Getting Carded

If you’ve ever read anything of mine, you won’t be surprised to hear that writing isn’t my day job. I’d be more surprised that I have return readers. Anyway, at work we have several reference guides for authenticating ID’s from far and wide. I felt a few of the samples were worth sharing, so without further ado:



“Surprise!” Or maybe the photographer captured the moment she was told her sample name would be Happy H. Zzzviisagedlover.




Mr. Clean: A good guy to have on your side in a prison riot. More importantly, what do they mean by “Experimental, Full-privileged?”




“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to take off the motorcycle helmet for the – ohh.”




Organ donor: No
Chin donor: Hell Yes




 Jessica Rabbit? (Young people reading this are all “wtf.”)




Tina Yothers?? (Again with an 80’s reference! #WhenHashTagsWerePoundsigns)


“I see we meet again,” he told a stranger in a strange land. But the old man just stared impassively at the horizon while the desert sky faded orange pink indigo black. In the hazy, distant hills a light flicked, and the creatures of the night began to stir.

“Thanks but no thanks.”

I haven’t written anything in a while, which is not to say that I have writer’s block, more like achiever’s block. Just haven’t been feeling motivated. I did write something for a website, a potential paying gig, but it was rejected and I was told “the humor isn’t there.”

Getting rejected is a reality if you want to be in the creative arts as a profession, and you need to be able to sit with whatever discomfort that comes along with it. I won’t say you should (or can) stop caring about these things. It sucks for a little while, but then you have to figure that it’s just one person’s opinion of whatever you wrote. I mean, there are people who don’t like ______ (fill in blank with your favorite author, band, food, etc.) after all. Crazy motherfuckers.

I’m sure that if you talked to established professionals in whatever medium, they would all have far more tales of rejection than acceptance. Another commonality would be that they didn’t give up when countless doors slammed in their face. I firmly believe that success does not happen when you hear “yes,” it happens when you hear “no” but keep on pushing forward.

Frog the Mountie Punter

I was watching this show about a couple who ran a bail bonds business. They were really smart about it: they dressed like, acted like, and really nailed the personae  of the low-life, tweaker, trash they were trying to apprehend. Then I realized it wasn’t just a clever disguise, it’s how Dog and Beth are all the time.


I didn’t really know him. I knew things about him…maybe that’s as close as we can get to knowing another soul. We talk of “walking in somebody’s shoes” as if it was a possibility, but we cannot try on the experiences, fears, and dreams of anybody else. We’re barely acquainted with our own, at various points in our lives. The waters of another life must remain distant and impenetrable, much like a painting of a seascape hanging on the wall, and are not something we can ever dive into.

But back to the man: He was with my aunt for many years – as long as I can remember. They never married, she had once before I think but this was something my family never spoke of. He was from Maine. I remember that he was from Maine because he told me a story one Christmas of buying a truckload of Christmas trees and driving them down to sell in western Massachusetts, which is where my aunt was living. He may have told this story a few times, on those awkward holidays when he and my aunt accompanied my grandparents on their annual visit to our home in the eastern part of the state. More than likely, this story was repeated because it was apropos and also because there wasn’t much common ground between him and my brother and I. He was seemingly from rugged, rustic, working class stock and we were adolescents in an upper-middleclass suburb, the sons of writers. He was often dressed in flannel, and always carried a jackknife. I kept mine in a drawer since my lifestyle dictated that I rarely, if ever, needed it.

There are other things I can recall about him. He was an alcoholic, I don’t know how severe or how it impacted his life or those in close proximity to him, claimed to have seen a mountain lion once, hated the lounge singer Robert Goulet. Something about his face reminded me of Johnny Cash. In typical old New England fashion he wasn’t very talkative, but again, maybe he was open around people he felt more comfortable with.

He seemed to have a connection with the natural world, grounded and terrestrial, and not one for flights of imagination. But maybe I’m wrong. After all, I hardly knew ye. You have returned to the earth from which you came. May you rest in peace, Dave.

August 27, 2015

On Writing

It’s a dark, rainy day here in coastal New England. I’m sitting at my dining room table with my (now empty) cup of coffee, having just done some writing. I have not posted in a while because I have been busy. I got a new job, which sucks on several levels, one of which being that it detracts from time/energy directed towards writing. Also I took a class recently which was in the mornings: the time I most prefer to write.

I’m working on a novel as well. I will continue to post here, perhaps excepts from what I’m working on or possibly some of what I come up with here will find its way into the book. I don’t know yet. It’s just hard to find the time.

A friend of mine who lives in Europe now and I see every couple years, advised me just to write every day. “It doesn’t have to be good: Just write.” So with those words echoing in my head, I’m back to putting other words down. Hopefully I choose the right ones, and put them in the proper order.