I KNOW I DON'T HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT

The wife turns 60 tomorrow.  She's old, I'm old.

I remember when things were different, when we possessed whatzits and thingamajigs the other was interested in exploring.

What the hell happened?

Knowledge might be power.  But ignorance (with a trunkload of curiosity and a hard-on) was bliss.

Get the hell out there and explore.

Happy Thanksgiving to the good folks of the U S of A. 



Oh.

Right....

I forgot to mention the Republicans.

Sorry.

As you were.  Say no more.  No what I mean?  Nudge, wink, gobble.

A SIMPLE 'THANK YOU'

Ahh... so quiet.  So peaceful.  No comments and no followers.  Just the way I like it.  Why, I'm virtually invisible.

That being the case -- and you being busy and all -- I intend to rob your houses.

You might as well gift-wrap the silverware and put my name on it.

Oh yeah... and thanks.

Years ago, a friend (and fellow writer) told me I was afraid of (literary) success.

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it?

I think he was right.

Still, he never had a wife.  Or children.  And aging parents.  And the kind of personality that always put teaching ahead of writing.

Yeah, I have excuses.

But he was correct.  For oh, so many reasons.

I've always been a fringe player, publishing a story here and there, and some poetry, some this and that. But the novel is nearly ready.  And the novella.  And the book of stories.

I'm schizoid, though.  I hear voices telling me to back off, rip it up, stay sane, forget 'success'. 

Yes or no?  I mean, hell, time isn't exactly on my side. Figure it out, asshole.  What do you want?

I love to write.  But I despise notoriety.

Maybe I just want to be a 'coulda been'.

I do know this: whether or not anything got published, I needed to take dictation. Even if I was the only one who ever heard their stories.  Because they didn't care about 'success'.  They only needed a typist.

FACTS AND FICTION

I'm sixty.  I was adopted in 1948. My biological mother is likely dead.

Those are the facts.

Here are some more:

I never wanted to track her down.  I've been aware of the fact that I was adopted since I was twenty-three.  The person I've called 'mother' all my life is still alive.  She is ninety-one.  Who needs an extra one of those?

But let's say my biological mother was just a kid when she had me.  Hell, she might still be in her mid-seventies.  Maybe she's still in possession of her marbles... and a huge fortune.  She might be able to tell me things about my biological daddy.  Like, what a prick he was.  Or how they were both just kids and he was going to marry her but then the hay thresher took off both of his legs and he bled to death under a gray Saskatchewan sky, her name on his lips as he died, shivering, alone and frightened.

I have a thousand different scenarios.  But no answers.

And as a writer of fiction, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh I like it.

JUST AN OBSERVATION

Hey.
Last night I quaffed a couple of imported brewskis.  I went to the liquor store after work and picked up a few cans of stuff I'd never tried.  One of them was a German beer called Holsten.  Not bad.  A tad thin, mind, but still....  The interesting thing about this beer was the label.  There was a knight on horseback above the Holsten name, and below the name was this interesting little tag:

German Purity

Law of 1516

Now, I don't know about you, but whenever the Germans start touting laws of purity, I get a tad antsy.

Probably nothing to worry about, eh?

THE 'HAND OF GOD' REDUX. WHAT THE REF DIDN'T SEE.

There's only one thing I've enjoyed in my life more than beer.  (Hint: it doesn't involve the manufacture and release of bodily fluids, except perhaps for rivers of sweat.)  That's right.  Soccer.

I am, therefore, upset with the turn of events involving the second leg of World Cup qualifying between Ireland and France.  The outcome of the game was a sham, decided in France's favour by the gross ineptitude of the officials and a double hand-ball by one of the game's all-time great international players, Thierry Henry.

In Henry's defense, he did admit to the foul. But rules is rules. The ref didn't see it; therefore it didn't happen. Video replay is not allowed.  Unfortunately, the rules are wrong.  To win in such a manner is worse than losing.  One wishes the French side would show some balls and ask FIFA for a rematch.  Not that it would be granted.  But such an effort would at least exhibit some kind of sportsmanship. (One wonders how the hand-ball was missed by both the ref and the closest assistant.  Rather defies belief.)

Too bad this match will not be replayed. I'd bet Henry would be the first to suit up. When your playing days are over, all you have left is your reputation.  (And a few million in the bank to ease the shame, of course.)