Things We Think and Do Not Say

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“Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and, if true, of infinite importance. The one thing it cannot be is moderately important.” - C.S. Lewis

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In the early moments of the movie Jerry Maguire, the main character (played by Tom Cruise) has a crisis of conscience. He suddenly becomes disgusted with his participation in the money-grubbing sports industry and vows to do something to remedy the situation. His first step is to write a 20-something page treatise.

In one of the film’s more memorable scenes ( no, not “You had me at, ‘Hello,’” or “Show me the money!”), Jerry describes his thought process and mental state via voice-over: ...A breakthrough. Breakdown? Breakthrough. It was the oddest, most unexpected thing. I began writing... What I was writing was somewhat “touchy feely.” I didn't care. I had lost the ability to bullshit. It was the me I'd always wanted to be.

After he distributes his brutally honest manifesto to the entire company, Jerry receives an awkward, rather embarrassed “atta-boy” from his colleagues. He is then quickly ostracized, fired, and finds himself doing the walk of shame, carrying his belongings out of his office in a cardboard box.  

I share that bit of cinematic history as a prelude to the following similarly brutally honest manifesto. While the subject is dramatically different from Jerry’s, it was written with the same fervent urgency and passion, and could quite possibly share his title: Things We Think and Do Not Say. Furthermore, it may well have the same result: crickets and excommunication. I’m okay with that.

Don’t worry. This isn’t political. I’m not going to rip on the President - past or present - or leap into the vax/no vax quagmire. I was, however, drawn to the topic, in part, by the COVID pandemic. While opinions are all over the place about its origin, how it’s been handled, when and if it will ever end, there seems to be a consensus on one point: it’s scary! People all over the world are watching in horror as it keeps spreading around the globe. We’re all wondering if we’ll survive. More specifically, we’re afraid that we might not.

My hypothesis (which is not in any way original) is that the panic we’ve seen for the last two years is largely fueled by fear. More specifically, our fear of death.

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The Big Sleep. Giving up the ghost. Pushing up daisies. The final surrender. Kicking the bucket. Buying the farm. Taking the last train to glory.

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Yep. The D word. The Big Sleep. Giving up the ghost. Pushing up daisies. The final surrender. Kicking the bucket. Buying the farm. Taking the last train to glory. We have lots of clever euphemisms for it, because we really (R-E-A-L-L-Y) don’t want to face the reality that it’s coming for all of us. This just in: the mortality rate is currently 100%. It’s been holding steady right there since approximately forever. Whether it arrives via shark attack, a failed bungee jump, an insidious microscopic virus, or simply old age, we will all experience death.

Pretty morbid, right? The good news is that’s the bad news. My goal here isn’t to bum you out. My goal is to provide an antidote to the fear by sharing a post-mortem option. I mean, if we all gotta shuffle off this mortal coil at some point, it seems only fitting that we would give some thought to what happens next and even make some advanced arrangements regarding... (insert scary music here) the afterlife.

Maybe you don’t believe in the afterlife. Maybe you think we just stop existing. Or we go into some kind of hibernation/soul sleep. My question to you is this: what if we don’t? What if we keep on living and (you knew this was coming!) end up in one of two locations: heaven or h-e-double toothpicks?

Here’s where Christian readers can doze off or go for a latte. The violently atheistic (including internet trolls) can also head for greener pastures (try Twitter). For any remaining readers, I pose this challenge:

If there is a God, when you meet your maker, where will he send you?

Your encounter might go something like this:

God: (on throne with clipboard) Were you a good person?

You: (standing there with mouth hanging open) Um... Uh... Yeah... Kind of... Most of the time. Okay, some of the time. I mean, I’ve made mistakes. But I’m definitely not as bad as, you know, Hitler, Jeffrey Dahmer, and those guys.

God: I see. Have you ever broken any of my commandments? (whispering) They’re in my book.

You: Pretty sure I’ve kept most of those. Never killed anybody. I never made a graven image or did much coveting - not even sure what that is. Didn’t steal, except that time in the eighth grade. The Sabbath thing... I mean, I’m not Jewish so...

God: (making a note) So you broke the commandment about not stealing?

You: I... Uh...

God: Did you ever tell a lie?

You: Um... Well... I mean, yeah, sure. A few. Little white lies, mostly.

God: (scribbling more notes) You broke the commandment. Did you ever use my name as a swear word?

You: Seriously? That’s really a thing?

God: That’s a thing. Another broken commandment. You want me to keep going?

You: No. I get the idea.

God: (nodding at clipboard) Bottom line, you’re guilty. And I’m a just God. So that means I’ve got to judge fairly.

You: No grading on a curve?

God: Ha, that’s funny. No, as I said in my book, the guilty go to hell.

You: That’s really a thing too??

God: It’s a thing.

You: (gulp!)

The good news is that God has already arranged to have the charges against you (every broken commandment) dropped. He’s got a “get out of hell free” plan and he’s waiting for you to take advantage of it.

Remarkably, he sent Jesus Christ, his only Son, to take the punishment we deserve for our disobedience. Jesus died on the cross so that we could be forgiven. Perhaps even more remarkably, this is a free gift - all we have to do is receive it and instead of eternity in a miserably hot locale gnashing our teeth, we get to spend it with him in heaven.

Anyone still hanging with me who’s interested in this amazing deal, can seal it right now. Simply:

• Admit to God that you’ve broken his commandments. (Romans 3:23)

• Confess your sin, turn away from it, and ask him to forgive you. (1 John 1:9)

• Tell him you believe Jesus died on the cross for you and was raised from the dead. (Romans 10:9)

It’s that simple. If you genuinely took that step, you’re golden! (To find out what’s next, go here.)

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I don’t want anyone to cash in their chips without being adequately prepared. There. I said the things I usually think but do not say.

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I’ve been a follower of Jesus since I was nine years old. I am now many, many (M-A-N-Y) years older and I have never regretted the decision. My faith, relationship with him, and wrinkles have only grown over the multitude of decades. I believe all of the above and because of that, I don’t want anyone to cash in their chips without being adequately prepared.

There. I said the things I usually think but do not say. If you have questions or comments, email me. Trolls... don’t bother. Just go back to trolling, please.

The Big Experiment

Ok, so this isn’t an experiment, per se. And it’s not exactly big. There are no clear parameters, no hypotheses, no theories or theorems, no control group, no placebos or paradiddles. I am not proposing that the sum of the angles of an isosceles triangle will solve the mystery of our constipated supply chain or that the square root of x, divided by y will equal the z that answers the eternal question: Why is La Brea so bad when the previews looked so promising?

No.                            

Instead, I’m just giving an idea a shot and calling it a “big experiment” because it sounds more like a real deal and less like another one of my harebrained schemes.

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Here’s the thing: I’m replacing my phone with a book.

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With that wandering preamble, here’s the thing: I’m replacing my phone with a book. While that might sound silly (maybe it is) and nonsensical (how do you text with a book?) there’s a method to my madness.

Here’s the second thing: I find myself looking at my phone approximately 7.352 bizillion times a day. I consult it for the time, the weather, text messages, email, and occasionally, to play a little game called Trivia 360.

What I don’t use my phone for is phone calls. Pretty much ever. I receive several important calls each day offering to extend my vehicle’s warranty, reduce my student loan, and notifying me that someone has used my Amazon account to purchase an iPhone. Then I spend a few minutes blocking these solicitors, which, I realize, will absolutely not keep them from calling again, yet is somehow uniquely satisfying - “Blocked!” (insert maniacal laughter here)

However, by far, the biggest time suck on my phone is Facebook. I’m not saying Facebook is an evil internet construct devised by a selfish, greedy, immature misogynist pinhead that has, as its singular goal, total control of planet earth. I’m not saying that because that’s obvious. What I am saying is that Facebook, for me, is stupidly addictive. I find myself routinely falling into a black hole, watching really, really dumb videos, shaking my head at really, really dumb political posts, blinking in amazement as people I don’t know bitch, moan, complain, and desperately share the minute details of their lives with the world. What the...??

In between seeing and liking quality posts from my bona fide friends (approximately .001% of my time on Facebook), I allow myself to be carried along by a river of inane, mind-numbingly pointless and/or angry rants and random ridiculousness posted by FB acquaintances that aren’t really even acquaintances. Why?

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Recently, I had an epiphany (or maybe it was a eureka moment, not sure).

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The answer has to do with self-discipline - i.e. I apparently have none. It’s easier to scroll merrily along, slack-jawed, eyes glazed over, than do something constructive. Recently, I had an epiphany (or maybe it was a eureka moment, not sure). Like a weight-challenge individual who decides it’s finally time to start an exercise program, I decided I was going to do something about my Facebook fixation.

I’m not boycotting Facebook. I’m not deleting it from my phone. I’m not going to stop posting or liking my friends’ posts forever and ever, amen. (Editor’s Note: a couple of weeks ago, we posted a photo of our Halloween costumes on a Van Gogh group and got over 2,000 likes! I can only assume that was our 15 minutes of fame.) But here’s what I am going to do: for the next week, every time I’m bored and feel compelled to open the app and start wading through the hot mess on my timeline, I plan to just say no to this urge and - get this - pick up an actual book and read it.

I know. It’s madness!

Coincidentally, I own a lot of old-school, printed-on-paper books. I have poetry, novels, memoirs, devotionals, biographies, short story collections, travelogues... So instead of reaching for my phone to snack on online junk food, when the temptation arises, I am going to engage my self-discipline, crack open a bona fide book and do some mental calisthenics.

This could be risky. There are many unknowns. Questions remain. Will this improve my IQ or sink it? Will it enhance my mood or bum me out? Will it be difficult to wean off of Facebook? Will I suffer withdrawals and/or extreme FOMO? Will I get a nasty email from Mark Z. demanding that I log on immediately or be tossed into Facebook jail?

No idea.

What I do know is this: 1. I waste a lot of time scrolling when I have nothing better to do, and 2. I always complain about not having enough time to read.

Boom! Problem solved.  

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I always complain about not having enough time to read. Boom! Problem solved.

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This morning, I know I’ll be tempted. So I have three Facebook substitutes sitting on my desk, ready to be called into action: American Sniper, American Visions: The Epic History of Art in America, and The Treasure of (wait for it...) American Poetry. Purely coincidental. But very patriotic, right? And since tomorrow is Veterans Day...

Post Script: I’ll report back next time, telling you all about the wonderful benefits of breaking free from the restrictive tethers of Facebook or... possibly... confessing that I only lasted for a couple of hours before falling off the wagon and FB binging. We’ll see.

So Long, Groot!

If you are considering purchasing a Jeep, there are a couple of things you need to know before plunking down your hard-earned savings and signing up for the ensuing “life is good” outdoor adventure, as well as the accompanying “life sucks” financial misery. First, Jeeps are the best. Second, Jeeps are the worst.

By Jeeps, I am, of course, referring to Wranglers - both two and four door. The rest of the so-called Jeeps are fakes and imposters. While they might have the familiar logo glued to their bumper or frame, they do not qualify as bona fide Jeeps. The Jeep Compass? Nope. Jeep Renegade? Nope. Jeep Cherokee - Grand or otherwise...? Huh-uh. The jury is still out on Gladiators, but as of this writing, it’s Wrangler or nothing.

The reason is simple: Wranglers are the quintessential Jeep, the Jeep that goes where no other vehicles go, the only truly off-road model in the Jeep brand. Wranglers are the brave Jeeps. The bad-ass Jeeps. And, yes, the crazily-expensive-because-they-are-always-needing-repairs Jeeps. Wranglers - especially if they are lifted, have custom parts, are equipped with a winch... - are bank-account draining, you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me money pits.

Oh, and the inevitable big-dollar abyss should not be confused with the actual cliff that you might plummet off of if your Jeep decides to learn the wobble. No, not the line dance everyone pretends to know at weddings. I’m talking about the infamous... (insert music here from Psycho) death wobble.

Not long after we procured Groot (another Jeep thing: you gotta name them), it developed a wicked death wobble. If you’ve never heard of this problem, imagine experiencing a horrifying, 9.9 earthquake while doing 60 or 70 MPH on the highway and being forced to ditch onto the shoulder while seeing your life flash before your eyes and wondering who will feed the dogs after your demise. It looks something like this, except the Rock isn’t around to rescue you with his handy-dandy chopper. That’s the death wobble.

Fortunately, we got Groot’s death wobble fixed. Unfortunately, it cost approximately a bazillion dollars because getting it fixed meant getting it kinda fixed, then sort of fixed, then fixed again, and finally pretty much fixed. Until about two years later, when (insert Jaws music here) the wobble returned.

In addition to the death wobble, the entire front end croaked on us. Yeah, money, money, everywhere - except in our bank account.

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If you’ve never heard of the death wobble, imagine experiencing a horrifying 9.9 earthquake while doing 60 or 70 MPH on the highway and being forced to ditch onto the shoulder while seeing your life flash before your eyes and wondering who will feed the dogs after your demise.

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But that’s enough gloom and doom. Remember, there’s an upside to Jeeps. They’re fun! They’re cool! They can go anywhere (unless they happen to be death wobbling). The top comes off. The doors come off. They are a rolling advertisement for summertime recreation - four-wheeling through the mud on a hot afternoon.

Another great part of Jeep ownership is that you are welcomed into a very special, tight-knit subculture. Jeepers hang together. Check the parking lot the next time you’re at the store - they park next to each other. Even if they don’t know each other, they still mysteriously congregate. Jeepers also speak a common language. They have similar dreams - dreams that involve fewer death wobbles, fewer trips to the repair shop, blowing cash on a wide variety of accessories to pimp their rides, and recklessly playing around in the wide open spaces.

Jeep drivers even have their own wave. It’s an insider thing, like a secret handshake. Only Jeep Wrangler (“real” Jeep) drivers are allowed to do the wave. It goes like this:

Say you’re driving along, minding your own business, wondering if the next big bump will send your wonderful Jeep into a wobbling episode that truly ends in death and orphans your dogs, when along comes another real Jeep. Whether you’re on a two-lane road or an eight-lane freeway, you both know what to do: flash the wave.

There are a few variations of the Jeep wave, but I go with the thumb and first two fingers on one hand. I like to use my right hand, simply because it tends to be on top of the steering wheel. Some people use the left. A few even shoot the wave out the window, or out of a missing door.

Sadly, I’ve given my last Jeep wave. For a while, anyway. You see, we recently bid a fond farewell to Groot. (sniff!) Yeah, I know. It was a difficult parting. But Fran and I both realized it was time.

There are many things we’ll miss about Groot. It took us to Moab, Zion, Santa Fe, and countless trailheads and camping spots all over Colorado. But despite the fun factor, Groot’s repair bills had been steadily rising and were beginning to rival the national debt. So we cried uncle and traded it in.

I’m going to miss the Jeep wave too. It gets to be a habit that’s hard to break. Post-Groot, I’ve found myself driving along in our pickup, forgotten it’s not a Jeep, and shot some Jeeper the wave. The usual response is a vacant stare. But occasionally, someone will be respond to my audacity with a wave of a different sort - a less friendly wave that only involves one finger.

Jeeps. You gotta love them. And then, you gotta let them go and be willing to give them that final Jeep wave goodbye. So long, Groot!

Moving Day!

Here’s the thing about moving: it sucks. Even if you’re relocating from a hovel to a palace, from Stockton, CA to Kapa’a, Kauai, and even if the level of anticipation is off the charts, it’s still a TON of work, and never seems to go as smoothly or quickly as you hope it will.

Thankfully, we aren’t moving to a new city (although, I would definitely be up for Kapa’a). Or even a new house. We’re simply moving things around IN our house. It does, however, still constitute a significant event that, at this writing, seems like it will be a major pain in the backside for an extended period of time. Let me explain.

Fran just got a new job. While this is definitely “woohoo” worthy, it also requires rethinking our co-located office arrangement. Pre-new job, we shared space in a rather small bedroom into which we had crammed two desks, three book cases, a filing cabinet, a shredder, and some shelves. It also contained my guitars, a banjo, a ukulele, an amp, a trumpet, a coronet, a bazillion books, and an ironing board. Things were kinda tight. But it worked.

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Goodbye, view of Pikes Peak. Hello, window wells.

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This is how it worked: when I had a meeting, I ran Fran out. And vice versa (though more versa than vice). However, her new position will involve LOTS of meetings and calls, which will require MORE privacy, which will also require ME to hit the road with greater frequency.

Thus we (we?) decided to move me to the basement. Goodbye, view of Pikes Peak. Hello, window wells.

And so, at this very moment, I am typing these words from my new subterranean workspace. It’s not fancy and there are several families of spiders currently in residence, but my desk is down here and soon (defined as: not today and probably not for a while) I’ll have it all fixed up. Close your eyes and imagine a space where writing, guitar playing, art making, trumpet blowing, speed bag whacking, and heavy bag slugging can all happily coexist. Yeah, it’s going to be the ultimate studio/man cave and, if I can somehow finagle a mini-fridge, it will be the definition of awesome.

But right now, not so awesome. Most of my junky items - I mean cherished, valuable, and totally practical office accessories - are still two floors up, waiting to be schlepped down here. And yes, I will be the schlepper.

The funny/ironic thing about this move is that I began my writing/art career in a basement. Most of my books and a lot of pastels were produced “underground.” From there, I occupied a string of cubicles in various buildings. Last year, thanks to the Rona, I set up shop in that upstairs bedroom. And now, here I am... back... in... the... basement. Cue The Lion King.

Not exactly sure what all this means. But I do know this: the light is great down here (two - count ‘em - two window wells!), it’s big (I could practice The Git Up between my desk and the punching bags), and I have the feeling I will produce some great writing and art in this sunken sanctuary. I mean, it worked before. And so far, so good. While it’s just me, my desk, and some boxes right now, I have managed to get my “real” work done, pound out a few bad poems, organize some of my paintings, finish a new chapter in my latest novel, and even write a blog post!

Prolificity central.

Boom! It’s starting! The creativity that only a basement can inspire is already beginning to flow! A tsunami of prolificity is on the way!

I’m going to keep that mindset - maintaining an optimistic attitude, expecting those glass-is-half-full kind of things to happen - as I sweep spiders and cart countless loads of books down the stairs. And in the down times, when I’m not deciding where to hang my llama-in-a-taxi photo or how to display my Flash action figure, I plan to sit quietly and gaze out one of my window wells, contemplating the circle of life.

The House 'Cross the Way: The Trailer

So my new novel - The House ‘Cross the Way - is scheduled to be released by Odyssey Books at the end of September! (Insert happy dance here.) I know, that’s like next month. In fact, it IS next month! Which is why I have been busy making a movie. A small movie. A very small movie that is actually not a movie but more of a video. A short video. The kind that doesn’t really have a plot.

See, I’ve been making a “book trailer” because a. my wife was out of town and I got tired of watching Gladiator over and over (and over), b. my wife was out of town and I got tired of mangling Stevie Ray Vaughan tunes at a volume that caused our dogs to howl and run for cover, and c. because it’s the thing to do.

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I read somewhere that books nowadays should have preview trailers.

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Regarding c.- I read somewhere that books nowadays should have preview trailers. In the modern era (post-invention of the French fry), one thing has become increasingly obvious: people don’t read. Even before the black hole that is Facebook, Instagram, Tik Tok, and Youtube, no one really liked reading that much. After all, it’s hard. It requires the ability to think, the ability to concentrate, the ability to invest your imagination in a story... And all sorts of other annoying, inconvenient, and totally useless skills.

What people like to do is watch and listen. Even back in Neanderthal days, knuckle-draggers were all about witnessing drama. They cheered as wooly mammoths stomped poor unsuspecting schnooks into pancakes. They gasped as saber-tooth tigers gobbled up clumsy hunters. Did they want to read about those events? No! Even if they had a working language and had known how to read, they still would have opted for the lookyloo version.

Fast forward a half dozen or so millennia and factor in the presence of the internet, Bachelor in Paradise, and the fact that attention spans are now hovering around the 1.7 millisecond mark, and it’s no surprise that reading has become anathema. (You could look that word up with a mere click and read about what it means... but you’re not going to, are you?)

Reading is a pain in the optic nerve, as well as other parts of the body. Which brings me back to my trailer. The idea behind a book trailer is that you cleverly trick people into being a little curious about what is between the covers of your book by pretending, even in a low-budget kind of way, that it’s actually a movie they can stream on Netflix.

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Reading is a pain in the optic nerve, as well as other parts of the body.

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Do book trailers work? Do they actually boost sales? Do they cause human beings to suddenly and irresistibly take up their computers, tablets, and mobile devices and cyber-stampede to Amazon to buy books with free two-day shipping? While I haven’t delved extensively into the research that has been conducted on this particular topic, I will say, anecdotally, probably not so much.

Speaking from personal experience, I have never, in my entire life, seen a book trailer and, in response, abandoned my important work of scrolling through surfing, UFC, and dancing dog videos to seek it out. Nope.

So I will admit that making a book trailer might well be a futile activity. However, it can be fun and even beneficial if 1. it distracts you from excessive day drinking, 2. you get your kicks swearing at Final Cut Pro X, and 3. you don’t mind having zero dollars, zero actors, zero special effects, and zero Matthew McConaughey voice-overs at your disposal.

Now that I have produced exactly one book trailer, I can state definitively that the real challenge isn’t monetary. The real challenge is condensing nearly 400 pages of character-based literature that you labored for countless hours and sacrificed buckets of blood, sweat, and tears to create, into a tiny teaser. How do you give viewers a visual taste of what they will find inside your novel, convince them that books aren’t lame, and somehow persuade them to (gasp) open and (double gasp) read your book, in under two minutes?

Even the big-wig executives at Random House (not my publisher) and Simon & Schuster (not my publisher either) haven’t figured out the answer to that question. My personal philosophy of book trailers comes down to this: If you build it, they will come. No, wait. That’s Field of Dreams. My philosophy is actually: In space, no one can hear you scream. No. How about: You’ll never go in the water again. No, that’s not it either.

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I hope people will see the trailer and buy the book.

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This is it: I hope people will see the trailer and buy the book. Yeah, it’s pretty naïve. But if you want to talk naïve, get this: I’m also hoping that Hollywood options this novel, M. Night Shyamalan directs, and Matthew McConaughey tells the story. With all the loot from the blockbuster movie adaptation, I plan to write another novel and, clutching a fat wad of Benjamins in my sweaty fist, produce a book trailer that will cause people to weep, laugh, think deeply, and, if it’s very, very successful, maybe even read the book.

The House ‘Cross the Way is NOT out yet. It is NOT yet available on Amazon. But for those who are intrigued, who are considering saving their shekels to purchase a copy, or who are on the fence, wondering if it’s worth taking a break from binging Naked and Afraid in order to read, here’s a preview that may or may not convince you to Place Your Order.

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Rooting for American's Team

If you don’t like football, stop reading here. (Did you stop?) Also, if you like football but are concerned about what’s going to happen to Aaron Rogers... Pul-ease... (eyeroll) You’ll need some cheese to go with that whine.

Yeah, I know, it’s still officially summer - the dog days, even. The sun is blazing down, the afternoons are sweltering, and I’m sitting here working in shorts and Combat Flip-Flops. (I’m wearing other items of clothing too. Really, I am.) This is, by far, my favorite time of year.

So why bring up the subject of football? Football is synonymous with fall and fall means bulky sweaters, raking leaves, freak snow storms (around here, anyway) and huge sports stadiums with no fans inside. No wait, that was last year. This year is going to be different.

Seriously.

Maybe.

Ok, maybe not. Especially if the Tokyo Olympics and the Delta Variant are any indication. But that’s probably one of the reasons why, in late July (hey, that rhymes), I’m already in the mood for football. There are other reasons, however. The biggest of them is that my team has a good chance of going... all... the... wayyyy...!

I am, of course, talking about the Dallas Cowboys. And they aren’t just my team. In addition to superlative branding/marketing, an amazing NFL legacy, and a rather desperate owner (okay, very desperate) who is willing to “do anything known to man” to get the Pokes to the Super Bowl, the Cowboys are AMERICA’S TEAM. (Woop! Woop!)

I’ve come to realize that there are really only two kinds of people in this world: Cowboy fans and Cowboy haters. Statistically speaking, you probably fall into the latter category. You might dislike Dallas as much as you dislike Tom Brady. That’s natural. People tend to be irked by teams and players that win too much. But since the Cowboys have been El Crappo Boys in recent years, your malice could have dissipated. They haven’t won squat for a while, definitely haven’t dominated, so perhaps your hostility toward the big blue star has cooled to a modest annoyance.

Or not.

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I’ve come to realize that there are really only two kinds of people in this world: Cowboy fans and Cowboy haters.

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Either way, here’s the thing: I’m not just a run-of-the-mill fan. I didn’t hookybob onto the team and start cheering for them in their glory years, when they were putting ring after Super Bowl ring on their fingers. I’m a third generation Cowboys fan. I was born the same year they entered the NFL (look it up - I’m O-L-D!). What that means is that I’ve witnessed 33 post season appearances, 8 NFC championships, and 5 Super Bowl wins. But I have also suffered through 18 losing seasons, including last year’s abysmal 6-10.

Growing up, I had Dallas Cowboy t-shirts, Dallas Cowboy pajamas, Dallas Cowboy jerseys, Dallas Cowboy helmets and footballs... My bedroom walls were adorned with photos of Bob Hayes, Don Meredith, and Bob Lilly. My mom even covered my coronet case with Dallas Cowboy newspaper clippings. And I was an official member of the highly exclusive Dallas Cowboy Fan Club (entrance required filling out a form and sending them $5).

I’m also married to a died-in-the-wool Cowboy fan who comes from a family of Cowboy fans. When we learned that we were both Dallas die-hards, that sealed the deal and we realized we were meant to be together.

This year, if the apocalypse holds off and there actually is a football season (with or without fans in the seats), Dallas will be in the Super Bowl. I’m calling it right now. In fact, I’ll go further out on that limb: they will WIN the Super Bowl. I’m certain of this not because I am clairvoyant or because I put a hit out on Patrick Mahomes. No. I’m confident this is the Cowboys’ season because of three things.

1. Zeke

Yes, I’m talking about Ezekiel Elliot, the vastly overpaid running back who had a couple of goods seasons but hasn’t done diddly since he landed an outrageous contract. That Zeke. The one who has been playing like he stays up too late on Saturday nights and is mainlining Benadryl on Sunday mornings. The Zeke whose hair looks like he put his finger in an electrical outlet, who has a crazily contagious smile, and who everyone wants to choke out when he can’t get two freaking yards on third down.

I firmly believe that this year, someone or something will jumpstart Zeke and he will emerge from his dollar-sign coma and start generating major yardage again. Or at least, I hope he does. Pleeez, Zeke, pleeez...!

2. Dak

Dac Prescot is the real deal, a next gen G.O.A.T. in the making. He’s been racking up numbers that blow everyone - including TB - out of town. Last year, before he got injured, his stats were off the charts. It was heartbreaking to see him out for the season. Thankfully, he rehabbed like a champ and he’s back. Dak is back!

3. Jerry

As much as I don’t like Jerry Jones, I like Jerry Jones. Or at least, I like his passion for football, his desire to win, and the fact that he has enough money to make it happen. Spend, Jerry, spend!

So as you can see, this is going to be a breakthrough year for the Boys. They will no doubt return to their legendary winning ways, defeating everyone in their path, destroying defenses, pushing back offenses, and giving their long-standing, long-suffering fans a reason to pump their fists in the air and eat more hot wings.

If they don’t stage a comeback, if they continue to sleepwalk through games and lethargically watch other teams spank them, I have another prediction: Jerry will go berserk and lose his mind. And I’ll join him. If they have yet another terrible season, I’ll stage a protest by pulling off my Dak Prescott jersey and tossing it in the trash. Okay, not the trash, but I’ll toss it into my closet. Without folding it! And I will refuse to wear it ever again. Or at least… until the next season rolls around.

Hey, Hey, Hey... National Bad Poetry Day!

Happy National Rat Catcher’s Day! If you are reading this on July 22 (the day I originally posted it) you are probably honoring your local rat catcher by cranking up the barbecue, exchanging gifts, setting off fireworks, and perhaps lifting up a glass of bubbly. Or you could be doing it up big for National Mango Day. Which is also today. Or National Hammock Day. Yep, that’s today too.

If you’re reading this on July 23, you’re busy celebrating Gorgeous Grandmother Day. Or National Vanilla Ice Cream Day. Or maybe both! On the 24th, it is, of course, National Thermal Engineer Day.

In case you haven’t noticed, there is now a day/month for everything, even things that aren’t really things.

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In case you haven’t noticed, there is now a day/month for everything, even things that aren’t really things.

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Google “National Days” and you’ll learn that we’ve got National Chocolate Covered Cherry Day in January, National Lazy Mom Day in September, and National Color the World Orange Day in November. March is National Celery Month, National Umbrella Month, as well as National Cheerleading Safety Month.

Then you’ve got National Lima Bean Respect Day (April 20), National Lost Sock Memorial Day (May 9th), and of course, National Upsy Daisy Day (June 8).

I’m not sure who invented these events, but I suspect they are either required to ride in a carseat or they reside in a locked ward at a state facility.

I’m moderately involved in my company’s social media, which is why I often check these quasi-holidays. I keep an eye out for appropriate days/months for us to post about. Given that we contract with the DoD, we tend to stick with space, military, and defense topics. In other words, we won’t be posting about National Tequila Day on July 24 or National Mahjong Day on August 1. (Idea: Why not combine the two? Tequila would make Mahjong infinitely more fun! Am I right?)

Recently, while perusing lists of these strange, made-up celebrations, I spotted one that resonated with me - Bad Poetry Day. I know! I didn’t realize there was one either. But that’s something I can get behind!

Not to be confused with National Poetry Day (October 7), BAD Poetry Day is a day set aside to both honor and write... (wait for it...) bad poetry. For instance, this is the poem being used to promote Bad Poetry Day:

Roses are gray

Violets are gray

Enjoy some dog rhymes for bad poetry day

Not sure, exactly, what dog rhymes are - maybe a dog was actually responsible for that little ditty? - but you get the idea.

Here’s the thing: I could be the Grand Poobah of Bad Poetry Day. I’m like the Tom Brady - the G.O.A.T. - of terrible verse. I’ve been writing poetry since before LeBron James was born, since before cell phones, since Reagan was in office. Yeah, I’m that freaking old. I have filled reams and reams (and reams) of paper (think electric typewriter era) and an incalculable number of MS Word docs with poetry. And probably 99.999% of it has been not just lackluster or mundane or even pedestrian. It has been AWFUL!

I have no problem admitting that. I don’t write poetry to publish or because I consider myself some kind of modern day William Carlos Williams. Way back in the ‘80s, I started writing at least one poem a day. I think it was probably the influence of The Artist’s Way combined with the popularity of journaling. For whatever reason, I got into the habit of popping out the poems. In keeping with the philosophy of morning pages, the idea was to get something on paper, get the creative juices flowing, the ideas percolating, the mojo mojoing. And it works.

To order Pamela August Russell’s book…

What is truly remarkable about this is NOT that I’ve written enough poems to overburden a landfill over the course of the last several decades. What’s remarkable is that I’ve written a landfill worth of BAD poems. Strangely, and rather sadly, I have never gotten any better. In the case of poetry, practice apparently does not make perfect. Except for the very occasional fluke (“Hey... wait a sec... hold on... that’s not horrible!), my poems have never improved. Yet I have not stopped writing them. Why?

The not getting better part has to do with the fact that, quite obviously, I’m not a poet. Maya Angelou we-R-not. The me not quitting part has to do with simple writing discipline. I think writing poems each day, even if they are odoriferous, helps me with other writing. After wrestling and wrangling with words and phrases in poetic form, even if I lose the battle (which I mostly do), I get warmed up. Then when I start working on a short story, novel, or an article/report for work, I’m loose and don’t worry about pulling a literary hammy. (I need to Google “National Literary Hammy Day” - there’s gotta be one.)

I have actually written a few okay poems and even a couple of okay collections. I wrote several collections about the kids when they were little (rhyming), a few free verse collections that weren’t all bad, and I have even given a couple of poetry readings. But these are by far the exception, not the rule.

See the good poem this bad poem ripped off here.

Bad poetry is in my blood. Disposable poetry. Forgettable poetry. Awkward and clumsy poetry. The kind of poetry you would crumple up and shoot into the trash can if this was old school paper times (thankfully now we have the blessed “delete” key).

So anyway, I’m thinking of contacting the folks who make Bad Poetry Day happen and telling them my story. They might offer me a seat on the board or make me a regional director, in charge of organizing bad poetry street rallies.

With that in mind, and with the rising hope and expectation of soon becoming an official part of the Bad Poetry Day team, I would like to take this opportunity to encourage you to participate in this year’s event. Mark your calendars and on August 17, join me in churning out some dreadful, dull, dry as toast words, lines, and phrases. Make them rhyme, make them not rhyme. Either way, let’s focus our energies on cranking out some cringe-worthy verses.

The organizers of National Bad Poetry Day invite everyone to “give it a go by putting pen to paper and writing some terrible verse.”

I’m up for that challenge. What about you?

Three Dogs, Two Tents, One Jerk

That title accurately summarizes our Fourth of July camping experience. Oh, there were other elements - long hikes up mountains and along trails that followed creeks brimming with waterfalls, spectacular sunrises, rumbling thunderstorms that tested our survival skills, frustrating attempts to ignite kindling followed by crackling campfires (think lighter fluid), rousing games of gin rummy, and great and substantial gobs of natural beauty. But the dogs, the tents, and the jerk definitely shaped our activities, as well as our enthusiastic participation therein. Let me explain.

Starting backwards: the jerk. Though some readers might jump to the conclusion that I am referencing myself or possibly Steve Martin, I am actually talking about a different jerk. Yes, I can definitely be jerky at times (ask my wife), and Steve is obviously famous for being born a poor black child, but this was jerkmanship taken to a new and astonishingly higher level.

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This was jerkmanship taken to a new and astonishingly higher level.

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As you may or may not remember, our Fourth of July camping trip last year got off to an interesting start when, moments after choosing a campsite, a college student wandered out of the woods, handed us a beer, and announced cryptically, “Just to let you know, we’re having a rave tonight.” What followed was an all-night, ear-abusing , headache-inducing, sleep-depriving experience like none other.

To avoid a rerun, we headed in a different direction this year, to what we hoped would be a rave-free zone. After carefully selecting a lovely dispersed camping spot in the San Isabel National Forest, we spent an hour setting up. As we were finishing, the guy who had taken a spot about fifty yards away sauntered over. He’d been watching us erect our tents, canopy, get out the supplies, lug the Yeti around, etc. As he approached, I had two conflicting thoughts: 1. Maybe he’s coming over to greet us and make friends, 2. But he might be coming over to let us know they’re planning a rave.

I was wrong on both accounts.

He was coming over to perform his best impersonation of an individual void of emotional intelligence, social skills, and basic etiquette. And boy, was he convincing! After zero small talk, he began to chastise us for setting up in what he apparently considered his territory. His diatribe went on for some time, growing in intensity and hostility, broken only by our occasional attempts to insert logic and common sense. He continued to escalate, apparently unable to regulate, and, grew very irrate. (Hey, that rhymes!)

To my credit, I refused his provocations. I’ll admit that, at one point in his angry, accusing, and irrational monologue, I did momentarily consider introducing him to my little friend, Mr. Throat Punch. But I kept my cool. I credit this to the fresh air, the clear blue skies, the warm sunshine, and the fact that I didn’t want to spend the Fourth of July weekend in jail for beating the snot out of some redneck loser.

Score one for self-restraint.

Several more of those points were credited to me for ignoring the loud and profane comments he continued making to his wife over the course of the next few hours. Poor woman.

The following morning, clinging to a dream of a better world, a world where people treat each other with kindness and respect, a world free of hatred and bigotry, a world far, far, from jerklandia, a world where I would not be at risk of committing assault and doing time, we went in search of a new campsite.

And eureka (literal meaning: “We found it!”), we found it!

The second spot was very secluded, contained no white trash or garbage of any other variety, and had more room and shade for our tents and dogs.

Which brings me to the tents: plural. Two tents because, if you camp with three dogs, sleeping with them in the same tent is called torture and/or masochism. It also means not sleeping. Bella has a sinus issue and snores like an old man. Nacho is lethally odoriferous (think stink factory). Mari is excessively hairy and loves to share her fur. I’d almost rather go to a rave in the woods than spend the night in close quarters with that trio.

However, getting three dogs to settle down and sleep in an enclosed space in the middle of the wilderness when you are in a separate enclosed space is no easy thing either. They aren’t super happy when you zip them up in their own tent. Success hinges on tiring them out (thus the multiple hikes), making them feel secure, speaking to them in a soft, comforting voice, and - here’s the real trick - sneaking doggie drugs into their Kibbles and Bits.

Go ahead, judge us. But it works!

Here’s how much it works. With the pooches happily sawing logs, they didn’t even hear the mountain lion (night two) or the coyotes (night three). Actually, now that I think about it, that could be a downside to sedation - they might not wake up to defend us from dangerous predators and snooze their way through our demise.

Anyway, as always, our trip was not only fun, but filled with lessons learned. Including: 1. You can dodge a rave and still get sideswiped by a dipstick, 2. Sometimes unexpected encounters with socially awkward, obnoxious individuals can lead to the discovery of better campsites, 3. After you hear a mountain lion growling somewhere in the darkness and the dogs clearly don’t care, it’s tough to go back to sleep, 4. Even with two tents, you can still hear Bella snoring and Nacho ripping them. 5. Whether it’s dogs or people, it’s best just to be nice. Life is too short to be a jerk.

This Movie is the G.O.A.T.!

If you are not a fan of the movie Gladiator, stop reading right here. I’m about to propose, expound upon, drone on and on about, and otherwise blather verbosely about my grand hypothesis that it is the greatest movie ever made. The. Greatest.

Mic drop.

Note to trolls: Please realize three things - 1. This is my opinion, not yours, 2. Feel free to go crazy on why you disagree and what your favorite movies are ON YOUR OWN BLOG, 3. I could be terribly wrong, but since we’re just talking about a movie, not world peace, why not give me some slack and let me be wrong? Especially if it makes me happy. Which it does!

So here’s the thing: despite what I just said above, Gladiator is probably NOT the greatest movie ever made. It might not even rank in the top 10 in terms of scripting, cinematography, acting, directing... I’m willing to admit that.

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To me, Gladiator is the Tom Brady of films - i.e. the G.O.A.T.

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Here’s the other thing (you knew this was coming!): To me, it’s the Tom Brady of films - i.e. the G.O.A.T. Let me explain.

The first time I saw Gladiator, I was nonplussed. I mean, it was okay. Was I not entertained? Yes, I was entertained. But there were plenty of other good films released in 2000: Memento, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Remember the Titans, Unbreakable...

Fast forward almost exactly one decade and Gladiator had evolved into an enduring classic that was having and would continue to have, a major impact on my life. Not because the plot or characters had changed. But because I had changed. As had my life circumstances. That’s code for: divorce.

Post-D, I suddenly found myself identifying with Maximus, the injustices he faced, and the challenges he had to endure in order to survive. I also had a growing desire to ride into battle brandishing a whopping sword, with a loyal wolf-dog at my side. But that’s another story.

My dog, Maximus. He was a brave warrior.

If you have never seen the movie, please send me a selfie of yourself from your home on Mars. That must be where you have been residing for the past 20+ years. If that’s the case, or if it’s been a while since you last watched it, let me offer the following brief synopsis of the ups and downs of (*spoiler alert*) the ENTIRE plot.

Up: Maximus Decimus Meridius (played by Russell Crowe) courageously leads the Roman army to victory against the last remaining hoard of Germanic barbarians.

Up: Emperor Marcus Aurelius chooses Maximus to be the next leader of Rome.

Down: Maximus doesn’t want to lead Rome. He wants to go home to Spain to see his wife and young son.

Down: The Emperor’s evil, nasty, no-good son, Commodus (played with genuinely believable evil, no-good, nastiness by Joaquin “The Joker” Phoenix) wants to be the next leader.

Down: The Emperor tells Commodus, “Nope.”

Down: Commodus says, “Wanna bet?” and murders dear old dad.

Down: Commodus then tries to kill Maximus and has Maximus’ family horrifically executed.

Slight Up: Maximus manages to escape but...

Triple Down: He’s badly injured, reaches his family only to find them dead, and is soon captured by slave traders.

Down Yet Again: Maximus is sold to a guy who trains men to kill each other for sport.

Up: Maximus starts slicing and dicing his opponents in the ring.

Up: Maximus eventually fights Commodus in the Coliseum - killing the evil, nasty, no-good little jerk.

The End

Oh, I forgot to mention the Biggest Down: Before the climactic battle, Commodus stabs Maximus while he’s in chains, to ensure victory. Despite this, Maximus wins. But he then keels over dead.

Now: La vraie fin.

Roll credits.

As you can see, Gladiator is a mostly downer movie. But the main character is a brave warrior who overcomes incredible obstacles in order to die a cruel, unfair death. No, wait. The main character is a hero who has terrible luck and then gets the shaft. No, that’s not really it either. I mean, he loses in the end, but he kinda wins. Sort of.

Screen shot from my phone. Yes, I listen to this at the gym.

Seriously, what I appreciate most about Maximus, his trials and tribulations, can be summarized in two phrases: 1. He always does the right thing, and 2. He never gives up.

Maximus is loyal to Rome, to the true Emperor, to his family. He won’t serve Commodus. Neither will he engage in hanky-panky with the Emperor’s daughter. He also won’t fight just because some ignoramus trainer tells him too.

That’s called integrity.

In the never give up department... Where to even start? You lose your status, job, family, health, and freedom. Yet you keep going? What the heck for???

Maximus answers that question in the opening sequence of the movie. During his pre-battle speech to his elite troops, he shares something with them that turns out to be much more than just pep-talk jargon. It’s his personal code: What we do in life, echoes in eternity.

Boom! Truth!

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Maximus keeps going because he understands that life is about more than just what happens to us. It’s about how we respond to what happens to us.

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Maximus keeps going because he understands that life is about more than just what happens to us. It’s about how we respond to what happens to us. And that response will endure far longer than any disastrous events, tragedies, betrayals, or disappointments.

So you can roll your eyes and dismiss Gladiator as a stereotypical guy movie with too much blood and guts. But I’ve come to realize that blood and guts (i.e. warfare) is part of the journey. And doing the right thing while refusing to give up is crucial to achieving victory in the battles.

What we do in life, echoes in eternity.

If we can keep that eternal perspective, we won’t lose hope or be tempted to hang it up. That’s why Gladiator is a big deal to me and also why those words have become something of a mantra. In fact, what I should do is get that on a poster and hang it in my office. Or maybe get a sticker and put it on my truck. Oh, wait...!  I’ve got it: A tattoo! Yes!! That would be awesome!!!

Now, go watch Gladiator again. And don’t be surprised if it motivates you to get out there and start echoing all up and down eternity. It might even inspire you to head to your local tat parlor and get some fresh ink.

The Waste Land (aka Our Backyard)

Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road

Upon re-reading T.S. Eliot’s epic The Waste Land recently, it became quite obvious that he was describing, in 434 sometimes bewildering, sometimes perplexing, and occasionally bizarre lines of poetry, our backyard. In fact, some sections are so spot on that I kinda feel like he owes us a royalty. Or at least a cut of the proceeds.

The problem is, Eliot wrote his poem WAY before we procured our home. Way, as in 95 years before. Also, he is quite dead and has been since 1965. Still, his words fit out backyard to a T.

The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

Ok, numero dos: Not everything is a perfect match. I mean, our backyard isn’t just terrible in April. Also, as far as we know, none of our neighbors are named Madame Sosostris or have a side gig as a clairvoyante. And I’ve never noticed any “bats with baby faces in the violet light.” (Yes, Eliot may well have been smoking something at the time.)

Still, some of it is pretty darn close. It’s like he stood back there, took in the sheer bleh of it all, and penned this monster. Take this line for instance, “I think we are in rats’ alley, when the dead men lost their bones.” Wow! The similarities are eerie!

The crazy thing is that our backyard wasn’t always a rats’ alley. And I’m almost positive it wasn’t a dead zone for zombies. Until we moved in. That’s when it all started.

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

We bought this house during what is affectionately referred to as the FUBAR period of Colorado real estate. FUBAR, for the uninitiated, is an acronym that stands for Fully Unreliable Bulletins About Ridiculousness. Bulletins as in listings. The ridiculousness in question was the housing market. Homes were put up for sale and purchased in a matter of hours, routinely going for well above asking price.

In our case, we had already seen, liked, and, unsuccessfully put bids on three or four houses. In our naivete, we had, in every cases, paused to give thought to the purchase, considered what we could afford, and made offers we thought were fair. Yeah, pretty hilarious! So when this particular house came along, while I hadn’t seen it and it was in a quasi-ghetto area and was more than likely overpriced, we immediately made an offer that would put hair on the sellers’ respective chests. And boom! We magically became homeowners.

The yards that came with this house - both front and back - had been, in an effort to attract buyers, coached and cultivated to pristine condition. And the ploy obviously worked. The lawns were the greenest of green. The grass was thick and growing. The trees and bushes were equal parts vibrant and verdant. Birds and other small animals frolicked about as if it was their fairyland playground. The yards - both front and back - were alive with the sound of music.

We quickly took care of that. Not by choice. By dog. Or rather dogs, plural.

If there were the sound of water only

Not the cicada

In our first year of residence, we owned one dog and while she was not in any way kind to the backyard, she did not scorch and burn it. Neither did she shock and awe it, or in any other way declare war, causing it to shrivel and revert to Sahara Desert status.

In our second year, we adopted a majorly fat dog. Actually, we fostered him, helped him slim down, win the Biggest Loser: Dog Edition, and then, having invested so much time, activity, and TLC, we adopted him.

Two dogs, one lawn. The grass was outnumbered, but it persevered.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting

Around year three, dog three showed up. And that was the beginning of the end. The yard gave up the ghost. We then, being eternal optimists, spent the following summer reseeding and reviving and re-envisioning our field of dreams. After approximately 1.7 bizillion gallons of water and many pounds of fertilizer, the grass was gloriously resurrected. For a couple of months. Then... the Dust Bowl descended.

This year, rather than spend more money and time begging the grass to grow and calling the yard out from the grave (it definitely doesn’t respond to the name “Lazarus”), we chose a different and decidedly more back-strain intensive path: a patio extension.

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

Here’s the thing about pouring concrete: Ugh! If you like hauling 80 pound sacks from Lowe’s to your backyard, getting gray (probably toxic) dust all over your skin and in every possible orifice, then you would love this. Otherwise, not so much. 

There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home

It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one

In our case, though the extension was modest - just 5 x 10 feet - it required 28 of those lovely 80 pounders. After the framing and prepping and pounding and renting of equipment, we spent about 3 hours madly dumping concrete, pushing concrete around, and smoothing concrete. When the project was completed, after a week or so of trying to remove the concrete leftovers from our bodies, we relaxed and began to enjoy our new patio: a larger space for our table, an oasis where we can sit and leisurely gaze out upon the waste land that is our backyard.

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Yeah, you’re right. Eliot’s poem doesn’t really match our backyard. We have zero grass. And even when we did, it definitely wasn’t singing in the moonlight. So - never mind.

May Art Report (Working Title)

So, May... Yeah. It’s the best. And here’s why: longer days, warmer weather, flowers poking their lovely heads out of the soil, and... snow. Oh, and hail. Hail the size of nuclear grapes. Hail that blisters your truck hood and your Jeep hood because you can’t fit them in your garage for all the camping gear.

That’s the other thing about May: camping. In anticipation of better weather and the opportunity to get into the great outdoors, and with wads of hoarded PTO in hand, we planned a momentous trip to Utah at the end of May, to trek, hike, march, and otherwise traipse through the majestic environs known as Bryce Canyon and Zion.

And we did so. In between nights that dipped into the 30s (Yikes!), we did Fairyland Loop, the Emerald Pools, and the Narrows in temps that leapt into the upper 90s. (We drove back to our campsite one afternoon with the thermometer reading 102 F).

Utah, like May: The. Best. (Well, except for maybe Colorado, Hawaii, Mexico…)

So, art… I’ve been making some and since I usually post something on Facebook offering an sampling of work completed in the past month and, this time, blew that off because, as we quickly learned, there is ZERO (nada, zilch) internet or phone service in the Bryce/Zion dead zone of Utah, I decided to spend an entire blog explaining it. By explaining, I mean, giving a little background info on each piece.

In other words, this should be short. Because, besides May and Utah, here’s the other thing: I don’t think a lot when I make art. That’s the point! It’s an opportunity to take a break from cerebral activities, relax, and enjoy the (sometimes) wonderful marriage of colors, shapes, and composition as they (sometimes) mysteriously merge into a thing of beauty. Not a lot of deep contemplation went into any of these pieces. But they were (mostly) satisfying to create. (See my formal artist’s statement for more.)

Note: A not very fun part of art is naming pieces. Maybe some artists like doing that. I dread it and tend to think of it as a form of torture. Unless something immediately or obviously presents itself, I have to make titles up. And those titles are usually dull as toast. (My wife says that, as a writer, I should be good at it. I’m not.)

Let’s start with the acrylics - my thorn in the side. I really (REALLY) want to be good, or even just better, at acrylics. But that is not yet the case. In the acrylics below, my goal, as always, was a mashup of James Hoyle, Ed Sandoval, and good ole Vincent. Also, not to suck.

I call this one “Tree with Mountain.” Or maybe: “Mountain with Tree.” It could also be “I Wanted It To Be More Orange But Then It Went Sideways.” I haven’t landed on the title yet. What motivated this particular piece was a desire to paint something that wasn’t terrible. The jury is still out.

Next: “Tree with Mountain and House.” Or “That Place Over There.” Or “It Came Out Ok.” I actually kinda like this one.

This piece was based on a photo we took on a hike at Mt. Hermon. I’m leaning toward “Three Trees and a Mountain.” Or “The Photo Was Better.” Or “I Like the Trees But the Clouds are Sketchy.” IMO, the sky is a trainwreck.

Now the transition to something I’m much more comfortable with: pastels! Woohoo! Yes, they are a pain in the backside. But I LOVE them! So this one is three palm trees on the beach in Hawaii. I’m pretty certain I’ll be calling it: “Three Palm Trees on the Beach in Hawaii.” But that could change. I’ll let you know. Wish I was there.

Oh, a forgotten acrylic! It started with a palate knife and a thickening solution that made it look 3D. It was interesting. I hated it. So then I painted over it. And then I hated it more. So I painted over it again and... Now I’m definitely feeling it is a visual representation of meh. Working title: Pikes Peak Viewed Through Garden of the Gods and... Yeah... Meh.”

Back to the pastels. Interior apartment with flowers, coffee mug, view of the city. It was motivated by my love for interiors, flowers, coffee mugs, and views of the city. Bet you can guess what I’m thinking of calling it (long title). I like the colors.

‘Nuther pastel. Woot! Interior, coffee mug, cool pic on the wall, open book, guitar, fav colors. Thinking of calling it: “Woot!”

A quickie landscape of a hoodoo cliffside I did in Utah. Title ideas include: “Utah Landscape,” “Hoodoo Voodoo,” or perhaps “Utah Cliffside Quickie.” Something like that.

Last pastel (there are others, but this is getting kinda long...). Evening in the city. Hey, that would actually be an okay title. Except I think I’ve used that title about 10 or 15 times. Because I like interiors with views of the city in the evening. Why? Probably because of the colors of the sunset, the shapes of furniture, and the fact that I can’t really draw people. Empty rooms are my forte!

And that is the May art report. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to sign off. Jeopardy is coming on and while I might not ever make it past the intro test, win a boatload of moolah, and retire to do art full-time, the dream has yet to die.

“What is The Mariana Trench?” Boom! Nailed it!

Unmasking the Truth About Masklessness

Last Sunday morning, my wife, Fran and I had a life-altering experience. Well, maybe not life-altering. Let’s call it significant. Or, maybe tone that down slightly and go with “different in a good way.” Yeah. Different by about 7 x 5 inches.

I’m referring to an event that hasn’t occurred in over a year, something we’ve dreamed of, wished for, and, at times, thought we might not ever get to do again. No, it has nothing to do with binge watching This is Us. I’m talking about going to the gym without wearing masks!

I’m not kidding. We waltzed right in with our faces COMPLETELY exposed feeling a little uncomfortable and a lot naked!

Note to Trolls: While I will be discussing the highly controversial subject of masks, please be advised before you start your heckling: I don’t care. If you think we should all wear masks from now until kingdom come, good for you! If you are convinced that masks are a totalitarian crock of crap, great! Have fun with that!

Lest you report us to A. Fauci and Company, be assured that we are fully vaccinated, thus have been given the green light by the infamous CDC to engage in the formerly high risk behavior of exercising without facial coverings.

Second Note to Trolls: Yeah, I know. I said the dreaded “v” word and am now going to hell in a handbasket. Get over it.

My point here is NOT to debate the mask issue (or grapple over vaccines). My point is this: at long last, the powers that rule this great nation of ours, in their inestimable wisdom, have decided that, if you done got yer shots, you don’t have to double wrap your face all the live long day. To which my response is an unapologetic and full-blown: Woohoo!

Whether or not masks are effective in keeping airborne nasties from infiltrating our bodies, they were, for a long (l-o-n-g) time the “do-this-or-else” of the land. As such, I wore one to the gym, to the store, to the... Wait, that’s it. I never went anywhere else. But I obediently complied because that’s my jam. (Here’s the peanut butter that goes with it to make my brand of sandwich). I also wear a seatbelt in the car. I wear a helmet when I go mountain biking and skiing. I wear shoes and a shirt when the sign says I won’t get service if I don’t. And I never wear pajamas in Walmart. That’s just how I roll.

So back to masks - what I’ve realized during these past few days of facial freedom is this: while they are mostly an annoying pain in the you-know-what, masks also have their upside. Especially in the gym. Let me explain.

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While they are mostly an annoying pain in the you-know-what, masks also have their upside.

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Sure, they make it hard to breathe, which happens to be rather important if your goal is staying alive. So in the gym, wearing a mask seems to put you at a disadvantage - i.e. you sometimes feel like you’re about to pass out. However, professional and Olympic athletes routinely wear devices that purposefully limit their oxygen intake in order to strengthen their lungs and hearts for competition. These sophisticated training masks enhance endurance by replicating high-altitude conditions. They can be pricey and they look like something Hannibal Lector would wear. My Crunch Fitness Rona mask, on the other hand, accomplishes the same basic function, limiting airflow. It is much less Silence of the Lambs-ish and only set me back $3. What a bargain, right?

In addition to making me a better athlete (if I can keep from suffocating and keeling over), wearing a mask also offers a unique sense of privacy and anonymity. When I walk into the gym in a hoodie, a baseball cap, gloves, earbuds, and a mask, I’m both unrecognizable and cozily sequestered in my own little workout world. If I drop a weight on my foot or get trapped under a bar, I’m just some run-of-the-mill dweeb - NOT an easily identifiable dweeb. And, on the way home, if I have the time, I can knock off a convenience store or throw down with a passing gang without the fear of getting fingered in a lineup. It’s a win-win!

Then there’s the whole music thing. If you’re not wearing a mask and you sing along to whatever is playing in your earbuds, you are labeled a wackadoo. I know this because a guy at our old, pre-pandemic gym did that all the time. We nicknamed him “Country” because he was always belting out off-key lyrics to songs by Tim McGraw, Kenny Chesney, et al. With a mask, no one is quite sure who’s responsible for the terrible, a cappella cover of Boot Scootin’ Boogie.

Masks also allow us to make fashion statements. They let us express our personality in an unmistakable way. For instance, while I don’t have a Vincent Van Gogh hat, I do have a Vincent Van Gogh mask. I don’t own a jalapeño pepper t-shirt, but I’ve got a jalapeño pepper mask. No American flag/skull hoodie but... yep, got the mask. I own colorful abstracts, jean-style, even dress masks (for those formal occasions). And while people might miss your “I Brake For Armadillos” socks, they’ll be sure to see that slogan if it’s plastered across your face.

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They were an inconvenience that became a habit that evolved into a lifestyle. It will take a little while to get used to going mask-free.

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Given all of the bennies surrounding masks, you can understand why I’m a tiny bit sad to see them go. They were an inconvenience that became a habit that evolved into a lifestyle. It will take a little while to get used to going mask-free. (I might even put one on, now and then, just to reminisce about the good ol’ COVID days.) But I’m definitely not throwing any of them out. No, sir. I’ll wash them, fold them, and place them neatly in a dresser drawer so they will be readily available for the next pandemic. Date of arrival: TBD.

Of Trolls and Men

“In every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and nearly always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other.” - John Steinbeck

People... You gotta love ‘em, right? Actually, you don’t have to. In fact, at times it can be downright challenging to put up with their crazy shenanigans.

Take trolls for instance. No, not the humongous, slobbering, stinky creatures from Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. I’m talking about human trolls - those lovely individuals who enjoy stalking the internet, seeking opportunities to belittle, bully, and otherwise fire decidedly belligerent, drive-by rants at anyone they disagree with, while cleverly remaining anonymous and effectively avoiding retribution.

Maybe some human trolls are humongous, slobbering, stinky creatures. That would actually explain a lot. But I think most are a product of the collision of human nature and social media - that weird, wild, and wonderful world where you can share your entrée selection at dinner, post a beautiful sunset, make your political/religious views known, and/or insult a perfect stranger without risking a punch in the nose. People (yeah, those same people that you gotta love) do some bizarre things online. And many - or at least, the troll crowd - seem to relish insults and arguments.

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“Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.” - John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

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Try reading the comments on YouTube. I find it highly entertaining, especially on music video posts, because there tends to be a pattern. I call it the seven degrees of degradation. Often, within the first seven comments, someone tosses out a verbal grenade. No matter how the conversation starts, it always seems to go downhill fast:

Comment 1: Great song!

Comment 2: The best!

Comment 3: This is a cover. They didn’t write this song.

Comment 4: It’s a cover, but it’s better than the original.

Comment 5: This bites! The original is iconic.

Comment 6: I hate this song. It sucks!

Comment 7: You suck!

And after that, the gloves come off and it gets nasty. It doesn’t matter what song it is - Somewhere Over the Rainbow or Voodoo Chile - one person is convinced it’s the gold standard and another thinks it is total doot. Others soon enter the fray, ganging up and piling on until it’s the internet version of a barroom brawl.

People... Do we really gotta love ‘em?

What brought this subject to mind were several comments I received in response to my last blog entry. As you may remember (or not), it used the COVID vaccine as an excuse for talking about the process of writing - specifically how difficult it can sometimes be. I jokingly mentioned being turned into a zombie after my second Moderna shot (I did have one limb fall off the other day, but I’ll save that story for another blog). However, what we (“we” being “I”) have to remember is that trolls DO NOT have a sense of humor. That particular trait has either been physically driven from their souls by a hard knock life, or they were, quite possibly, born without one. Either way, they do not appreciate comedy, kidding, sarcasm, or lighthearted banter of any variety. It actually seems to tick them off.

As an example, I present Exhibit A:

You’ll notice that this comment evidences classic trollsmanship and style. For starters, it’s written in all caps. As every creature under the sun knows (except maybe a sheep or a lemming), all caps is a form of online shouting. Two question marks and three exclamation marks follow. This troll was clearly torked from the get go. I use sheep and lemming as examples of dumb animals because, as you can see, that was the troll’s opening salvo. Whether or not this person actually read the blog, they decided to inquire as to my species.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy about this. I mean, really? A sheep or a lemming? That’s it? Those are my only choices? What about a weasel or a wildebeest? What about a grizzly or a gazelle? I get that sheep and lemming are easily led and/or jump off cliffs with the masses, but come on! What if, in reality, I’m a buffalo or a bison (which are basically the same thing, right?)? What then?

Next, the troll takes the time to clearly and eloquently communicate the extensive research that informs his/her trollish perspective on all things COVID. While I’m inclined to agree that elements of the pandemic have been and continue to be totally bogus and totally stupid, I have a couple of problems with this statement. First, why use “totally” twice? Try some variety. Spice things up. Say “completely” or “entirely” or “utterly.” Second, in my estimation, the world is, on any given day, overflowing with totally bogus and totally stupid activity. Always has been, always will be. Because it’s chock full of... (altogether now...) PEOPLE. You gotta love ‘em!

I’m also a little confused by the final punctuation: eight (count ‘em) exclamation marks, combined with one number symbol and three laughing emojis. There must be a clandestine message in there somewhere. Something more than just a reference to Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

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“A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody. ...I tell ya, I tell ya, a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick.” - John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

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Here’s the thing: trolls have it tough. It’s clear from their posts that they’re upset, feel threatened, and don’t get much TLC. They’re lonely and want someone to listen to them. Like every other person on the planet, they’re seeking to be understood.

So, Mr./Ms. Troll, if you are reading this, my advice for you and every other out-of-conTroll (see what I did there?) is as follows:

• Take a break from the internet

• Phone a friend

• Pet a dog

• Download a meditation app

• Drink some chamomile tea

• Read a good book

• Learn origami, juggling, or woodworking... (maybe all three at the same time - which would qualify you for America’s Got Talent!)

And if you absolutely must go online, do it with purpose. Instead of trolling around, seeking whom you may devour, go to Amazon and order yourself a sense of humor. Get the industrial size. If you’ve got Prime, it’ll be here by tomorrow!

Moderna-Moderna, We Gonna Turn Ya (Into a Z...)

I had this absolutely amazing, completely ingenious idea for a blog that was going to not only cause you, the kind reader, to blink repeatedly and with great vigor, shading your eyes from its brilliance and profundity (bonus points for word usage, por favor), but would immediately explode into an internet sensation, go uber-viral, rocket around the planet like a halo orbiting St. Peter’s blessed noggin’ and (here’s the part) eventually haul in a Pulitzer, a Nobel, a Grammy, an Oscar, and the Powerball jackpot (with play).

No kidding. It was that good: solid gold. Take it to the bank. Bingo! Bango! Boom! Mic drop.

But (and this is a big, fat but in the road) something terrible happened en route to sharing this idea with the world. Before I could get this stupendous, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (word points?) concept on paper, I received the second dose of the Moderna vaccine. (Motto: “Moderna-Moderna, when you gonna learn-a?”)

Instantly and without warning, every worthwhile thought, and most of the crappy ones, vanished from my head. It was as if my brain was erased. Whoosh! Just like that. Blank slate.

So please be forewarned. If you have yet to let someone impale you with a long, sharp instrument and inject a not-really-tested-that-much concoction into your body, you might want to stop right now and consider the consequences. I’m living proof that there’s a good possibility (say 99.9%) that if you get that shot, you will NOT have your next great idea turned into a New York Times bestseller OR a Hollywood blockbuster movie. It just won’t happen.

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I’m living proof that if you get that shot, you will NOT have your next great idea turned into a New York Times bestseller OR a Hollywood blockbuster.

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Makes you think, right?

I wish all of the above was true. I wish I could blame my vacuous brain cavity and desperate drought of creativity on Moderna. (Alternate motto: “Moderna-Moderna, it’s really hard to rhyme stuff with Moderna.”) For that matter it would be very convenient and rather pleasing to blame my lack of interest/passion/productivity in recent months on mask requirements, social distancing, and insidious viruses in general. I’d go so far as to throw in political unrest, racial tension, and plagues of locusts in Africa. The problem is, with or without those distressing events/malevolent microscopic creatures/social trainwrecks/destructive insects, my output and mood have been, in technical, scientific terms: meh.

See, here’s the thing: sometimes writing is hard. At least, it is for me. It takes effort. You have to generate ideas, consider them long enough to do something with them, develop them, play around with them, turn them upside down, drop them on the floor, find a broom, clean up the mess, and be okay if that “great idea” winds up dying a slow, cruel death. Then you have to summon the hutzpah to go on to the next thing. Ad infinitum.

It’s kind of addictive, but not always that fun.

Hemingway once said: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed. 

Replace typewriter with laptop and replace bleed with bitch, moan, complain, and whimper, and that’s pretty much what I do all day, every day. For a living - with a great company that actually pays me to bitch, moan, complain, and whimper - and as a life-long side gig, ever hopeful that one of my bitchy, moany, complainy, whimpery efforts will assail the wall like an American Ninja Warrior, escape into the wild, and proliferate, returning one fateful day with great bounty, acclaim, and, of course, a dumptruck overloaded with Benjamins.

In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield put it this way: There’s a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don’t, and the secret is this: It’s not the writing part that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write.

Take my latest, still-in-the-works novel for instance. I’ve been wrestling with it for a respectable period of time. Which is writer-speak for: this freaking thing is taking forever! We are not friends. We’re like two MMA opponents - we touched gloves before the bell, and now we’re trying to knock each other’s block off. But I am not going to tap out!

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There’s a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don’t, and the secret is this: It’s not the writing part that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write. - Steven Pressfield

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I intentionally, and sometimes painfully, sit down and spend time every day working on it. Not always a long time, but time. That way I stay connected to it. I am not letting it get away. Because, to be honest, I actually like it a lot. It’s just frustrating because it’s progressing slowly. But that’s okay. I plan to keep at it until that last page is fini and I’ve hit command/“s” and also dumped a copy in my Dropbox, just in case Mr. Gates’ stupid, poorly designed MS Word program crashes - again.

Of course, once the second dose of the vaccine fully kicks in (8 days from now), my mental powers will probably be toast. So I have a Plan B. I’ve already decided that when/if, as is widely reported in so many reputable medical journals, the Moderna (sub-alternate motto: “Moderna-Moderna, now you be the walking dead”) turns me into a cockeyed, one-legged, rapidly decaying monster, I will keep a diary. I’m thinking book deal with Random House and movie option with M. Night Shyamalan. Hey, even zombies can dream!

Caution: Short Story Ahead

This is a bit risky - publishing a short story in place of a traditional blog. But as one of my mentors often encouraged: Take chances, make mistakes, get messy. This story might be the hat-trick she was referring to. The trifecta of artistic blundering.

First, a couple of warnings.

One, if you don’t like shorts stories, stop reading right here. (No, don’t read anymore -stop! Really, don’t read this! You’re reading! Stop it!)

Second, while this is fiction, it falls into the category of fiction-barely. Or narrowly-not-non-fiction. It is closely (not loosely) based on reality - a recent true experience that was both strange and (obviously, imo) worth writing about.

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Take chances, make mistakes, get messy! - Ms. Frizzle, Magic School Bus

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Third, most of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Hemingway remains Hemingway. As a tough guy (and a dead guy), he probably won’t mind.

Without further ado (and with the short story haters no longer reading this... right?), here is:

No Cat, No Rain

            Someone knocked on the door.

            He read the sentence again: Someone knocked on the door.

            Then he read the one that followed: “Avanti,” George said, before looking up from his book.

            And then he looked up from the book, smiling at the timing. Of course, he wasn’t George, wasn’t in Italy, wasn’t lying on the bed in a hotel room. It wasn’t raining. And no one had knocked on the door. He was in an empty doctor’s office waiting room. Still, he was looking up from his book... Funny coincidence.

            There was really nothing to look up at: two female receptionists hunched behind their computer screens, safely sequestered behind clear sheets of Plexiglas, and a small fleet of vacant, faux leather seats. A woman had been seated near the doorway when they arrived, but she had been whisked away by a nurse before his wife could even check in.

            They were there for her - his wife. A week earlier, while skiing in the Sawatch Mountains, she had strained her knee, reaggravating a decades-old injury. It had grown worse and worse until, last night, with tears in her eyes, she complained of terrific pain.

            Imagining the crowd that would be awaiting treatment at the urgent care on a Saturday morning, he had, most brilliantly, thought to bring a book: Ernest Hemingway - The Short Stories. He had read it before, but enjoyed it immensely - enough for a reread. It was a special copy: a fine paperback with a photo of Hemingway on the cover, along with a medallion that said, “The Hemingway Century” and a Staff Pick sticker signed by Cary, Lisa, and Sheryl. These were presumably employees who had worked at the now defunct bookstore in Breckenridge where, approximately two decades earlier, he had purchased it for $15. (The price was listed on the back.)

            He surveyed the deserted waiting area again, out of habit, then glanced at the hidden receptionists before returning to his book:

            In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big...

            That was as far as he got before he heard the door swing open. He turned his head in time to see a man and a woman enter. The man was perhaps 70, with gray hair, dressed in a sloppy sweater and beige slacks, wearing a baseball cap with an Izod logo - an alligator with its mouth open wide. The woman, who was much younger - his daughter? - was clutching the man’s elbow as though he might, at any moment, tip over and fall. The man teetered forward, toward the reception desk. The woman assisted him with great care, saying, “Easy. Go slow. Easy...” She had a look of intense concern on her face.

            When they finally reached the receptionists, a voice from behind the Plexiglas asked: “How can we help you today?”

            “My ear,” the man said, reaching up to cover his right ear with his hand.

            When he failed to elaborate, the receptionist asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

            The man, still cupping his ear, looked to his female companion, weary blue eyes blinking curiously.

            “She’s asking about your ear, Dad.”

            (Ah-ha! Daughter!)

            The man nodded. “My ear.”

            “He has ringing in his ear,” the young woman clarified.

            “The right ear?”

            The man looked to his daughter. She nodded slowly. “Yes. The right ear.”

             Computer keys clicked, then, “Are you currently a patient here?”

            This confused the man and he shrugged. “It’s... It’s my ear.”

            “No, he’s not a patient. We haven’t been here before,” the young woman answered.

            “I just flew in last night,” the man told the receptionist with great urgency. “That’s when it started. It’s a terrible ringing!”

            After more clicking, the receptionist asked, “Name?” When the man didn’t answer, she asked in a lower, conspiratorial voice, “What’s his name?”

            “David. David Beckham.” She then spelled the last name.

            “Like the soccer player?” the receptionist asked.

            “Yes. Like the soccer player.”

            The receptionist clicked away at her keyboard. Then, “ID and insurance card?”

            “Dad...? Dad...? She needs your ID and insurance card?”

            “My what?”

            “Here...” She carefully aimed the man at the nearest chair, helped him sit down, then said, “Give me this,” and took hold of the leather satchel he was clutching. When he refused to release his grip, she added, gently and patiently, as though talking to a child, “Please give it to me.”

            After a brief struggle, he finally allowed her to take it and she returned to the reception desk. She rifled the contents, then passed across the cards.

            The receptionist thanked her, took the cards and quickly made copies. She then handed them back. “We’ll be with you shortly.”

            The woman took a seat next to her father. When she gave the satchel back to him, he said, “What’s this?” 

            “She thought you were David Beckham, the soccer player,” the young woman chuckled.

            “What??”

            “Never mind.”

            Returning his attention to his book, he decided to back up. His eyes ran up the page, searching for the appropriate spot to start, a place to recapture the feel and flow of the story Hemingway was trying to tell. It was the least he could do. Here Hemingway was knocking himself out with this story, and he wasn’t giving it his full attention. He was busy watching old men who weren’t famous soccer players.

            He finally settled on this:

      “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.

      George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s.

            He liked that description. He could see George looking up from his book, studying the back of her neck. Why was her hair clipped like a boy’s?

            “I like it that way.”

            Before he could fully grasp the reality that she got “so tired of it” that way - short and clipped like a boy’s - a nurse emerged from a door hidden in the wall and called, “David. David Beckham?”           

            The man turned his head and looked at his daughter, as if asking if that was his name. He had a slightly panicked look on his face.

            The woman nodded, rose, and assisted him to a standing position.

            “Where are we going?” the man wanted to know. His eyes were wild now.

            “How are we today?” the nurse greeted cheerily, smiling as she herded them through the door.

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Here Hemingway was knocking himself out with this story, and he wasn’t giving it his full attention. He was busy watching old men who weren’t famous soccer players.

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           He shifted in his seat, consulted his watch, considered looking at his phone. No. That would be a mistake, a long, wasteful trip down the rabbit hole. He had spent the last two weeks - ever since that dreadful business in the capital - abstaining from his phone as much as possible. The news, Facebook, Instagram, even Pinterest seemed to be even more crammed with silly and incendiary opinions, rumors, and lies than usual. He had, in a fit of anger and frustration, vowed not to engage in any of that. The break, though difficult to maintain, had been quite refreshing. And he had been getting a lot more reading done.

            He had managed to finish Camus’ all-too-timely The Plague, finished McPhearson’s Hue and Cry, restarted Atlas Shrugged (given up last summer at about the halfway point - 500 or so pages deep), and made great progress with Hemingway’s short stories.

            Leaving his phone in his pocket, he began reading again:

      “I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”

      George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak.

      “You look pretty darn nice,” he said.

            Good save, George. Or rather, nice try. Because he knew what was coming. She was going to complain about her hair and her clothes and not getting to eat a fancy meal and... the kicker: wanting a cat.

            Poor George. Like most men, he was in far over his head, up against a force and a situation and a human being that he did not understand and could not possibly deal with. He could empathize with George’s predicament. He really could. This woman, like his own wife, wasn’t having it.

            She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the...

            The door opened again. Another man and woman. This man looked to be fifty-something, slightly overweight, wearing a gray sweater vest, jeans, and boots. No hat. His bald head gleamed under the florescent lighting. The woman looked to be his wife - similar age, a little frumpy, dull hair, an oversized pants suit without structure.  

            He watched them make their approach and then wait for the receptionist to notice them.

            “How can we help you today?”

            The man reached his hand up to his right ear. “I’ve got ringing in my ear.”

            He couldn’t see the receptionist’s face, but imagined her adopting a look of either supreme curiosity or perhaps vague skepticism. He heard her repeat the complaint in the form of a question: “You’ve got ringing in your ear?”

            The man nodded.

            “Your right ear?”

            Another nod.

            Silence.

            The woman added, “He’s had it since last night.”

            He leaned forward slightly, expectant, thinking, Don’t tell me this guy was on a plane too... Don’t tell me that.

            Apparently this occurred to the receptionist as well. “Have you been traveling?” she asked.

            The man shook his head.

            He leaned back. Strange. But imagine if the guy had just been on a plane... It would be like a bizarre outbreak of aircraft-related ear ringing.

            “Name?”

            “David...”

            The man said the last name, but it was muffled. He couldn’t quite make it out. Of course not Beckham. Yet it had sounded almost like it could have been something close.

            The couple went through the check-in process - providing ID and an insurance card, paying the copay - then sat down in the same exact seats that had just been occupied by the last people.

            He tried to return to Hemingway but found it impossible to concentrate. What were the chances of two Davids coming in, back to back, for ear ringing? And both in the right ear? This was Twilight Zone material. 

            A nurse - a different one this time - appeared, called for David Burnham, and escorted the couple into the back.

            Burnham... he thought. That was pretty similar to Beckham.

            Weird.

            He glanced at the Plexiglas where he could hear the receptionists talking.

            “...Two in row. What are the odds of that?” one said.

            “Right?”

            “I mean, we get some strange things in here, but...”

            “Speaking of strange things, did I finish telling you about that new gym that opened right across from Lifetime?”

            “Right across...? Like... across the street?”

            He returned his attention to his book:

            She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.

---

He continued reading, picking up speed, his eyes moving easily and happily downhill.

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            He continued reading, picking up speed, his eyes moving easily and happily downhill. He was anxious to finish the story before his wife was done and ready to leave. He could feel the end coming, feel himself racing for that finish line. He had just reached Someone knocked on the door and George had told them to come in again and George was looking up from his book again when he heard something and he too looked up from his book. No longer amused at the coincidence, now slightly perturbed by the interruption, he saw another nurse emerge from the hidden door.

            “David...?” she called, looking directly at him. “David?”

            He looked back at her, shaking his head.

            The nurse’s eyes darted around the vacant room, brows raised. “David...?” She then looked back at him. “Are you sure you’re not David?”

            He nodded. “I’m sure.”

            Frowning, the nurse went to the reception area and interrupted the receptionists, who were now engaged in a friendly debate involving Zumba and Pilates.

            “David...?” the nurse asked them.

            Silence.

            The nurse consulted her clipboard. “David...?”

            “He went back,” one of the receptionists said.

            “David... B.?”

            They laughed. “There were two David Bs - Beckham and Burnham.”

            The nurse examined her paperwork. “Ringing in the right ear...”

            More laughter. “Both.”

            The  nurse just stood there for a second. Then she shook her head. “Hmph.” Another head shake and she went back through the door.

            He returned to his book, his eyes searching to find his place on the page.

            “Have you tried intermittent fasting?” one of the receptionists asked.

            “You know, I’ve tried it, but...”

            “It takes time to get used to it. At first, it feels like you’re going to die.”

            “Yeah. I never made it past that part. But I really do need some kind of diet.”

            “You should give it another shot.”

            As the receptionist began to list the benefits of intermittent fasting, he found it:

            Someone knocked on the door.

Paging (Not Stalking) James Hoyle

I’m not stalking James Hoyle. Okay, so I’ve written to him several times (snail and electronic), attempted to contact him through his website, tried to contact him via Facebook and by way of his gallery. Once I even visited his studio with the intention of meeting him (he wasn’t there). But it’s not stalking.

Sure, I’m crazy about his art. I’ve snatched it off the internet and it occupies its own folder on my computer. (If you’re wondering, his photo did make my office wall of fame.) And yeah, I’ve tried for years to replicate his style. But stalking...? He’s never answered my communiques. So I’m assuming he’s not annoyed by the attention. I’m mean, I haven’t received a restraining order. Yet.

Not stalking.

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There are a handful of artists whose creations I’m enthralled by and who have inspired my own art. James Hoyle is one of them.

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I would describe my enthusiastic appreciation for his talent and work as just that: enthusiastic appreciation. There are a handful of artists whose creations I’m enthralled by and who have inspired my own art. He’s one of them. Just behind Van Gogh, a rung or two above Pollock, on par with Matisse, Monet, Sandoval...

You don’t have to know Hoyle’s story to admire his landscapes. But it does make them that much more intriguing. Born in Nashville in 1947, he studied art in high school. After graduating, he attended the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, earning a bachelor’s in Fine Art before moving to New Orleans. He made his first trip to Hawaii in 1977 and quickly fell in love with Kauai.

My Hoyle knock-off

Coincidentally, Kauai also had that effect on me. I’ve had the opportunity to visit several times and, given the proper funding (i.e. winning Powerball with play), would move there this afternoon. If you’ve never been, imagine a tropical paradise filled with stunning waterfalls, lush rainforests (the second wettest spot in the world is on Kauai), and incredible beaches, surrounded by an ocean that offers great boogie boarding, surfing, and snorkeling, and where rows and rows of palm trees sway in the gentle trade winds... Oh, and there are a bazillion roosters wandering around, crowing at all hours. But that’s not the point. The point is: Kauai is as close as you can get to Heaven on Earth (with the exception of the roosters).

My introduction to Hoyle came on a trip to the Garden Island back in the ‘90s. There was a visitor’s guide in our condo that had a stunning painting on the cover: an old sugar cane plantation, backed by the ocean. There was a wild sea of flowers in the foreground, along with four palms and a blazing yellow tree being whipped by the wind. The sky was sizzling with purple, blue, and yellow projectiles. It was incredible! I was immediately hooked. I wanted to know more about this James Hoyle guy.

When I finally saw more of his work, I had the same reaction: Wow! A few weeks later, I found myself sitting at our kitchen table back home, madly trying to mimic Hoyle’s work with oil pastels. Over the course of the next few decades, I attempted to imitate his paintings using colored pencils, soft pastels, acrylics... The results varied greatly, with many miserable failures. To this day, I have never achieved that same Van Gogh meets Pissaro look that makes his work so amazing.

Strangely, despite my lack of success, I have never stopped trying. I gave Hoyle-ishness a shot just last weekend - a piece that started with great promise before going down in flames.

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To this day, I have never achieved that same Van Gogh meets Pissaro look that makes his work so amazing.

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Hoyle’s work has been described as exuberant, full of energy and light, and as featuring “cascading riots of color.” Someday, I hope to garner some of those same descriptors for my own work. Until then, I plan to keep experimenting, playing around, looking to James for inspiration, my respect for his work ever growing.

And, unless that restraining order shows up, I will continue attempting to contact him. Not only would I like to express to him how much I enjoy his work and what it has meant to me as an artist, I also plan to tell him about this great idea I have: Since he’s getting up there (74 by my calculation), he needs an exit plan. I’d be willing to help him out with that.

I volunteer to travel to Kauai and let him teach me his technique. I’m willing to spend as long as it takes in paradise learning from the master. Then, down the road, when he’s ready to hand off the baton, I’ll be ready to accept it - all in the interest of keeping his unique, colourist style alive.  

In case you’re wondering, the idea for this blog came from the book Steal Like an Artist. In one of the chapters, author Austin Kleon says, “I recommend public fan letters. The Internet is really good for this. Write a blog post about someone’s work that you admire and link to their site. Maybe your hero will see your work, maybe he or she won’t. Maybe they’ll respond to you, maybe not.”

So James - If you happen to read this (I’m hashtagging you, buddy), reply in the comment section below. We’ll get in touch. We can start working on that succession plan. James...? James...? Hel-lo...??

(Insert the sound of roosters crowing.)  

Tom Hanks and the Art of Collecting Things

Tom Hanks has a semi-secret obsession. Some might even call it an addiction. According to an article I read this morning, he collects typewriters. At present, he owns 120 (this after giving several away and selling others for lack of storage space). Apparently, he’s always on the lookout for an interesting model.

I can certainly identify with Tom. I have a similar inclination for collecting things. I don’t have 120 typewriters. Neither do I have a bazillion shot glasses or 14 cars or spoons from all the National Parks or a display case filled with Faberge Eggs. I collect on a smaller scale, thoughtfully and with restraint. Still, my propensity to gather, keep, and display certain items in my office is causing my wife, Fran, concern. Let me explain.

It’s not so much the horns. I only have two: a trumpet and a cornet. The latter is an ancient Conn that sits on my desk. My father played it in the school band and I played it until my eighth grade band teacher said, “Hey, that sounds like you’re blowing through a throw pillow. Maybe it’s time to shop for a new model.”

The trumpet is the upgrade: an authentic Los Angeles Benge. Except for where my daughter dropped it during marching band practice (can you say “big ding”?), it’s in great condition and sounds awesome. It sits quietly in the office closet until those moment when I’m compelled to break it out and pretend I’m Miles Davis. That lasts for approximately 8 minutes, then my lip goes, and I just listen to the rest of Kind of Blue with deep respect and awe.

But then there are my guitars: two electric, three acoustic... Oh, and a banjo. In my defense, only three of these instruments are actually in the office. Sure, they take up space, but they serve a very practical purpose - I play them regularly.

The photos are where things start to get sticky. I have an array of small (4x6), framed black and white photos on the wall above my desk. These are famous writers, artists, and musicians I admire. By array, I mean 19. With three still waiting to be hung and ideas for more. The number is becoming an issue, as is the decorative motif (i.e. the way I have them arranged).

The biggest issue by far: books. I have 300+ in the office alone. Many more in the bedroom, living room, basement...

Here’s the thing: I like books. I really (r-e-a-l-l-y) like books. I like shopping for them, I like buying them, I like the way they look on the shelf, in piles, lying open on my desk... I like the way they feel in my hand, the way they smell, the sound they make when you open the cover and turn the pages... I love books!

Sometimes I even read them. This is that part that bugs Fran. I have stacks of books that I’ve never read and probably never will. She thinks we should get rid of them. I have dozens of books that I’ve started to read but will never finish. She thinks we should get rid of those too. And then there are the books I’ve already read which, you guessed it, she wants to chuck.

So you can imagine what happens when a book arrives in the mail. I try not to let this happen more than once or twice a month. I also try not to let her notice. On those occasions when I fail to sneak said book into my office, she confronts me with an expression of exasperation, a shake of her head, and the question: Don’t you already have enough books?

The answer is, of course, no. You can never have enough books.

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You can never have enough books.

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Which brings me back to Tom Hanks. America’s Dad (and one of my favorite actors) seems to think you can never have too many typewriters. He is so fascinated with them that he even wrote a book of short stories based around typewriters.

In a video that goes along with the article, Tom demonstrates how to change a typewriter ribbon, then inserts a sheet of paper and tries the machine out. “That’s the sound of typing,” he says proudly. “It’s the cadence of creativity. It’s the percussion, the punctuation. That sound, you’ll get lost in it. It becomes a rhythm. It becomes a music that will not only tell you - and the other people in the other room - that you’re working, it will also spur you on to other areas of imagination that you will eventually create and record forever on your typewriter.”

I love typewriters too! I used to have three. I now have only have one: a sleek black, antique Underwood portable. It works. Kind of. The ribbon is twisted and just about out of ink (Tom would be so disappointed in me). Mostly it sits on my desk and motivates me to quit daydreaming and write something.

William Faulkner used a portable Underwood very similar to this one. (I like to think it was the same model.) He’s one of my favorite writers (his pic made my wall) and I feel like having the Underwood nearby connects me to not only Bill, but to a host of other 20th century greats who inspired me to become a writer.

If I was swimming in Benjamins, like Tom Hanks, I’d probably buy a few more typewriters. I’d definitely look for one like Hemingway used, one like Vonnegut used, one like Steinbeck used, one like Langston Hughes used... You get the idea. I’d also pick up a few more guitars (a Jazzmaster, a PRS, a Les Paul, a Flying V, maybe a St. Vincent..). I’d get a new cornet, a flugelhorn (definitely!)...

For the above reasons, Fran is glad that we’re not swimming in Benjamins.

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Luckily for me, I’m married to a very beautiful, patient, and kind woman. She understands my strange habits and puts up with most of my shenanigans.

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Luckily for me, I’m married to a very beautiful, patient, and kind woman. She understands my strange habits and puts up with most of my shenanigans. She isn’t always pleased with my collecting activities. But she realizes that, for whatever reason, this stuff is important to me and she cuts me some slack. I’m grateful for that.

Now, if I can just come up with an effective diversion that will enable me to smuggle Tom’s book, Uncommon Type into my office unnoticed. It’s scheduled to arrive in the mail in 3 to 5 days.

The Waiting Game

September...

That’s the word that has been handed down from on high. Not from God, but almost - from my publisher. And as I sit watching snow fall (and fall and fall and fall...) here in Colorado, September seems far, far away. Eons. Epics. Eras from now.

But you know how time has been flying lately. Especially while wearing masks that may or may not be effective in keeping us healthy, waiting for a vaccine that may or may not keep us from contracting a virus that may or may not kill us. And while waiting for the temperature to rise above freezing for an extended period (more than 24 hours, please) because, hey, winter is supposedly over.

Okay, scratch that: time seldom flies. As famed theoretical physicist, Stephen Hawking once said, “Time, why you punish me?” Wait, that was Hootie and the Blowfish. But they nailed it. Except for weekends and vacations, time is a fickle, sometimes cruel “nonspatial continuum.” It can, at will, take on the properties of salt water taffy left in the sun - stretching to ridiculous proportions. Here I’m thinking of zoom meetings and dental appointments. Oh, and visits to the DMV.

So anyway... yeah: September. That’s when my publisher is now saying my new novel will be released. In addition to the fact that we are still six months out (half a year!), there are three things about that announcement that have me a little concerned.

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Until I’m clutching a hard copy of this book in my hand, I will remain skeptical.

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First, the original publishing date was Spring 2021. September is clearly not spring. But I get it: the whole pandemic business fouled up the publishing schedule. (If it can delay Amazon Prime, it can easily screw up the book industry.) So the release date got pushed. No big deal. Maybe.

Second, I’m not holding my breath for September. It could easily end up being October... November... Even 2022. Imagine if another virus rolls into town or the earth gets struck by an asteroid or there’s a sudden shortage of coffee or some other terrible natural disaster befalls us. All bets are off.

Third, until I’m clutching a hard copy of this book in my hand, I will remain skeptical. Here’s why.

While I believe in and trust my publisher - Odyssey Books - this novel has a long, sordid history of near misses. I completed the first draft way back in the ‘90s. (Yeah, those ‘90s, the ones from the last millennium that had us going to Blockbuster for our entertainment.) After sufficient polishing, I submitted it to my agent. I had a half dozen or so novels under my belt at that point, but they were all mysteries. This new novel was more on the literary side: no one died in the first chapter and instead of being action-oriented, it was character driven. The conversation with my agent went something like this:

Agent: This isn’t a mystery.

Me: Nope.

Agent: Why isn’t it a mystery?

Me: Um...

Agent: Write another mystery.

Me: But I really like this novel. I like the story, the characters, the style...

Agent: Great. Now write another mystery.

Me: But I feel like I need to stretch myself - artistically and creatively. I’d like to try something outside the mystery genre, something more serious. Something literary.

Agent: Nobody wants literary.

Me: They might.

Agent: Call me back when you’ve got another mystery for me to read.

Unsurprisingly, we parted ways. And also unsurprisingly, she was right about the novel. Nobody wanted it. I submitted to dozens and dozens of agents, dozens and dozens of publishing houses. I received glowing rejection letters that praised the prose and described the manuscript in terms that made me blush. It was great, many of the rejection letters said, but... The “buts” piled up for years, then decades.

Along the way, one publisher finally accepted it. They raved about it and assured me that it was going to be a runaway best-seller. I celebrated. Friends, learning of my good fortune, sent me congratulatory cards, letters, emails, cheesecakes. The long journey was over! Except... before a contract could be issued, that publisher went belly up.

Not long afterwards, an agent expressed interest. If I would just change the first few chapters, he explained, rearrange some things, he would enthusiastically represent it to the major New York houses. I reworked it, but then... he... meh... changed his mind.

This went on and on and on. I refused to give up and kept querying and submitting for two simple reasons: I was convinced it was some of my best writing and I liked the story. There’s a lot of me in the book. It’s definitely fiction, but most of the characters, events, and settings are loosely based on personal experiences.

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I’ve been waiting for this book to be published for a quarter of a century now. I suppose six more months won’t kill me.

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They tell you in writing classes and in how-to-write-a-bestseller manuals that you should never get personally attached to projects. If a novel doesn’t sell, move on. Write something else, something new. I kept writing other things, but I couldn’t bring myself to abandon this book. It was too personal.

Last year, I finally got a yes from Odyssey and was offered an actual contract. (Coincidentally, I signed on the same day I was laid off from my job due to COVID.)

I’ve been waiting for this book to be published for almost a quarter of a century now. I suppose six more months won’t kill me. I can make it to September. Right?

In the meantime, I’ll be talking it up. And I’ve already decided that, if for some reason it doesn’t make it to print - say we’re hit by that asteroid and Gerard Butler isn’t around to save us - I’m going to figure out a way to make it available. As the world burns and everyone is scrambling for those last spots in the secret underground bunker in Greenland, I’ll be out there, handing people loose-leaf, Kinkos-copy versions - something to read while they wait for the sky to stop falling.

About Tattoos

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“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

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It’s been a long (l-o-n-g) time since my last blog post - 119 days, to be exact. How did I occupy myself during that ridiculously elongated break, you ask?

Well, there were all those major holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Groundhog Day, President’s Day, National Margarita Day... Each of those occasions was spent not traveling, not gathering in large groups, not going to restaurants, not going to concerts, cowering in our house, bathing in solutions of 70% alcohol at regular intervals. In other words, I’ve been doing what most of the earth’s population has been doing: nada.

Another thing I wasn’t doing much of, which no one else was doing either, but which events in our nation’s capital, events in the streets of our inner cities, and the nefarious activities of a submicroscopic infectious agent had us all thinking about was... (you guessed it) getting tattoos.

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One of the greatest tolls this pesky pandemic has had on our society is the unbearable stress and mounting emotional frustration of being unable to go under the needle for fresh ink.

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I’m sure you’ll agree that one of the greatest tolls this pesky pandemic has had on our society is the unbearable stress and mounting emotional frustration of being unable to go under the needle for fresh ink. When the tattoo parlors were forcibly shut down last year, everything went to hell in a handbasket.

I realize this is a very sensitive subject, but I think talking about it could help bring healing.

Like other controversial issues, such as COVID masks, COVID vaccines, and whether or not Tom Brady is truly the G.O.A.T., views on tattoos are polarized into two divergent camps: zealous afficionados and hardline haters. This gulf speaks volumes about how divided our country has become. I remember a time, not that long ago, when EVERYONE hated tattoos. But look at us now! What has happened to this nation???

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“My tattoo is that I don’t have a tattoo.” - Michael J. Fox

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I’d like to ask haters to set aside their personal opinions for a moment and imagine a better world, a world where people not only realize how amazing Tom Brady is, but get tattoos of his smiling, kind-a arrogant face plastered onto their shoulders. That kind of world.

Think about it. Without tattoos, our lives would be very bland indeed. Imagine David Beckham without tats. He’d just be a blond pretty boy who can make a soccer ball defy the laws of physics. Or Justin Bieber. Without all that ink, he’s nothing more than a bratty, Canadian Gen Z who thinks he can sing. But with his generous array of tattoos, he’s a bratty, Canadian Gen Z who thinks he can sing and, when he takes off his shirt, is entertaining to look at. (“Is that supposed to be a gargoyle or is that a portrait of his mother?”)

Then you’ve got the heavily tatted Adam Levine. It has been scientifically proven that his tattoo sleeves are what enable him to move like Jagger! And don’t forget Post Malone. Those face tattoos - which, IMO, are a super bad idea - made everyone want to buy Doritos.

As you can see, tats play an essential role in our society. And after that exhaustive and compelling argument, I’m sure some of you haters are starting to soften your stance. You’re thinking to yourself: “Maybe tattoos aren’t so bad. Maybe they aren’t just for gang members and prison inmates. In fact, maybe, just maybe, I would look cool with a tattoo!”

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“If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.” -Sylvia Plath

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Well, I’m glad you’re coming around. But before you head to your local parlor - which has finally reopened! - to have a lovely skull and crossbones carved into your calf, there are a few other things you should know about tattoos. Namely:

Pain

“Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” You probably recognize that line from the film, The Princess Bride. It’s true of life and even more true of tats: they hurt like Beelzebub. Sometimes even more. And during that forever of intense pain, you might be tempted to think: “Why am I doing this?! Why am I paying someone to hurt me?? Why am I paying to be tortured?!”

The answer, of course, is that you know it will be worth it in the end. You also know that after all the stinging and burning and whining, when you have handed over your hard-earned money and now can’t afford to pay the mortgage, you’ll have a permanent piece of art that, whether you like it or not, will always (emphasis: ALWAYS) be part of you and which, if you aren’t really careful, will get infected and land you in the E.R. But don’t worry: post-tat amputation and foreclosure are the exceptions, not the rule.   

Anguish

It’s never a good idea to put something on your body that you’ll be tired of or that won’t be relevant/appropriate in a few years. Singer James Arthur is the poster child for this. He had 25 tattoos. In the last few years, he has had several removed and/or covered up because he no longer likes them and/or he broke up with the girl represented in them. He recently said that he’s going to have all of them removed in order to go into acting. Good luck with that, James.

Poorly applied tattoos are also a concern. Not all artists are equal. You might regret getting NO REGRETS on your neck, especially if your artist spells phonetically. The internet is filled with cautionary tattoo fails. Even a cursory viewing will give you an extra something to be thankful for.

Freakishness

Because tattoos are cool and can be fun conversation starters (if you don’t get infected and die), some people go overboard. We’ve all seen those folks at the store in their pajamas, sporting plumber cracks, who have used up all of their available skin space. They’ve got portraits and messages and illustrations and symbols trailing along their necks, across their skulls and foreheads, up and down their legs, arms, chests, decorating their fingers and eyelids… They now qualify as circus acts. There’s a name for these folks: Walmart customers.  

Unless you aspire to be profiled as a freakish, Wally World regular, exercise discernment in selecting the subject matter, placement, and number of your tats. Sometimes, as architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe once put it: Less is more.

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“Less is more.” - Ludwig Mies van der Rohe

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In conclusion, getting a tattoo is a commitment. Short of James Arthur-style laser removal, each tat will be with you for the long haul. So if you decide to take the plunge, please remember these important tips:

·      Choose images carefully.

·      Avoid dyslexic tattoo artists.

·      Don’t become a walking billboard.

·      Never go to the store in your pajamas.

And if you’re serious about getting a tattoo, you better hurry up. Once the next pandemic hits (you know it’s coming), tats will again become a black market item. You’ll have to slink into some sketchy alley on the southside of town to have a guy named Freddie-Jay give you the prison-style treatment with an electrified ballpoint pen. And most of the time, that’s a bad idea.