She was, in fact, too next to me.
tweet thisFiled under: Deep South, Everyday, food, humor, language, life
If it hadn’t happened to me, I would have wanted it to. Because I love desperate people, people who are in dire need of belonging to Something: a group, a party, a conversation. They’re simply fascinating to watch in public because they have no radar for ridicule. Enter: Me. The Radar. I’m not always “in your face” about things, but it takes all kinds, I know, and I respect those who are. For me, I’m much more like a Dorothy Zbornak; I like to fight with my wit, when I have any. Like that girl, last night, whom I’m supposing I met thought I...
You can’t kill a Honda, unless you’re an 18-Wheeler.
Mornings make me nervous. I wish that they didn’t. But they do. I wake up with such issue with the Day, every single day. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had three hours of sleep or a hundred. And I don’t settle down until after 2:00, usually…on bad days 4:00. I think it’s because I’ve lost my mornings. That's what it feels like. I mean, I wake up knowing I have a drive ahead of me just to get to my office, a drive I’m beginning to hate with the heated passion of a thousand burning suns, and it’s caused me to reevaluate what I do...
Why I don’t like a blue cooler, Or, The dangers of making mud pies.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, food, health, life
I met my first pedophile when I was eight years old. In Clinton, Mississippi. I didn't know what he was, at the time, nor did any in my small group of friends, except Lori, but that comes later. I do however distinctly remember what he did. It's rather scarred into my memory, as you might imagine. Oh, now, he didn't touch us or anything. We were separated by a chain link fence. And, I hadn't even really thought about it since, until yesterday and I don't know what it was but something crossed my mind and Wham!: there he was, sitting in the...
I’d like to introduce you to the word “hingent.”
Filed 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...
Oh, I'm still around…
I'm currently experiencing technical difficulties, but rest assured, I've got blogs coming... The Lord, ever, do I have blogs coming: all about flying (yuck!), why I think the Electric Department cares what I do, and of course, the Impending Arrival of Siciliana... At the moment, though, I have to go sing at a funeral. And figure out what's wrong with my computer. The idea of writing on a borrowed one seems too...
How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…
![Link to How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…](http://cleverkris.com/wp-content/themes/psm/scripts/timthumb.php?src=http://cleverkris.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/mind-analysis.jpg?w=92&h=250&w=250&zc=1)
I have been intensely busy, lately. Not just by hand, either. My mind...it often goes into Mach 7 when I attempt to procrastinate (by the way, the word "procrastinate," itself, is ironic - I mean, by the time you write the word out, you could have done something already - it's not a word for the lazy), and the only thing I can physically do to make it stop is to sleep (even though my dreams are usually full of anger when I do that - last night, for instance...ouch!), but if I don't stop it, from time to time, it just runs all...
I can't believe I'm blogging.
But, then, is that really true? Aren't we all, deep down, deliciously wanting to be voyeurs, without a court trial attached; those always take up so much time. What we want is to break a law and get away with it. That's all blogging is, really, an acceptably broken law; windows made of words for the rest of us Peeping Toms to look at. Nobody minds it; no, instead, it's encouraged. Besides, isn't there something just too alluring about showing a little "skin" to the Peeping Toms, to the entire web-viewing world about how you feel, on any particular subject: racism, nudity, Republicans, orange juice,...
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