When my Wired Magazine comes in the mail each month, I immediately flip to the back to the Colophon, where the parties responsible list the sacred little things that helped them lug that issue to press (a wonderful reminder that the end result’s best stories reside in all that comes before ….)
Saturday mornings being a perfect time for caffeinated reflection, here’s what got me through the cold, gray week, in no particular order …
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“Knicks are on tonight, if you want to watch …?
Surrrrrrrre
“Can we get some snacks?”
Gladly, gleefully he’d procure the elements
while out on his Saturday errands
Continue readingI remember we were sitting around the kitchen table … Mom, my older brother, I think my sister Missy was there, too. I may have still been in high school. Seventeen, maybe?
Mom was reading the local newspaper, and had flipped to the classifieds in the back where they parked the memorials. Where folks would send in pictures and tributes, often poems, always heartfelt, honoring the memory of loved ones in the wake, or on the anniversary, of their passing.
Mom found the idea of publishing these in the newspaper the funniest thing in the world.
Continue readingThe lines get long but they move quickly, she says
as we join the expectant tails
and tongues wagging from door to street.
“Bourbon Turtle” I say aloud,
not to anyone really,
but because Bourbon Turtle …
and it’s the greatest of all the commandments
scrawled on the tall black slate scroll
So the day started with a trip to a doctor about this thing that has overstayed its welcome on my person, though I’ve given it several months to politely excuse itself (rude). When the doctor took a look at the thing, she pointed to these other things that were in the same general area code and asked me, “What about these?” In my head, I said something like, “Oh, those? Old friends of mine. Been around for a long time. Don’t worry about those. I’m here to talk about this relatively new thing.” She then broadly waved her hand. “These are all the same thing,” and then said the multi-syllable, multi-word medical term for the collective thing.
“Really?” I said, taken aback.
Continue readingI’d like to thank Billy Collins for writing Aimless Love (you should totally look it up) and Ben Folds for saying, “At its most basic, making art is about following what’s luminous to you and putting it in a jar, to share with others. ”
Meeting My Brother For Saturday Lunch
I choose the scenic route along Route 40,
though the interstate toll road is so much quicker,
because slow driving the small towns along the National Road is worth a savor,
passing the new donut shop at the light in Beallsville that’s supposed to be really good
and that I will probably never stop at
because I think sometimes the wishing is better
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Building on the catapult-like momentum of last episode’s proof-of-concept, our hero returns, and figures out how to add whimsical music to his intro, and one transition sound effect.
Why does he do this, you ask? Absolution? Perhaps. Vindication? Maybe. To avoid shoveling snow from the driveway? Undoubtedly.
In defense of his family’s honor, our hero takes up his mallet and goes-a-smite-ing … leaving a trail of carnage in his wake, slaking his unquenchable thirst for victory at the expense of all who dare meet him on the field of battle.
So, in a spasm of poor decision making, I got a microphone for Christmas. I’m fully confident the family will come to regret the decision. I started messing around with it. Still very much figuring stuff out, but it seems that one can embed audio content into WordPress. So, just, um, testing out the emergency broadcast system here. It’s occurred to me that I’ve accumulated a number of experiences in my life that fall into a very loose, and very large category of things I’m not necessarily proud of, but don’t necessarily regret. Thinking of unburdening myself of some of the poorer decisions in my life … maybe as a companion to “the blog that no one reads” as my daughter likes to refer to it. Totally just testing out the premise and the hardware here, proof of concept style, after which I’ll explore adding, um, you know, actual production value (music, etc.). I mean, who has the time for that? Anyway, as I’ve conditioned my family for decades now, set your expectations very very low. But, let me know what you think … Pete
In the sobering light of the new year, we’ve forced ourselves to begin reckoning with our clutter. Less a resolution than a survival tactic, more akin to scooping water from a sinking ship.
I refer to it as ‘editing.’
This makes Karry angry.
We’re throwing shit out, she informs me.
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Early for a Saturday afternoon grocery pick-up, Karry suggests a quick lunch. I offer Panera, among the few destinations one of us likes and the other at least tolerates.
En route the big hat catches her eye, and in a spasm of poor decision making, she audibles.
“What about Arby’s? You’re always talking about it.”
This is true. I talk a lot about Arby’s. Even though it’s been years since I visited one.
I don’t give her the opportunity to reconsider, and we almost screech tires into the parking lot.
We. Are. Home. — my adolescent brain whispers.
Note: I don’t keep my adolescent brain tucked away somewhere, like, in a box in the attic, next to my before-and-after middle school orthodontic molds. No, my adolescent brain has its mail delivered to my middle-age skull, much like a man-child still living at home with his parents. Incidentally, I don’t keep my before-and-after orthodontic molds in the attic, either. I keep them on my bookshelf that leads upstairs.
Karry makes me put them away every time we have company.
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Letters for Maggie 