Tag Archives: YouTube

Of Vice and Virtue

“It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.” This maxim from Abraham Lincoln has a ringing truth but the ring is hollow.  A comment about human nature that lacks commentary.  A sound-bite that is easily remembered, but does not speak to the whole truth.

I, myself have a number of vices.  Some suggest they are harmless, near typical activities for an adult male my age.  Others find them repugnant and offer a scolding rebuke behind my back.  I drink too much.  I carry a pistol.  I frequently discuss so-called unpatriotic ideals such as Texas secession from the union.  Admittedly, such things can hardly be compared to other less socially acceptable activities such as using heroin—but they certainly can promote antisocial and unlawful behavior when they are not properly controlled by the practitioner.

I once knew someone who apparently had no vices.  He was a man—a native Texan in his 50s mind you—who shunned weapons, didn’t drink, drove a hybrid automobile, and generally lived a quiet life of reading books.  This despite his job, in which he entertained scores of calls each day assisting finance managers at GM auto dealerships with the endless maze of financial software and paperwork they were required to use.

Now I suppose reading could be considered a vice, depending on the content.  And I further suppose that avoiding weapons while caring about the environment is considered socially conscientious.  But the apparent lack of any discernible relief valve is disconcerting from my vantage point.  I fear he might one day snap and go on a shooting spree or fly a plane into a building.

The opposite side of that coin, however, is that vice without virtue has no value; if you accept the first premise, (in my opinion) you must own the other, and while vice is tolerated and notable, it is always the unnoticed virtue that wins the day.  That virtue is not an act, but virtuous behavior is born out of a desire for decency—a drive to leave the world better than you found it.  Most of us embody both.

Witness my oldest progeny and only son.  I didn’t know quite what to make of his travels as I watched him grow into manhood, always seeming to choose the road to perdition.  He was just released from prison on parole from a 10-year sentence, for a meth-induced crime spree.  A convicted felon multiple times over, I simply breathed a sigh of relief that his crimes were not violent and that his life was spared.  Instead of college and a job, or military service he chose drugs, debauchery, and crime.  The stranglehold of drugs tragically asserted the outcome.


Yet as a child he was profoundly sensitive and frequently put his younger sisters’ welfare ahead of his own.  I still recall a particular day when his mother told me that she took the three of them to a McDonald’s drive-through for lunch, an exceedingly rare treat at that time because we were poor.

When they made it home his mother realized they had shorted the order by mistake, and in that circumstance he gave up his burger to his sisters without hesitation.


I have a very dear friend for whom I worked about three years before her manager fired me.  For most of that time she was a punitive tyrant during work hours and I was frankly a little relieved when I lost my job because walking the line between friendship and work was nearly impossible.  Only one of many casualties of her wrath, the terrible jaws of obsession with a thing being done “the right way” compounded by the need to punish offenders tested our friendship to its limits.


Juxtapose that reality, however, with a poignant moment of loss—the death of a loved one.  Last December this same friend escorted her Jack Russell Terrier to Rainbow Bridge.  She talked at some length about the difficulty of making that decision, and how she felt like she was playing God, and the heartbreak of watching her beloved pooch take her last breath.  Last Monday at lunch she sat across a table from me and grieved yet again a year later—but she never left her companion’s side seeing her through to the very end.


Then there’s my friend Tom who mentioned some time ago that his kid brother Frank who suffers from multiple sclerosis was admitted to hospice.  He spent Thanksgiving with distant family members entertaining repeated questions about Frank’s well-being as they trickled in one at a time.  Over and over he was asked the same question: “How’s Frank?”  And over and over he had to explain that his brother was dying.

Last Saturday he was supposed to meet my friends and me for brew and pub grub.  He chose instead to spend the day and the subsequent evening with his two Border Collies, while he drank to stuff the pain.  He succumbed to the temptation to temporarily anesthetize the pain of the impending separation from a loved one, which ultimately and cruelly prolongs the suffering.


And then there is the matter of my wife’s 96 year-old grandmother, Maxine, who suffers from Alzheimer’s disease and is functionally blind and deaf.  I’m told that Maxine is coming to the end of her journey here on Earth.  That although no one is willing to say how much time she has left with us, she is winding down at an ever-accelerating pace.  A metaphorical tailspin, if you will, from which there is no escape and is ushering in both certain and swift demise.

My sister-in-law who lives with us has spent countless nights with Maxine in her bed, many of them ending any hope of blissful slumber, being awakened by her at 3:00 a.m.  My wife has tirelessly changed countless diapers and ministers to her though unending trips to the bathroom, nearly a thousand baths, and even more questions as Maxine tries in vain to ascertain her current circumstance.


I watch as my wife and sister-in-law lose their patience with her, an adult child who is no longer capable of being responsible for even the most basic tasks of eating, bathing, and using the restroom.  I listen as they each raise a voice while speaking to her in part to overcome her hearing impairment and in part out of frustration.

I sigh and respond with annoyance as she unendingly interrupts conversations with family over morning coffee, attempting to comprehend the most basic of information such as where she is and what she is supposed to be doing.  These are the moments of fierce impatience that prevent charity when it is most needed by a loved one.


One weekend not long ago, after my friends and I disbanded our weekly Saturday outing with beer and bar food, one of them, Fran, followed me to my house.  Three women had gathered with my wife and sister-in-law to spend a few hours with Maxine as she continues her journey into the unknown, believing that the end is at hand.

We sat in the living room and listened as Maxine complained of a sore lip from a fall two nights ago, cramping joints, and a general discomfort caused by a near-century of time here on this spinning, blue orb.  And then, without any apparent context, my sister-in-law began to speak.  With a sense of the inevitable nature of Maxine’s circumstance, she began to talk about how she awoke early that morning to find Maxine crawling on her hands and knees toward her bed.

I watched as her eyes became glassy and she tried in vain to hold in the grief as reality once again overtook her like a swelling tsunami.  I placed my glass of Maker’s Mark on the table top next to my chair and crossed the room to sit with her.  I placed my hand on her back as she briefly wept, unable to contain the emotion any longer.

The moment passed and I returned to my seat as Maxine began to speak again:

“My feet are cold.”  From across the room Fran replied “Your feet are cold?”  Maxine repeated her assertion: “My feet are cold.”  He set his beer down and stood up.  With a sense of purpose he crossed the room, knelt at her feet and began massaging them through her terrycloth slippers.

“That feels good; your hands are warm.”  Fran silently continued.

The symbolism was blinding.  Emblematic of the good in each of us, an able-bodied man bowed at the feet of an elderly woman and ministered to her comfort as her season was drawing to a close.  A simple act of kindness that cost him nothing but that did require humility.  Maxine smiled.





Filed under Life or Something Like It, Marriage

Holiday Cheer

I am not the Grinch.  At one time Christmas was my favorite time of year.  I grew up in a place that received snow every year—many times during the winter holidays.  It seemed kind of magical.  The time off from school, the change of seasons, and—of course—presents.

Then I grew up and had kids of my own and the Holiday season became about making it special for them.  Actually I’m not sure I ever really grew up, but I certainly had children.  Call me crazy but in addition to doing my best to make the holidays special for them, I also made certain they understood what we were celebrating.  At that time political correctness was being invented, but had not yet been integrated with the infrastructure of our culture.

So I actually talked with them about the birth of the Son of God and what that meant to Christians.  Which reminds me: I recently saw Bill Maher’s film Religulous.  I think Bill is a very funny, surprisingly intelligent guy, but in my opinion he has the wrong idea about the Bible.  I don’t want to get into it here; I just wanted to offer a nod to anyone who doesn’t quite buy into the whole Christian aspect of the holiday season.  You’re entitled to that opinion; I don’t care—but if you’re offended that I mentioned the birth of the Son of the Almighty, step off.  It’s freaking Christmas.

Over the years, however, I’ve become a little jaded about the holiday season, which seems to be less about holiness and more about parties and commercialism.  Have you ever noticed that people on the road become absolutely unbearable during the holidays?  Also, I noticed that there are two variables that turn otherwise courteous drivers into road-rage warriors:

Proximity to

  • Christmas Eve


  • Your local shopping mall

It seems that the intensity of the rage enjoys a linear relationship to how many calendar days we are from the 25th of December and how many miles you are from the shopping Mecca in your part of town.  Isn’t it great the way people greet the Salvation Army volunteer on the 23rd with a twenty and a Merry Christmas on their way to the car and then offer vulgar gestures if they think you cut them off leaving the parking lot?  Classy.

Then there are all the other unwanted intrusions—like Christmas decorations and incessant holiday music the day after Thanksgiving.  Look; I just don’t want to hear dogs from 1955 singing Jingle Bells because I hit the wrong button on my car radio.  It was a clever trick at the time but how about this?  Archive that crap and bring it out to amaze high school students once each year or as a college exercise in psych 101 when you’re covering Pavlov.

Also, some of the traditional music starts to lose its meaning.  Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Silent Night have been functionally reduced to children’s nursery rhymes.  For those who don’t subscribe to a Christian approach to life it doesn’t mean anything in the first damned place, and for those who do you’ve killed the original meaning when it comes up in rotation as list play 243; for the Faithful it has been reduced to meaningless gibberish.

Next we have the proclivity to run up your credit card balance because of the pressure to artificially make it special to friends and loved ones.  Do your kids really need the latest electronic gaming box or iThingy?  Does your wife or girlfriend really need another piece of jewelry or perfume or some other expensive trinket?  Does your boyfriend or husband really want that shirt, tie or whatever girls buy for guys these days?  Please.  Pick me up a box of practice handgun ammo and be done with it.  It’s 20 bucks and I can buy my own clothes.

This brings me to my own personal holiday burden: the dreaded family Christmas letter.  That unattractive sound you just heard was me groaning as I sit at this sports bar drafting this entry.  Don’t get me wrong I love to write—but this beast is just so unwieldy.    First of all, it’s not even to my family.  It’s to Heidi’s family.

Recently my family has started to become closer—but for a decade and a half it hasn’t been that way.  Heidi’s family, however, is very close and always has been.  They call each other.  They keep in touch.  They know what’s going on in each others’ lives.  And, of course, they have a family Christmas letter.  The purported purpose of the letter is to keep in touch and to know what’s going on in each others’ lives—but wait.  They do that without the Christmas letter, and yet this chore falls to me.  Why?  Because I’m known as the writer in the family.

Now what’s interesting to me is that my wife also wrote and published a book as well.  So why am I the writer who is asked to take on the burden of writing the Christmas letter to her family about what they’ve been doing all year, even though they already know what they’ve been doing all year?  Because she said so; that’s why.

Now this year, I’m not doing anything anyway.  I’m just hanging around waiting for the next thing, and so writing the family Christmas letter isn’t really that big of a deal—but there’s always a catch.  The catch in this case is that my wife is the assigner and I am the assignee.  What that means is that I am working for her, and by extension she has to approve the final product.  It also means that I’m not compensated directly.  Well she does give me an allowance, which I spend on fast food, whiskey, and beer—but you get the point.

As I sat at my desk two weekends ago watching 1,000 Ways to Die, a series on bizarre ways that people have been accidentally killed, she tossed the assignment across my desk to me in the form of a directive.  Heidi often addresses me in this way because, as I’ve already pointed out, she’s in charge of me.

“I need you to write the family Christmas letter.”

“I did that last year and you rewrote it.”

“No; I edited it.”

“I’m pretty sure you rewrote it.”

Raising her voice, she insisted “I edited it!”

“I need talking points for your parents.”  She left my office and returned about two minutes later with a bullet list.  “Pretty impressive.” I thought. “Do I have a deadline?”


“When is it?”

“This weekend.”

“OK.”  I responded as I turned Netflix back on to watch deathtrap #20: a man crawls into an industrial clothes drier to inspect it and the door closes behind him.  Whoa!  Totally gruesome.  Why the hell am I watching this crap?

I turned it off, reviewed the bullet list from Heidi, pulled up Word, and began to write.  For the next two hours I crafted a beautiful tribute to her father, mother, sister, grandmother, and her, with an honorable mention of myself.  Virtues were extolled.  Tribulations and successes alike were offered.  The living of life was celebrated.  All in Heidi’s voice.

Did I mention that this was an assignment from Heidi’s mother?  No; I didn’t think so.  Her mother always looks to her for this assignment, and Heidi invariably passes it onto me.  It is a labor of love in which I say the things about each family member I think Heidi would say so that her mother will not be disappointed.

Noon o’clock rolled around and I was done.  I walked into our bedroom where she was working diligently on whatever Heidi works on when I’m watching Netflix and YouTube videos.

“I’m done.  Do you want to look at it?”

“Sure!” she replied enthusiastically.

I waited impatiently wanting to head out for time with the guys.  She made a few minor corrections, giggled a couple of times, and seemed truly touched on one or two occasions as she read my sterling copy.  When she was done she looked up at me and smiled.  “That was very nice honey.”  Smugly I inquired “Am I dismissed?”  “Yes.” she replied.  “I just need to tighten it up a bit.”  Off I went for beer and pub-grub.

Fast-forward to the next afternoon.  After wasting most of the day plotting Texas secession from the Union, I wandered into her office and asked “What’s happening?”  She answered “Just working on the Christmas letter.”

“You’ve been working on it for a while.”

“I know.”

Puzzled, I left the room.  A few hours later I overheard her talking to her mother on the phone.  She was dictating the “tightened up” version of the letter I so lovingly crafted.  I entered the room and listened as she read the foreign sounding tome into her high-tech cell phone.  Sometime later she hung up and she looked over at me.  I guess the horror on my face was apparent.  “What?” she inquired.

“You rewrote it.”

“No; I edited it.”

“You portrayed your dad as a former covert agent, running drugs for the CIA.  He was a B52 pilot in the Air Force during the cold war.”

“Right.  It’s a where are they now kind of format.  Mom loved it.”

“You said your sister was interviewed by Entertainment Tonight.“

“Yes.  I thought it would be funny.”

“I thought the point was to inform the rest of the family of what we’ve been doing for the last year.”

“Right.  So I referenced the kind of thing they used to do in an exaggerated way and made it relevant to what they’re doing now.  It’s called creative license; look into it.”

“You said your mother was on a reality TV show flipping houses!”

“Well she did make a lot of money buying old houses in the right neighborhood and fixing them up.”

Nonplussed, I shook my head and offered “I see.”  I then shuffled out of the room, poured a glass of scotch, and put on some traditional Christmas music.

Newsflash: Jesus just cancelled his tickets for the Second Coming.

Merry Christmas,



Filed under Life or Something Like It, Marriage

The Interwebs and You: A Cautionary Tale—Sort of

In this installment of what is—no doubt in your minds—the most fascinating regularly scheduled “literature” on the InterWebs, I’d like to engage the way-back clock.

Long ago, in what has become a galaxy far, far away, a very smart and grotesque looking man named Reid Hoffman invented something called LinkedIn—perhaps you’ve heard of it.  It all began soon after the turn of the 21st century in 2002 (I know it’s ancient).

The idea was that you could use this thing called the “Internet” to do more than surf for porn, and send and receive e-mail.  You could also use it to make professional connections.  For those of you offended by my reference to porn, I agree with a recent comment from Herman Cain.  “…get a sense of humor.”

I myself would never use the Internet for such a purpose (as far as you know), but all of my friends did.  And I do mean all of them—at least all my male friends.  They had much more advanced personal computers than I did and I was still trying to figure out the www.

I worked for a software company and at that time the folks at this company actually encouraged unlimited use of the Internet.  They also didn’t monitor your odyssey on the Information Super Highway, which was really more of a farm to market road at that time.  Anybody remember lightning-fast 56 KB modems?  OK, so I’m ancient as well.

I remember walking into my friend Ric’s office in 1996 and got my first glance at a Web browser.  “What’s that?” I asked.  “The World Wide Web.” He replied.


“I’m chatting with someone in Russia.”


“Yeah.  We’re talking about my recent trip to Jamaica.  He wants to go.”

“What the Hell are you talking about dude?”

“You haven’t heard of the Web, man?  Where have you been?”


Ric sighed, trying to mask his impatience.  He then went on to explain what was to me a bizarre concept of virtual places you could visit on your computer.  Failing to grasp the concept I acquiesced with a polite “hmmm” and left the room.

Fast forward to 2003, I was laid off and as part of my severance, the company paid for six weeks of transitional assistance at a local consulting firm.  I attended a three-day orientation in which I was introduced to linkedin.com by the orientation consultant.  I immediately flashbacked to Ric’s office and asked her essentially the same question I asked him.  She then spent the next twenty minutes explaining the concept of virtual professional networking to me while everyone else in the room fell asleep.  Apparently I’m retarded when it comes technological advancements.  I didn’t grasp it much better than the notion of Web sites and forums when Ric tried to explain those concepts to me.

Up until that moment I used my computer for word processing and transceiving e-mail.  I was desperate for work, though, and so I set up my LinkedIn account as soon as I returned home and then broadcast my account name to all my e-mail contacts.

Fast forward further still to my latest little jaunt into unemployment: I’m now learning to embrace every social networking platform currently in existence.  God; I hate this crap.  I FaceBook.  I blog.  I tweet.  I integrate TM with Twitter—and by the way I typically screw that one up.  I’m even planning a series of vlog promos for YouTube.

And that’s just the beginning.  As I write this, all of these platforms are slowly becoming extinct.  Does anyone remember MySpace?  I was driving into work a few months ago and was listening to some morning radio.  The DJs were openly mocking users of MySpace as if that in itself made them social pariahs.

Here’s the thing.  I do enjoy writing this blog, because I have the floor and can talk about my favorite topics, among them me.  That said, I’ve already admitted publically to an alternative motive.  I was told I have to do this to sell my book.  Those other social networking platforms?  Same reason.  To me it seems like an act of vanity to put yourself out there in the way most people do on FaceBook, and Twitter, and WordPress, and what’s that new thing by Google?  Oh yeah.  Google+.

Seriously, why do you think I care that your “off to take a shower”, or that you’re at a hip new coffee shop drinking a “double espresso macchiato with extra foam and eating scrumptious scones?”  If you want to spend a fortune on an unhealthy breakfast that you’re washing down with an overdose of caffeine, have at it.  This is America.  Do what you want; I don’t care.  But that’s the point: I don’t care and by extension I don’t need to know unless you’re inviting me to join you.

The entire freaking world has turned off its brain and turned on a five-year-old look at me mentality.  I hate this social networking garbage as much as I hate reality TV—and I hate it for the same damned reason.  It’s full of people whose entire brand is LOOK AT ME.  How about, instead, you throw in “I want to earn enough money to get my PhD so I can find a cure for cancer and I’m willing to sacrifice my dignity to do it.”  Or maybe “I want to gain notoriety so that I can promote a book on repairing the human condition, and I think it’s so important I’m willing to put up with this crap to get there.”

No!  That never happens.  The entire point of being on reality TV is always so that you can be a jackass in front of 40 million viewers.  FaceBook and Twitter are no different.  Everybody wants to show how important and interesting their miserable little lives are.

OK; at this point, if you’re still reading, I probably owe you an apology.  I’m sorry about the rant; I just get a little worked up about this stuff sometimes.  As an individual, you are probably not that guy or gal.  You probably just want to stay in touch with your friends.  I say that because you follow my blog and so you are probably thoughtful and sensitive to the needs of others.

Hey.  Here’s an idea: pick up the damned phone and give him or her a call.  Novel huh?  Your cellular telephone was invented so that you could keep in touch by having an actual voice conversation from anywhere on the North American continent.

Now it is my fervent hope that you are laughing hysterically at the irony of my railing about this social networking crap in a blog on WordPress that I will promote on both Twitter and FaceBook.  That irony being compounded by the fact that I’m writing about stuff that is important to me and is no-doubt trivial to you—and, by the way, the book I’m promoting here does nothing to repair the human condition; it merely points it out and openly mocks it at times.  If that doesn’t strike you as funny or hypocritical, you’re probably not my target market.  You should consider going somewhere else.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a shower.


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Art or Something Like It

As I sit here alone, among the 50-or-so strangers in a sports bar drinking whiskey and beer while brilliantly crafting this blog entry, I’m struck by the contradiction that oxymoron suggests: alone in a sports bar with 50 other people.

On any given day there are a half dozen people who would typically join me for my evening ritual of unwinding after a day of blood, sweat, and toil in this work-a-day world we inherited from Adam and Eve.  But none of them answered my call for an end-of-day libation.

My best friend Fran who often joins me has custody of his son Rio tonight.  Other intervening factors (read excuses): a trip to Baltimore to visit my old friend; dinner with my daughter; my stomach hurts; getting ready for a baby shower I’m hosting for a friend.  Even inertia reared its ugly head in the form of couple-dating—a Friday night ritual for a friend and her husband.

To be fair, I’m sympathetic to inertia—because when it comes to my rituals, (such as the Friday night trip to Baby Blues, Pluckers, and The Common Interest karaoke bar) I am the poster boy for inertia.  It’s an element of my brand and I’m loath to give it up, but seriously.  How is it possible that, given the number of people I can usually depend on to have a drink with me, I am sitting in a room full of strangers working on the next “stellar” blog entry that I hope (to no avail, of course) will launch my career as a soon to be famous writer (or at least a fabulously wealthy one)?

I know I’ve mentioned this on multiple occasions, but I’m a writer and I started this blog to promote a book I’m trying to sell.  For those of you who don’t know, publishing is a tricky business, not for the faint of heart.  I was told on no uncertain terms that to be published, a presence not only Facebook, but WordPress, Twitter, YouTube and every other social networking platform that exists now and in the future is required.

Nine months ago just before I finished my book I began researching the idea of acquiring an agent.  Most of them want something called a platform.  A platform is an agent’s way of taking a percentage of your royalty without doing any work.

Essentially you have to sell your book whether you have an agent or not.  You’ve got to have a brand that people want to buy and to promote your brand you’ve got to advertise.  This blog, as much as I enjoy writing it, is ultimately just that and nothing more—and most agents expect you to already have that kind of infrastructure in place before they will even talk to you.

The reason?  People don’t buy books anymore because the literature is good.  They used to do that, but now people buy books because a person is a celebrity.  Books today are what movies were in the 40s but with less literary value.  People flocked to Gone with the Wind because of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh, although it was also a very interesting story, loosely based on an actual historical event that included a brilliant portrayal of Southern culture and interesting characters.  And by the way it happened to be a pretty good book before it was a movie.

The literary value was immense, but the movie really sold because Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh were part of the MGM brand.  Also, everyone—including my dad—wanted to witness Scarlett O’Hara get hers when Rhett Butler retorts “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Fast-forward to the 21st Century and we have shunned flying cars for reality TV.  I hate reality TV for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is rarely real.  I deal with this topic in the book I am trying to sell, but that’s not really important here.  What is important is that the biggest reason I hate reality TV is because to me it represents everything that is wrong with our culture.  Reality TV has supplanted literature and even cinema, something once held in disdain as a poor substitute for literature.

It is at once a reflection of our culture and a viral agent infecting it.  The fact that so many people tune into American Idol and Hoarders and that so many people compete for slots on that sort of programming suggests to me that I will never be published.  That’s because I feel like I have something uplifting and worthwhile to say.  Actually that can be said of most people—but for whatever reason they would rather sit and watch people who don’t.  I make no apology for my sentiment about participants and contestants on reality TV: they are, by-and-large, worthless louts who convert oxygen into carbon dioxide for no apparent reason.

I don’t know that you can call my book literature—but I definitely want to say something meaningful and entertaining through the written word.  I fear, however, it is never to be published.  As I sit here writing these words I can see the bar, where I was sitting about a year ago before I finished it.  I was sitting next to a stranger who I discovered was an unknown musician and vocalist.

We began to talk and I asked him what he did for a living.  He said that he ran network cable as a contractor during the day but wrote music and played random gigs at night.  I listened as he complained bitterly about working very hard over the previous ten years to be discovered.  He was in his late twenties and knew that each passing day increased the probability that his lifelong dream would be inevitably crushed.  I’m hardly in my 20s, but I was right there with him.

I looked at him and said “You know I can really relate to everything you’re saying.  I have a book I’m trying to sell.  I’ve let a lot of people read it and most really like it, but a few, including my wife, have criticized me for not coming explicitly to the point.  I mean, I just want to make some observations, entertain you, and make you think.  I don’t want to spoon feed you conclusions.  I want you to draw your own conclusion.  That’s what art is supposed to do isn’t it?”  “Yes.”  He replied thoughtfully.  “But that book will never sell—at least not until you’re dead.  Then it will probably be heralded as a masterful work of art.”  “Yeah.” Was all I could really muster.

Now here’s the funny part.  I sincerely doubt anything I write will ever really be called a masterful work of art whether I’m dead or alive.  Further, I believe the probability of any of it selling is about the same as the Sun going out tomorrow.  It requires you to think critically.  Nobody cares about that anymore.

The up-side?  I still have whiskey and plenty of time to drink it.  Cheers.


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Filed under Writerly Travails