want me to call her?"
I jerk the truck off the road. "Call her."
We get somewhat better directions and as luck would have it we're right around from her. Pulling in, I see the first condo on the left and a piece of crap 1990 Cavalier in the driveway. Are you catching these signs?
I back the truck in and say into the steering wheel, "This is not going to be good."
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Pitched right down the middle. "But if it is, you figure out how to get us out of here."
How it became my job to develop an escape plan from a place I didn't want to be in to begin with is still lost on me.
As soon as we step out there's some little piss ant dog yipping at us.
"Come on baby, it's okay. Stop barking."
I follow the voice to, yep you guessed it, a crack head! All skin and bones and jittery. She waves us in. My wife catches my look and starts to giggle. As we step in the "smoke-free" home (yeah, smoke-free since the time my wife called you)it gets even worse in the light. This chick's hair has been died and fried so bad it's more of an orange color with a green sheen in the light. She looks like tarantulas are crawling out her eyes from the caked-up mascara.
So Eight Ball Annie begins her spastic impression of Vanna White telling us what a great deal it is and how bad she needs to get rid of it. She convinces my wife, and therefore me, to have a seat. My wife to the left and Eight Ball Annie on the right. At that point her Rat Terrier/Chihuahua/Pomeranian/ whatever ankle-bitter mix jumps on my lap.
"Oh, that's my little Pipsy. I had to rescue him. He's incontinent so they were going to put him down."
My wife once again manages to keep her giggles to an undetectable level from the rock monster whose skin is obviously irritating her to the point of scratching it off.
"So you said it's a sleeper?" my wife asks just to keep this freak show going.
Apparently my gaping jaw was enough to cause a Cheshire's grin to stretch across her face.
Eight Ball Annie leaps from the couch and begins to rip the cushions of the couch. I step back out of the way and just when I didn't think it could get any worse I suddenly feel the need to gouge my eyes out.
See, the lovely Eight Ball Annie is wearing this soft nicotine stained linen sundress. Of course the benefits of such a garment are its light and airy feeling and in some cases its sheerness, but this was not one of those cases. Because as Eight Ball Annie bent over in front of me she gave me a not-so-lovely shot of where that pink t-back disappeared. This, once again, amused the crap out of my wife. I thought my burger would join the pillows tossed across the room.
Fruitlessly, Eight Ball Annie tries to pull out the "never-slept-on" folding bed. It keeps binding on her and I figure this is the out we needed, but my wife is enjoying this entirely too much tells me to give her hand.
The thing opens to reveal a sheet stretched over the "never-slept-on" mattress. All I can think is Luminol and a black light would set this thing aglow.
Just as I'm about to say something bounding in from the front door that was left open comes a screaming three year old who begins jumping on all the furniture.
An exhausted elderly man steps in and tells Eight Ball Annie that her child, once again, came running into his place to hang out. He waited fifteen, twenty minutes but mommy never came to get her (and he couldn't take it any longer).
Now instead of irritating the old man the little brat is irritating me. Eight Ball Annie does a fine parenting job of ignoring her and keeps looking from me to my wife for one of us to whip some cash so she can run out and get her fix and turn the scream'n demon's shrieks into a lullaby. And just as I'm about to break her dreams I'm interrupted once more.
"Hey, hey, hey! Quiet down! Pot Head Pete says as he comes out of the bedroom apparently just waking up from a nap... At 8:30 pm? "Wus up," he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen type area looking in the variety of chip bags open on the counters. Must suck waking up with the munchies and a screaming kid. Oddly the strangers in the house didn't seem to phase him. Hmm...
"Well, I don't think it's gonna work. It's uh, too small. Too small for the space we're looking at," I finally get out and grab my lovely wife's hand.
"You sure? I'll take $300!"
"Yeah, sorry, even at $300 it's not going to change the size."
"Well, okay guess it's not going work," the wife says, finally showing me some support.
We show ourselves out and load back into the truck.
"Babe, what the hell?"
"Okay, okay you were right."
"There's a reason they say 'No shoes, no shirt, Nokomis*.'
"Look at it this way, at least you got some new characters," she says with a smile.
What could I possibly write and use that chick. I guess my blog.
*Just so it is noted, not all the losers in Nokomis are crack heads.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It's Not Just a Mug!
So I’m walking into the pokey and one of the Pre-Trial Services girls stops me and says, “We were just talking about you… and your issue with that coffee mug.”
“This mug? You know they don’t make this mug anymore.”
“And that’s what we mean,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
See, when something is as important to you as coffee is to me then the mode of transportation needs to be equally important. If I’m going to spend good money on good coffee then I can’t risk loosing a drop (I have been known to drink java that’s several days old). When your only form of liquid intake in an eight to twelve hour shift is coffee, joe, brew, mud, tar, mojo, black magic, etc. you want to keep it hot, fresh, and protected.
Let me tell you about this mug. It’s a Starbucks travel mug that cost $20. “Twenty freak’n dollars for a coffee mug?” you might say, but hear me out. It’s made of metal and is stainless steel inside. It is air, or coffee, tight and will not leak. Not a drop. I can pour coffee in this bad boy and six hours later it is still hot! This thing could probably deflect bullets, cure cancer, end world hunger, and bring peace to the Middle East. That’s a coffee mug!
Now sure, there’s been a time or two when said mug has been misplaced. And on those occasions some people might have construed my behavior as threatening or hostile, but look at it this way: this mug is my constant sidekick, at work, on the boat, on road trips… Hmm, they may have a point. I might see this mug more than I see my kids.
Eye of the Beholder
Some days it just strikes me that that would make a great shot. 'That' of course varies and just turns into another pastime; one in which I have armed myself with a DSLR and a hefty lens. Here are some of those varied reults:
This is a dock across the street from my in-laws.
An egret cutting across the sky.
Just a clock hanging in my breakfast nook.
An abandoned home.
A flower I haven't identified yet.
Some would call these weeds, but I call them pretty little things.
My boy, Jack, sitting so handsome.
Jack, once again. My wife liked this one so much she hung it in the house.
Ladybug on a lawn chair.
A green treefrog woken from a nap.
In the future I'll try and do a better job of categorizing the pictures.
This is a dock across the street from my in-laws.
An egret cutting across the sky.
Just a clock hanging in my breakfast nook.
An abandoned home.
A flower I haven't identified yet.
Some would call these weeds, but I call them pretty little things.
My boy, Jack, sitting so handsome.
Jack, once again. My wife liked this one so much she hung it in the house.
Ladybug on a lawn chair.
A green treefrog woken from a nap.
In the future I'll try and do a better job of categorizing the pictures.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Trailers
Besides writing stories, another hobby of mine is making trailers for them. So here's the three I've made so far...
This is the first one I did, for my first novel:
This is one I made for my friend, Wayne Barcomb:
And this one is for my upcoming novel:
This is the first one I did, for my first novel:
This is one I made for my friend, Wayne Barcomb:
And this one is for my upcoming novel:
Tides of Time (A Short Story)
Isn’t it something when you grow older and develop that life of your own? The job, the wife, the kids; makes me think of the song Cats in the Cradle. It had been too long since I went fishing with my dad. How the time had flown and something that meant so much to me as a kid became nothing more than distant memories.
The inability to sleep was pure torture. Not from a tired sense, but more so because of being awake and waiting. What would we catch? What would we see? Every trip into the Florida Keys gave my growing mind something to feed upon.
“Well, we’ll see how the weather holds out,” he would say as we turned in for the night.
The weather. I found it odd that all I wanted to do was marvel at Mother Nature and yet it was she which created the greatest obstacle. Worrying about the green blobs drifting across the radar screen would get me out of bed every time. I sat for an hour, or so, studying the storm reports before he would get up.
“Clear skies, slight breeze coming out of the east,” I would be at him as he turned the coffee pot on.
“How long have you been up?”
My eyes would find a spot in the linoleum. “Just a little before you.” I didn’t tell him I watched the American flag while they played the national anthem before the screen went to snow.
“Uh-huh,” he would reply with a smirk.
“So are we going?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said as he laughed and rubbed my crew cut.
And that would be it. I’d dash out the door to get our gear together and load the little refurbished johnboat. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was just right for tooling about the mangroves surrounding Key Largo. This particular day he was going to take me to a new spot.
Not much was spoken, not much needed to be said. He had taught me well and we were focused on the task at hand. Fishing was not our hobby, it was our obsession. He didn’t ask corny questions about my youth and I didn’t give him answers that would appease him. I knew he loved me, and I hoped he knew I loved him too.
We turned onto U.S. 1 and headed south past Bojangles’. A little further down to Jack’s Bait and Tackle for eight dozen shrimp for eight bucks. Past The Last Chance bar and into Key Largo.
Dad liked to take Card Sound Road around and south instead of staying on the highway for reasons I couldn’t tell you. It was for the most part a desolate ride. I would just stare off into the darkened mangroves catching glimpses of the moon on the water.
I would think to tell my dad how much I loved him and how much I admired him, but still we would ride listening to the tinny sound of Buffet on the AM radio. We shared this bond, this love for the water. Nothing needed to be said. Or maybe it was because I was getting older and it wasn’t cool to say I love you. Maybe it was because I was getting older and I could see that my hero was not made of steel.
His hand on my shoulder, “Wake up, we’re here.”
I snapped up and looked around; didn’t even remember going over the Card Sound Bridge. He had already backed the boat into the makeshift ramp. I jumped out, causing hundreds of fiddler crabs to scurry back into their holes, and grabbed the bowline while he lowered the boat in. Standing there as he parked, I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of the saltwater. A slight breeze came off the little bay and my shoulders shook from the chill in the air.
Dad climbed over the bow and to the transom lowering the motor. Primed the bulb, pulled the choke, and tugged on the cord. The little fifteen Evinrude started up with a whine and a two-stroke cloud drifted off the water.
The short ride across the flats left me shivering up front, but soon he idled down and was hunting for his spot.
“There, see the beer can in the mangroves?”
I could barely make it out, but sure enough right at the mouth of a cut in the mangrove forest was a sun-bleached can stuck on a branch. It looked nothing more than a piece of jetsam that got snagged in the stilted tree, but in fact it was the marker he used for his honey hole.
He motored up and told me to tie off to one of the branches. “We’re a little early; the tide hasn’t started moving yet.”
“Well, we could try!”
“Sure, why not,” he said as he opened the cooler converted to bait-well. He pulled out a good four inch shrimp and handed it to me which I quickly skewered and tossed overboard.
In a matter of seconds I felt the tugging at my line and reeled it up to reveal the fierce shaking of a channel cat. I cringed and the grimace on Dad’s face said it all as I dangled the slimy critter in front of him.
He grabbed it with a rag and popped the hook out. “Watch out,” he said and tossed the fish up in the bow.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just watch.”
“Can I have another shrimp?”
“Let’s wait for the tide; I don’t want to be wasting shrimp on catfish.”
I looked down and watched the catfish wriggle its body side to side when I heard something in the mangroves. It got closer and closer until I saw its eyes aglow from the white light on the transom.
The raccoon stood on a rocking branch watching me for a moment then climbed down on the boat, snatched the catfish up and climbed back into the mangroves.
I smiled at my dad and he gave me a nod.
A few minutes went by and the back of the boat began to swing out of the cut. Dad grabbed a couple of shrimp, handing one to me and hooking the other to his rod. We dropped them over and within seconds we had snappers on. Over the next few hours it was hook, toss, catch, repeat.
The cooler was teeming with fish, the tide was done, and so were we. I’ll never forget that day.
Today I was up early checking the weather; cloudy with a slight chance of rain. The house was quiet as my wife and kids lay in their slumber. I finished my cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink then hit the road.
As I pulled my boat into the driveway my dad’s house was still. I picked him up and not a word was spoken. The ride down Card Sound Road was quiet, not even the radio. I whipped around and backed the boat in the ramp; no help, no problem, he taught me well.
I stood there breathing the salt air, watching the rippling bay. We loaded into the boat and took off. My windbreaker flapped in the wind as I spied the cut in the mangroves.
The boat tied off, we waited in silence for the tide to move. Once the transom shifted around I went and sat by him.
“We made this trip many times when I was younger; it was always one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to do this sooner, but, you know, life gets in the way. I hope you know that I love you and always have. Thank you for making me who I am today.”
I couldn’t fight back the pain in my throat any longer as I spread his ashes. Tears rolled down my face as I watched his remains become absorbed by the brine.
He lives through me in my love for what he loved.
The inability to sleep was pure torture. Not from a tired sense, but more so because of being awake and waiting. What would we catch? What would we see? Every trip into the Florida Keys gave my growing mind something to feed upon.
“Well, we’ll see how the weather holds out,” he would say as we turned in for the night.
The weather. I found it odd that all I wanted to do was marvel at Mother Nature and yet it was she which created the greatest obstacle. Worrying about the green blobs drifting across the radar screen would get me out of bed every time. I sat for an hour, or so, studying the storm reports before he would get up.
“Clear skies, slight breeze coming out of the east,” I would be at him as he turned the coffee pot on.
“How long have you been up?”
My eyes would find a spot in the linoleum. “Just a little before you.” I didn’t tell him I watched the American flag while they played the national anthem before the screen went to snow.
“Uh-huh,” he would reply with a smirk.
“So are we going?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said as he laughed and rubbed my crew cut.
And that would be it. I’d dash out the door to get our gear together and load the little refurbished johnboat. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was just right for tooling about the mangroves surrounding Key Largo. This particular day he was going to take me to a new spot.
Not much was spoken, not much needed to be said. He had taught me well and we were focused on the task at hand. Fishing was not our hobby, it was our obsession. He didn’t ask corny questions about my youth and I didn’t give him answers that would appease him. I knew he loved me, and I hoped he knew I loved him too.
We turned onto U.S. 1 and headed south past Bojangles’. A little further down to Jack’s Bait and Tackle for eight dozen shrimp for eight bucks. Past The Last Chance bar and into Key Largo.
Dad liked to take Card Sound Road around and south instead of staying on the highway for reasons I couldn’t tell you. It was for the most part a desolate ride. I would just stare off into the darkened mangroves catching glimpses of the moon on the water.
I would think to tell my dad how much I loved him and how much I admired him, but still we would ride listening to the tinny sound of Buffet on the AM radio. We shared this bond, this love for the water. Nothing needed to be said. Or maybe it was because I was getting older and it wasn’t cool to say I love you. Maybe it was because I was getting older and I could see that my hero was not made of steel.
His hand on my shoulder, “Wake up, we’re here.”
I snapped up and looked around; didn’t even remember going over the Card Sound Bridge. He had already backed the boat into the makeshift ramp. I jumped out, causing hundreds of fiddler crabs to scurry back into their holes, and grabbed the bowline while he lowered the boat in. Standing there as he parked, I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of the saltwater. A slight breeze came off the little bay and my shoulders shook from the chill in the air.
Dad climbed over the bow and to the transom lowering the motor. Primed the bulb, pulled the choke, and tugged on the cord. The little fifteen Evinrude started up with a whine and a two-stroke cloud drifted off the water.
The short ride across the flats left me shivering up front, but soon he idled down and was hunting for his spot.
“There, see the beer can in the mangroves?”
I could barely make it out, but sure enough right at the mouth of a cut in the mangrove forest was a sun-bleached can stuck on a branch. It looked nothing more than a piece of jetsam that got snagged in the stilted tree, but in fact it was the marker he used for his honey hole.
He motored up and told me to tie off to one of the branches. “We’re a little early; the tide hasn’t started moving yet.”
“Well, we could try!”
“Sure, why not,” he said as he opened the cooler converted to bait-well. He pulled out a good four inch shrimp and handed it to me which I quickly skewered and tossed overboard.
In a matter of seconds I felt the tugging at my line and reeled it up to reveal the fierce shaking of a channel cat. I cringed and the grimace on Dad’s face said it all as I dangled the slimy critter in front of him.
He grabbed it with a rag and popped the hook out. “Watch out,” he said and tossed the fish up in the bow.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just watch.”
“Can I have another shrimp?”
“Let’s wait for the tide; I don’t want to be wasting shrimp on catfish.”
I looked down and watched the catfish wriggle its body side to side when I heard something in the mangroves. It got closer and closer until I saw its eyes aglow from the white light on the transom.
The raccoon stood on a rocking branch watching me for a moment then climbed down on the boat, snatched the catfish up and climbed back into the mangroves.
I smiled at my dad and he gave me a nod.
A few minutes went by and the back of the boat began to swing out of the cut. Dad grabbed a couple of shrimp, handing one to me and hooking the other to his rod. We dropped them over and within seconds we had snappers on. Over the next few hours it was hook, toss, catch, repeat.
The cooler was teeming with fish, the tide was done, and so were we. I’ll never forget that day.
Today I was up early checking the weather; cloudy with a slight chance of rain. The house was quiet as my wife and kids lay in their slumber. I finished my cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink then hit the road.
As I pulled my boat into the driveway my dad’s house was still. I picked him up and not a word was spoken. The ride down Card Sound Road was quiet, not even the radio. I whipped around and backed the boat in the ramp; no help, no problem, he taught me well.
I stood there breathing the salt air, watching the rippling bay. We loaded into the boat and took off. My windbreaker flapped in the wind as I spied the cut in the mangroves.
The boat tied off, we waited in silence for the tide to move. Once the transom shifted around I went and sat by him.
“We made this trip many times when I was younger; it was always one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to do this sooner, but, you know, life gets in the way. I hope you know that I love you and always have. Thank you for making me who I am today.”
I couldn’t fight back the pain in my throat any longer as I spread his ashes. Tears rolled down my face as I watched his remains become absorbed by the brine.
He lives through me in my love for what he loved.
No Rest for the Wicked
Let start off by saying I love my wife very much; we've been together over 17 years.
So here's the deal. It's time for bed. I get into the bed, pull the covers up and go to sleep. Well, that's the plan anyways. My wife on the other hand has a different plan.
Once I am in bed she snuggles up to me, slipping her arm around mine squeezing ever so tightly. Then she begins to adjust for comfort. A little shift here a little shift there. Okay, she's good. Nope, a little more shifting, throw in some huffing. This goes on for 5 to 10 minutes and the whole time I'm still laying there on my back as I was when I first got into the bed.
And just when you thought it was time to drift off into nothingness she mumbles, "Someone's screwed up my shirt."
See there's another little player in the act we have going on and it is "the shirt". The shirt is some ratty old t-shirt from when I was in the academy 15 years ago. Said article of clothing is to be draped across my wife's head, strategically covering her eyes and more importantly her ear. She cannot stand the wind from the fan blowing on the ear.
So she snatches the shirt off her head and starts whipping it around to get it in the right configuration as to best protect her from the elements. Now we've got to go back to shifting and huffing until we somewhat resemble the form we were in prior to the shirt not complying.
Finally, we (being me, because she's out within seconds of being comfortable) start to drift off. But of course that's not the end. Time for anatomy class!
The human forearm is made of two bones, the radius and the ulna. The radius is the larger of the two and runs along the top of the arm. Traveling down the arm from the shoulder socket is the brachial artery, the major blood vessel for the arm.
All right, my wife, all sweet and snugly, has her forearm wedged between my arm and my chest. Now I don't think my wife has taken jujitsu, but I'm pretty sure she's got me in some kind of lock or something because she's managed to twist her arm ever so slightly causing the radius to cut into the my brachial. End result, my arm starts to go numb, so I start tapping out.
"Babe."
"What?" muffled behind the shirt.
"Babe."
"What?!"
"Babe, my arm, I need my arm."
"Why?"
"I can't feel it."
"Fine!" in a big, over exaggerated toss and she rolls over the other way.
After I get the feeling back into my arm I actually fall asleep. But not for long.
My wife has perfected the "ratchet blanket removal system" or RBRS. And goes a little something like this...
She rolls over to face me, grabs two handfuls of covers and then rolls away from me, releases the covers and rolls back, grabs covers, rolls away, release, back, grab, away. You get the idea. This is done until all the covers have been removed from my side of the bed. And let's not even get started on what "side" of the bed is mine, more like "smaller than her's" portion.
Anyways, she has all the covers, that is until she gets hot. Then she proceeds to push them all on top of me so that I might self-combust in the middle of the night. So I push them aside and finally, FINALLY, start to drift asleep and the alarm goes off.
And she wonders why I always look tired.
So here's the deal. It's time for bed. I get into the bed, pull the covers up and go to sleep. Well, that's the plan anyways. My wife on the other hand has a different plan.
Once I am in bed she snuggles up to me, slipping her arm around mine squeezing ever so tightly. Then she begins to adjust for comfort. A little shift here a little shift there. Okay, she's good. Nope, a little more shifting, throw in some huffing. This goes on for 5 to 10 minutes and the whole time I'm still laying there on my back as I was when I first got into the bed.
And just when you thought it was time to drift off into nothingness she mumbles, "Someone's screwed up my shirt."
See there's another little player in the act we have going on and it is "the shirt". The shirt is some ratty old t-shirt from when I was in the academy 15 years ago. Said article of clothing is to be draped across my wife's head, strategically covering her eyes and more importantly her ear. She cannot stand the wind from the fan blowing on the ear.
So she snatches the shirt off her head and starts whipping it around to get it in the right configuration as to best protect her from the elements. Now we've got to go back to shifting and huffing until we somewhat resemble the form we were in prior to the shirt not complying.
Finally, we (being me, because she's out within seconds of being comfortable) start to drift off. But of course that's not the end. Time for anatomy class!
The human forearm is made of two bones, the radius and the ulna. The radius is the larger of the two and runs along the top of the arm. Traveling down the arm from the shoulder socket is the brachial artery, the major blood vessel for the arm.
All right, my wife, all sweet and snugly, has her forearm wedged between my arm and my chest. Now I don't think my wife has taken jujitsu, but I'm pretty sure she's got me in some kind of lock or something because she's managed to twist her arm ever so slightly causing the radius to cut into the my brachial. End result, my arm starts to go numb, so I start tapping out.
"Babe."
"What?" muffled behind the shirt.
"Babe."
"What?!"
"Babe, my arm, I need my arm."
"Why?"
"I can't feel it."
"Fine!" in a big, over exaggerated toss and she rolls over the other way.
After I get the feeling back into my arm I actually fall asleep. But not for long.
My wife has perfected the "ratchet blanket removal system" or RBRS. And goes a little something like this...
She rolls over to face me, grabs two handfuls of covers and then rolls away from me, releases the covers and rolls back, grabs covers, rolls away, release, back, grab, away. You get the idea. This is done until all the covers have been removed from my side of the bed. And let's not even get started on what "side" of the bed is mine, more like "smaller than her's" portion.
Anyways, she has all the covers, that is until she gets hot. Then she proceeds to push them all on top of me so that I might self-combust in the middle of the night. So I push them aside and finally, FINALLY, start to drift asleep and the alarm goes off.
And she wonders why I always look tired.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
What Have I Got Myself Into?
"See, this is what you should do?" my wife says. And by this she means write a blog.
It started with the blog news feed I'd receive as I worked at my piece of crap PC. The feed is my wife on the Mac across from me reading posts out loud. As best I can tell there was some schizophrenic person spewing out some of the most random and eclectic thoughts I've ever heard. I was pretty sure this person is gender confused also. Then I realized my wife was skipping from one blog to the next giving me the cliff notes.
My keyboard clicked away as I tried to focus on the story in my head, but her voice is enough of a lure to jerk me out of my thoughts every time.
"All that stuff you write and have no place to put could go into a blog."
This from the woman that claims I have too many hobbies as it stands left me perplexed and of course intrigued. "What do I have to do?"
After a rash of Googling I came upon this place and after much more thought and effort then is truly necessary I came up with the title. Well, truth be told, my wife came up with the title. She is, after all, my muse.
Now I'm trying to figure out what ship the RSS Feed is, what makes a delicious digg, directions to the directory, and whatever else this crazy world has going on. I still haven't even figured out how to send a text on my cell phone!
I just hope I can get away with typing a few short stories, posting some pics and videos, well enough to fool people into actually believing I might know what I'm doing.
It started with the blog news feed I'd receive as I worked at my piece of crap PC. The feed is my wife on the Mac across from me reading posts out loud. As best I can tell there was some schizophrenic person spewing out some of the most random and eclectic thoughts I've ever heard. I was pretty sure this person is gender confused also. Then I realized my wife was skipping from one blog to the next giving me the cliff notes.
My keyboard clicked away as I tried to focus on the story in my head, but her voice is enough of a lure to jerk me out of my thoughts every time.
"All that stuff you write and have no place to put could go into a blog."
This from the woman that claims I have too many hobbies as it stands left me perplexed and of course intrigued. "What do I have to do?"
After a rash of Googling I came upon this place and after much more thought and effort then is truly necessary I came up with the title. Well, truth be told, my wife came up with the title. She is, after all, my muse.
Now I'm trying to figure out what ship the RSS Feed is, what makes a delicious digg, directions to the directory, and whatever else this crazy world has going on. I still haven't even figured out how to send a text on my cell phone!
I just hope I can get away with typing a few short stories, posting some pics and videos, well enough to fool people into actually believing I might know what I'm doing.
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