I’d like to introduce you to the word “hingent.”
tweet thisFiled under: End of the World, Everyday, food, language, life, writing
I have a confession to make. I wasn't all that "sold on" what I wrote yesterday. It didn't, how shall I say this without hurting my feelings, make a whole lot of sense. I've spent most of this morning trying to be OK with it because every day can't be a diamond. Indeed, most of them are just broken pieces of coal. But, but...that, that's OK. The whole point of starting a blog was to give myself room to make writer's mistakes with the option of accountability, depending on how many read the blog and felt the need to comment. I'd fallen into a rut, as a playwright and...
I’m curious by nature, curiouser by Pinot Grigio.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, food, health, language, life, writing
I keep a little file folder on my desktop labeled "Better Jobs Than This." I like to read it when my current job drives me to the brink of pulling out my hair and anyone else's who's unfortunate enough to be standing next to me. My stress relief is to routinely surf the web looking for employment. When I find a job that appeals to me, for whatever reason, I either copy and paste the announcement, or I copy the entire link. I open my little file folder and I deposit it there for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. I hold...
I brought my own microwave, thank you very much.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, food, health, life, writing
Let me explain how I came to own the microwaveable egg poacher, first. Then, you can make your judgements. I am, as someone once said, a "marketer's wet dream." I'm not sure if or how that could be considered a compliment, but when in doubt, I make everything a compliment, anyway, so... I like to think everyone in the whole world, actually, is talking about me, at any given moment. It makes me feel better. I can't deny that I probably have a problem, like a genuine problem, this time; I'm a walking bank account when it comes to clever advertising and bright...
Mistakes make you feel bad. Like Peter Scolari or Mario van Peebles.
Filed under: faith, food, language, life, theatre, writing
I've made a mistake. I know I've made, like, at least two mistakes, previously, in my whole life and this would make three, and that's like, a holy number, so maybe I've come full circle, now. God, I hope. And though I don't make many mistakes, I know quite well what it feels like; the three I've made already have hurt like the Dickens. You know what the Dickens feels like, don't you? It feels like a headache plus a backache plus a neckache plus a stomachache, and your stomach is connected to your knee bone and your knee bone's connected to your jaw bone, something...
If you were to ask me, and I'm pretending that you are…
Filed under: Deep South, education, faith, family, language, writing
I have a friend, back in Indiana, who once accused someone of living of life marred by a ridiculous philosophy: that of the Bumper Sticker. I'm not entirely sure, but I feel that the credit for this sentiment really belongs to Carrie Fisher. But since I don't know Carrie Fisher, not really, I'm going to give it to Christian. He's close enough to count. I'm sure there are plenty of us who actually live a similar life, myself included, even if we're not overly aware of it, along the trench lines of the Bumper Sticker philosophy. I mean, who doesn't love a well-placed pun? I...
I can't die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, food, health
I think I almost died last Friday morning, right outside of Macon, Mississippi. The weather was atrocious, as it has been for the past two solid weeks; the rain was torrential (FYI: that's a word on My Favorite Words List, which I keep in my glove compartment), the wind was ridiculous, and the roads held pockets of watery vengeance...but that's not what I thought was I dying from. Because I'm a fairly safe driver. It's one of the good qualities I inherited from my father. I kept my cruise control right on 60 mph, stayed in the slow lane, and I'd successfully...
She was nothing short of a fire hazard.
I know this girl, we'll call her Melanie because that's her name...and OK, well, I don't really know her. I just saw her on TV the other night, a special that TLC was running on psychological disorders. Melanie had one. She's a hoarder. She hoards things, and I must say, I'd never even heard of such a thing before. It's rather disturbing, actually. My heart went out to her...but not at first. No, at first, I thought: "Come on! Give me a break. You've got to be kidding me! Can't she just clean it up?" I imagine a lot of viewers were thinking the same...
Real love requires 2" heels, at least.
That Ken Ludwig. Man. He can't write a play without causing serious damage to the ankles. (That's what my feet are saying, anyway. Ah, well, there's a price to be paid for anything, huh?) I'm sorry if this comes across, at first, like a shameless plug for the current production of Leading Ladies that I'm in - it wouldn't matter anyway, if it did; we're practically sold out for the rest of this run. We've only got one more week, and then...it's curtains. Literally. But, out of the goodness of my heart, and since I'm a Christian man (from the waist up, anyway), I'll gladly give you the...
The end of the world is not an excuse to be tacky.
Filed under: End of the World, Everyday, faith, family, food
Gosh. All this talk about 2012, and the end of the world, has made me both hungry and excited. That's a dangerous combination, coupled with the fact that Lil' Wayne, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Janeane Garofalo are listed on various 2012 websites as celebrity believers in this Doomsday Prophecy. I mean, please... That's enough right there to make me gorge myself to near death on a jar of warm mayonnaise. To be honest, I'm not sure where my depth of awe in the Apocalypse even comes from. I don't know why it intrigues me so much. I'm sure, like most everything else...
I would have prayed, but I had to merge.
This morning, as I made my way down the Trail of Tears to the town of Scooba, I passed a man in a reddish-shall-we-say-bleeding-into-burgundy Chevy Aveo...reading a book. While he drove. We were heading into that infamously, always congested section of highway right outside a town, or village, or tribe, known simply by the wooden staked sign, signaling both the start and the end of what appears to be a mostly dirt road, bearing the mysterious name of Wahalak. For some reason, and I feel that voodoo has a large part to do with it, they simply cannot get this portion of the road...
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