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| At least that's what it used to look like to me. |
How I Got That Mark on My Face: Adventures in TMI
Friday, June 27, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
I have a mark on my face. Pretty much right smack in the middle of my chin. It looks like this:
And so, because people are alternately worried about me or completely invasive into my personal space, I have gotten a number of questions regarding how I came to get my face torn up. I mean, it looks tough. I look tough. Unfortunately, the true origin story of this battle wound is that it is a stress sore. Please remember I'm not a medical doctor when I tell you that as best I understand it, every once in awhile when I'm stressed, a patch of my skin starts excreting a clear viscous juice. Sexy, I know. And the first day the skin looks totally normal and it just juices and juices like some constantly pus-filled zit. By the time I go to bed, usually I can see the faint outline of where I will be marked the next day.
Monday, June 23, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
So. Give me a bit of rope on this one and I'll pay off.
Let's go back in time to when people weren't the highest rung on the species totem pole (judged solely by our preeminence at destroying the planet for everyone). Let's go back to the dinosaurs …
(because this was the tagline to about 50% of the TV I watched as a child, I image some 80's music and a fade constructed of multiple laser beams.)
Now, imagine I appear as a human surrounded by the Mesozoic Era in all its splendor. I'm wearing khakis. The dinosaurs seem to ignore me and also seem to be getting along quite well considering most are on each other's menu.
As I look around, I see a great variety of shapes, sizes, and species of dinosaur as well as many other unclassified crawly-thingies. I can only imagine that even back then there were some version of dinosaur cliques. Maybe not, like, middle school style cliques, but more like, "this group of dinosaurs believe the world is flat, while this other group of dinosaurs is convinced its triangular." But, you know, they've got dinosaur problems, not Homo Erectus problems. And if you've learned nothing from Jay Z, you should at least have gleaned that everythangs got problems. Even dinosaurs.
Let's go back in time to when people weren't the highest rung on the species totem pole (judged solely by our preeminence at destroying the planet for everyone). Let's go back to the dinosaurs …
(because this was the tagline to about 50% of the TV I watched as a child, I image some 80's music and a fade constructed of multiple laser beams.)
Now, imagine I appear as a human surrounded by the Mesozoic Era in all its splendor. I'm wearing khakis. The dinosaurs seem to ignore me and also seem to be getting along quite well considering most are on each other's menu.
As I look around, I see a great variety of shapes, sizes, and species of dinosaur as well as many other unclassified crawly-thingies. I can only imagine that even back then there were some version of dinosaur cliques. Maybe not, like, middle school style cliques, but more like, "this group of dinosaurs believe the world is flat, while this other group of dinosaurs is convinced its triangular." But, you know, they've got dinosaur problems, not Homo Erectus problems. And if you've learned nothing from Jay Z, you should at least have gleaned that everythangs got problems. Even dinosaurs.
Monday, June 16, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
It's World Cup time on this planet of ours, and during this global sport standstill, I wanna take a second to discuss the most difficult aspect of the World Cup for me. And let me begin by quickly pointing out it is NOT the soccer itself that has me befuddled.
Though, if you listened to any sports talk radio in the past 3 weeks, you would be sure it had to have something to do with how Americans just don't like, enjoy, understand, or appreciate soccer. And the DJ's on these stations, to be clear, blame the game itself.
"Does anyone even play soccer growing up?," asked one particularly obtuse white male voice?
"I'm pretty sure lots of kids do play soccer as kids. My daughter is in a league," says the slightly more informed colleague.
"Sure," the moron continues, "But when do they all stop. Cause they all stop. And why do they all stop?!" Answering his own question, "they stop because it is not a popular American sport!"
"I think most stop when they go to college," the voice of reason calmly explains. He continues, "I think that's when most people stop playing organized sports, when they aren't good enough to make it on the college level."
Though, if you listened to any sports talk radio in the past 3 weeks, you would be sure it had to have something to do with how Americans just don't like, enjoy, understand, or appreciate soccer. And the DJ's on these stations, to be clear, blame the game itself.
"Does anyone even play soccer growing up?," asked one particularly obtuse white male voice?
"I'm pretty sure lots of kids do play soccer as kids. My daughter is in a league," says the slightly more informed colleague.
"Sure," the moron continues, "But when do they all stop. Cause they all stop. And why do they all stop?!" Answering his own question, "they stop because it is not a popular American sport!"
"I think most stop when they go to college," the voice of reason calmly explains. He continues, "I think that's when most people stop playing organized sports, when they aren't good enough to make it on the college level."
Thursday, June 12, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
One of the most difficult parts of writing a book, for me at least, is editing out all the excess verbiage that doesn't move the story forward. Pretty much any time I write the word "verbiage" I go back to do some editing, realizing that the word "verbiage" is probably the number one culprit of my (any) writing getting too wordy. I know, it's very meta.
Thankfully, what is bad for the book is fodder for the blog. And considering my most heinous cuts revolve around extended tangents, I've found that many of these edited out bits make interesting stand-alone reads. So, in an effort to both tease my book in progress, and also provide you with some amusement, I give you two small clips that are no longer in my featured work.
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Monday, June 9, 2014 | 1 Comment(s)
Eh . . . Eh . . .
The life of a writer is defined primarily by its lack of routine. My office, it turns out, is wherever I happen to be when the anti-venomous writing bug smuggles its inspiration through my carpel-tunnel and into my brain. Talk about transient. In order to best prepare, and in fact nurture, these inspirational bugs to bite as often as possible, I have mapped out particular establishments all across the Pioneer Valley where I know I can drop down and get my writing on at a moments notice.
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| Transformation: A process that pertains only to butterflies and losing a large amount of weight |
Pretty sweet new digs huh? It's ok to be impressed. But seriously y'all, we're only 75% done -- It's gonna get even better. If you encounter error messages or happen to being using Internet Explorer 6.0 (the universal donor of coding problems), please do drop me a line so I can get that mess cleaned up post-haste.
But until then, let's talk about life and shit. Nah, screw it, let's just talk about my life.
But until then, let's talk about life and shit. Nah, screw it, let's just talk about my life.
The life of a writer is defined primarily by its lack of routine. My office, it turns out, is wherever I happen to be when the anti-venomous writing bug smuggles its inspiration through my carpel-tunnel and into my brain. Talk about transient. In order to best prepare, and in fact nurture, these inspirational bugs to bite as often as possible, I have mapped out particular establishments all across the Pioneer Valley where I know I can drop down and get my writing on at a moments notice.