That'd be on account of my "driver's lung."
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I'm entering Week 3 at the new job, and the question I get asked most frequently isn't about the co-workers. That question ranks around #2, or #3. The one burning thing inquiring minds want to know is How Do You Manage That Long, Awful Drive? It's an hour in to work, and an hour home, though the drive home seems much quicker. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I thought about that question this morning, when I was stopped, yet again behind a truck hauling half a mobile home. We were squenched over on the right side of Highway 45 (not Highway 45 Alternate)...
"The magic stops here," She said.
I've decided I'm not legitimate until I get a business card. The kink in that plan is that no one has told me who the person is that purchases them for you. That's the way it rolls in Academia. String after string after string all tied to some alleged piece of paper that started the whole trail...probably back in the last 1950s. The thing you don't find out until later is that sometimes it's not even really a piece of paper. It's a person. Or a piece of a person. And it's quite an ingenious plan. I've certainly never seen the person, the...
Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?
I don't want to write this blog. I really don't. (Of course, I'm going to, but still...you should know that I don't really want to). I don't want to write it because it's going to force me to seriously consider the points I'm about to make, or attempt to. Points that are more than likely going to be offensive, both about myself and the culture I live in...and probably to one or two of you, at the least. I like God, let me just say that, upfront. I even like Jesus. I don't know when the last time was that I...
God had given him one-half of His Own Right Eye.
[I like to pretend I'm writing my memoirs, all of them at the same time, and so this is an excerpt from my second memoir, entitled The Deer in the Road. Feel free to edit, as you go along. Just don't let Amanda know.] On the outside looking in, I had a tragic childhood, I know, I’ve read that…but that’s only the way the story goes. It has a whole different feel, when it's told. The truth is I had a very conventional upbringing, for the most part, and it included a lot of church. I was brought up by a great uncle, who was also...
"And I said, Well, excuse me, I didn't know you had a copyright on the bow tie."
Now, you may not believe this, but I really do try very hard to be nice, to be kind, to be a friend, to be polite, etc. It's just that I have a great deal of trouble sometimes in doing anything even remotely nice, or kind, or friendly, or polite, etc. And sometimes, it's not even really my fault. It isn't. It's just that I'm, every now and again, a tiny beat behind the music. I'm not even sure I hear any music, so God bless my poor little drummer. Of course, I don't hear very well, either, and I know that doesn't...
I stress when there's nothing to stress about because I'm so ready to prove that I can handle stress.
I think I've told you I'm pretty good in a crisis. And if I haven't, well...I'm pretty good in a crises. At least the major ones. I'm fairly adept at "getting things done" in a hurricane, tornado, family death, and so on. Little things, though, little things get me but good. If I lose a tennis match, or misplace the car keys: watch out. I'm not sure why this is the way it is. It doesn't really make much sense...or does it? My wiring is designed for disaster. (That's not really a good thing, either). But, when things settle, or there comes a long...
$3 Makers
Three stools down, to my right, is John. He won't drink it if it's not Absolute, he informs me. Next to John is a nameless man, hands stained with paint, who came in with him. He's on the phone apologizing for a septic tank that's backed up. He'd installed it last month. To my left is another John, white and beardless and old and leathered. He's driven a truck the last twelve years. Half the time while drunk, he says, but he's never had a ticket, he says, and that's the trick, he says, but he never says to what. I'm in the middle but not in between, and that's important. They've got the radio on:...
This raises an interesting question within my Articles of Faith [...]
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There are several things that I'm simply not good at. Saying No, being right up there near the top. But, I also have other, more lasting, character flaws, that I'm afraid err on the side of my being "too good at." It's true. But, no worries, I'm not perfect. For instance, I have a cowlick. No, what I'm referring to is my "curse." I have one. (I probably have more than one, but I have one that is simply prevalent, at all costs, regardless of any personal demographic). I never forget an injustice. Ever. As a matter of awkward fact, I could go for years without seeing...
I died a little, right then, when he said that.
Someone, a long time ago like before I was born probably, once said, "Times, they are a-changin'." This person was either buying a new watch, replacing the battery in an old watch, or just given to random outbursts of speaking the painfully obvious. Also, they might have been Bob Dylan. Whoever it was, I tip my hat to them, and secretly, I call them a Philosopher. (Unless that person is Bob Dylan; I don't call him a Philosopher since his Oscar win). My deepest wish is that Time had a NASDAQ code. Because it is, I believe, the only thing on this earth that...
Godzilla vs. Supergirl, sushi-style. Hi-Ya!
I'm not really good at saying No. But, I don't really ever say Yes, that often, either. I think what I've allowed to happen is an assumed understanding of emphasis between asker and askee. For instance, someone might ask me if I like the shirt they're wearing. My usual response, trying my best to avoid confrontation (which I always do on little things, remembering U.L.'s constant quip of "Is this the hill you want to die on?"), is "I do." And that is not to be confused with I DO. Or, I do. I firmly believe it's possible to say No with nothing but the sheer...
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