Month: June 2008

I never…

Walked on the California coast.
Aided and abetted streakers.
Got busy in a Burger King bathroom. (“Is he joking? Is he?“)
Told you what happened to your father, Luke.

Watched a six-year-old kid light up.

Where’s that black Sharpie when I need it?

Yeah. Last night, Julia and I were at a nice gathering at one of the community parks. Friends of ours were performing at an informal fundraiser for the park’s community center. Folks from the surrounding neighborhood turned out in force. It was not our neighborhood, but I felt a great swell of civic pride.

Until I saw this kid walk past puffing on a cigarette he had just gotten from his dad.

I still have a bruise on the bottom of my chin from where my jaw dropped to the pavement.

To the kid’s credit, he lit his own smoke. I marvel at the idea of what might become of a lighter in the hands of an industrious young man with a can-do attitude like that. I’m sure one day he’ll go as far as the hose on his oxygen tank will let him.

So let’s do this…

Watched a six-year-old kid light up.

And we’ll move on to the next item…

I never paid more than four dollars per gallon for gasoline.

Stay tuned.

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Cranial effluence

To fans of my previous blog, welcome back. I’m sure both of you will have no trouble finding a place to sit.

To potential new fans, welcome. Try the brie.

I’m a journalist writer by trade, so it stands to reason that the last thing I want to do with my copious free time is to engage in a craft for which I’m paid. Indeed, my freelance writing rate is fifteen cents a word, and I’ll edit whatever you throw my way for twenty bucks an hour. Make no mistake. I like to be paid for my effort. In fact the only difference between myself and a prostitute is that I don’t have a long line of clients waiting to jump into bed with me.

Anymore.

As it happens though with writers, over time our heads fill with useless crap, and the resultant cranial effluence is not worth fifteen cents a word to anyone, except in the most bizarre set of circumstances; circumstances of which, at the moment, I am unable to even conceive an adequate example.

Just imagine that this blog is a clearing house for my thoughts that don’t really have anywhere else to go and hang out. It’s like that locally made commercial. You know the one. Where the guy who owns the business does his own commercials. He bought too many of the 2008 widgets and he needs to make room for the 2009 widgets. “Everything must go!” he shouts at you, accompanied by hand gestures that don’t make sense, but that he practiced for hours in front of a mirror.

That’s the gist of it. I’ve gotta move this crap out of my melon to make room for stuff that someone might actually pay for. And I’m giving it to you, dear readers, for the bargain price of zero.

Act now, and I’ll throw in a photo of me with comedy legend Tim Conway.

And a sound recording of myself singing along with good friend (and even better sport) Dr. Trina Jones.

But I will not stoop so low as to shamelessly plug my day job as internet content editor of ThoroughbredTimes.com.

I will try to update this whenever I can, but would implore you, dear readers, to appreciate that this quality of crap does not happen overnight, nor does it write itself. My excuse credo has always been, “quality rather than quantity.”

Except, of course, when I’m being paid by the word. Then, I’m a superfluous whore.

Enjoy.