Today I saw a great blue heron stalk, catch and eat a gopher. I did not expect that.
What value has a pile of words? A writer’s currency? An expression of hubris? An offering of wisdom? Or a confession of lunacy?
I find myself unable to brag about things braggable.
My fear of commitment involves guys in white coats with giant butterfly nets.
It’s amazing how the Ford pickup bed fits so badly but still somehow looks OK. Of all the grafted-on funky pickups this is graftiest. I’ve always wanted a Checker but could never figure out a viable excuse. I want this thing even more but still have no sane explanation.
The current bid is under $1300 in Indianapolis. Fortunately that’s too far away from me.
Fans of Top Gear will most likely get nightmares from the thought of driving this car. The Robin is already an unstable car, as humorously demonstrated on Top Gear. The show also demonstrated the many negatives of removing a car, or minivan, roof. All structural integrity is lost. Seriously, Ralf Nadar is rolling in his grave-to-be knowing that this thing exists.
Then the autoventurer in me takes over. What if we added a roll cage and some five point seat belts? Some foam rubber around the front fenders to soften the blow of rolling over? Yeah, that might work?
Gentle music on rough journeys to horizons unreached. Gravel, steel and whiskey. Epiphanies misunderstood.
If I had any musical talent whatsoever I would start a Tom Waits tribute band called RAIN DOGS.
My writer’s block is made of depression, repression and a whole lot of yellow Legos.
Never trust anyone who has a half-filled Pez dispenser in their fanny pack.
Words I never thought I’d hear myself say; “Is that Vera Wang?”
I recently rediscovered the glory that is grape soda.
Happiness is a yellow Winnebago.
Loneliness and being alone are not the same thing.
You know things aren’t right when the angel on your shoulder is screaming for tequila.
The dog is staring at me. He knows I want to run screaming into the night. A block or so away is booze. The forbidden nectar. Forbidden to me because I need a drink so bad. The trick of my brand of alcoholism is that I’m only allowed to drink when I don’t need a drink. Wanting a drink is OK, but needing is verboten. The real trick then is to be honest with myself about what is want and what is need. Often a mighty struggle, but not tonight. Tonight I know there is no doubt. It is need.
Avoid German bagpipers.
Click your heels together, say “Nina Hagen” three times and see what happens.
Is there a braille version of Guns & Ammo magazine?
That there is some darn fine dirt. Billy should be proud.
Posted in Writing
Tagged bee porn