Since I've Been Gone

You may have noticed that I've not posted for a while. PArt of that is because I'm enjoying a respite from contact. The home internet connection is temporarily unavailable and my cell phone has been turned off (if anyone wants to spot me the cash to get it turned back on, that would be great). The funny thing is, I don't miss the phone. Sure, there are some people that probably have been trying to call me and can't get through and I feel bad about that. But everyone knows they can find me here. leave comment. If you need to talk to me that bad, I'll call you.

Family...

Right now, the house I live near is empty, ready for a two-week remodeling project. It has been empty for a couple days and already I feel how lonely a desolate home can be. I miss everyone that should be in the house. I don't so much miss the animals that go along with the people, but no situation is perfect.
I miss the kids the most. I'm pretty sure they miss me, too. I miss walking into the house and asking how the day has been. I miss the slence of a child not paying any attention to me just as much as I miss the common answer of "Good." I miss the answer "stuff" which nine times out of ten follows the question "What did you do today." I miss the high fives for no reason and the occasional tug on the leg. The tug is often accompanied by the plea, "Take me with you!"

It hurts, too. I know they will all be back in a couple weeks and things will seem like old times. But it won't be like old times. Once they are all back in the house, I will begin my packing in preparation for my move out of the house and out of this city. Then the real good-byes will happen.

Strange as it may sound, all this causes me to yearn for a family of my own.

Yankee Fans

Ok, I am Boston red Sox fan. I'm also a New England Patriots fan but that is another story. Today I want to talk about Yankee fans.

I love baseball. As such, I have an immense respect for the history of the game. Much of that history involves the New York Yankees. I'm ok with that. What i can't stand are most of the current Yankee fans.

After Boston (finally) won the World Series in 2004, I fequently heard the shouts of "Red Sox Suck!" Jealous bastards. I don't think it was NY losing the American League Championship as HOW they lost it. The Yanks, by all means, should have won that series. Of course, they should have beaten the Florida Marlins the year before and they should have beaten the Arizona Diamondbacks in 2001. They didn't. Losing is something you just have to live with and move on. I'd like to remind Yankee fans of the years between 1981 (lost to the Dodgers in the World Series) and 1996 (won the Series against the Atlanta Braves) in which the total number of World Series appearances add up to...ZERO!!!!! The Yanks haven't always been on top. Losing bad is someting they should have remembered when they should have beaten the Pirates in 1960 on a late inning home run. They've won games that way and they've lost games that way. It is baseball; that is how it happens.

There is one particular fan I'd like to address right now. i don't know her name. I saw last night while on the Las Vegas Strip. i was leaning against a railing, waiting for some people to catch up. She saw me, wearing my 1947 throwback Boston cap, before I saw her. When I made eye contact, she turned her ballcap around so I could see the NY logo and smirked. I shrugged my shoulders and watched her walk away. Not too far down the road, she returned her cap to its previous state, again showing me that dreaded logo.

The worst part is she was an attractive girl who obviously cares about her baseball. I respect that. But could you see me dating a Yankee fan? That is just as likely as the Cubs winning the World Series.

Master Packer Strikes Again!!!!

moving always sucks. I've done it so many times I am nearly an expert. Moving sucks even more when it is other people's stuff. I don't mind it when i want to help (as I did the last two days). What really sucks is when there are plenty of people to help and some of them just stand there. I hate people in the way. When it comes to moving (actually, when it comes to anything) I'm a don't stop until it's done kind of person. Granted, I may put off starting a project but once I start, it is going to get done.

I, along with a select few family members, am a master-packer. We can fit boxes and weird shaped things into an intricate puzzle in order to make as few trips as possible. When only one trip is allowed, this is a must. It is a skill born of practice and problem solving. Not everyone can be a master-packer.

In two weeks, all the stuff I helped pack and move will be coming right back. Slightly after that, I get to pack my own stuff. I don't have as much stuff as an entire household. Good think, too. i can move all my stuff myself without anyone getting in my way.

Coyote Online

Ok, so my first issue got bogged down and never made it online. However, my second issue is now available online at http://www.coyotepressonline.com/home/

Enjoy!!!

Rolling on....

Well, my second paper came out today. Two down, one to go. Hopefully, I'm living up to expectations. Even better would be to surpass expectations. I don't know that I've down that. I've had deadline problems. I set a oal before i even started and I've not been able to hit those dates. What I have doen is get out a quality product. I still haven't heard anything bad at all. Kind of scary when i start to think about it. The past papers could not have been so bad as to make anything that is an improvement seem so much better.
Of course, I could be wrong.

Idaho, do you?

A strange thing was happening the last few weeks. I started doubting the attainability of my goals and plans. I started telling myself that I wanted time to finish a stalled book before going to a new school and embarking on new adventures. Mostly, I was afraid of having something right in front of me and not being able to pay for it. I had nearly convinced myself that I actually needed the semester off that I had planned to be this semester. Still, the biggest thing was being afraid of not having the money to make it through more schooling.
When I returned from Portland, a letter from University of Idaho was waiting for me. It was my total and complete financial aid awards. Upon viewing it, I was a bit happier. It looked like it'd be enough to pay for tuition. I would still have to find a way to live and eat. I could do that but that fear still whispered in my ear that I wouldn't be able to do it. It just wouldn't work. Then I had a better look at the cost estimate sheet I've looked at five billion times. The award letter is divided by semesters. The cost estimate is for an entire year.
Guess what that means? I will have enough backing to go to school, buy books, live somewhere and eat. I won't have to find a job that will suck up time that I should be studying. Of course, some of the financial aid will have to be paid back. For now, however, I am unencumbered. I still have to register and get up to Moscow, find a place to live and all that, but at least I know I'll be ok.
I'll finish that book eventually. until then, I'll just keep writing my short stories. Maybe I'll even sell a few of them.

Powell's is Heaven

Ray Bradbury was wrong. Mars isn't Heaven. Heaven, I learned, is a place called Powell's City of Books in Portland. I spent a lot of time there, looking at all the books I wanted and couldn't have. The rare book room is orgasmic. I stood there, oogling like a buffoon over first editions of Hemingway and Faulkner. The one I wanted most, however, was not one of the more expensive first editions. In a case close to the Horror section sat a 1st edition of The Stand by Stephen King. This is a true first edition, not the unabridged version, not a book club edition. I have book editions, where they replicate the original dust jackets. Gues how much this book cost? $150.00. Compare to one of the Hemingways, 150 was nothing.
I bought a Sherlock Holmes action figure.

Portland is a great place. Overcast most of the time, with a light drizzle of rain. I loved it. Not cold and not hot. It is baby bear country. Everything was just right.

I didn't win anything but I had quite a few people remember me from last year's conference in Kansas City. That is worth more than money.

There is a girl from Alabama who won't soon for get me, either. Wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean?

English Conference

I'm awake. It is 5:05 am. I'm about to leave for the airport. What? You thought I get up this early because I like it?

I'm going to an English conference. I went to one of these last year. Had a great time. There are a few things that bug me, though. Remember, I am an English major. This is what I do.

For the next few days I will be surrounded by other English majors. I will listen to crappy poetry and literary analysis that a monkey could have written. I will listen to short fiction that, despite what the review panel thinks, is not as good as mine. No worries. I know my strenghths. I also know that snooty English types in their sweater vests do not like horror fiction.

Last year I sent in a more mainstream short story (Available in Westering Volume 3. I've meant to send a bunch of them out but I haven't had the cash to spare for postage.) and wowed the crowd. It is a pretty good little story but it isn't my personal favorite. This year I sent in what I like as opposed to what I thought they would like. Is this a mistake? Maybe. This isn't like sending a Lord of the Rings fantasy story to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, though. Screw them if they don't like genre fiction. I'm fine with it. I just feel bad for all the poor souls who won't get to have as good a time now because they won't be able to hav ethe shit scared out of them by me.

Of course, if they realy want to be frightened, they can always go listen to some of the poetry.

I will keep you all updated as the conference goes on. Catch you on the flipside.

Just doing my job...

Some of you may know that I have a healthy disrespect for authority, including law enforcement. part of it being healthy is that I will let them do their job as long as they don't bother me. Today I was bothered.

I live inthe backyard, remember? I walked out from the yard, headed for a walk. I took a sharp turn back to the house to check the mailbox. At that exact time a police cruiser passed by. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the cruiser quickly turn at the next corner. I kept walking until the cruiser pulled in front of me, blocking my path.
The officers exited the vehicle and asked me to take my hands out of my pockets. I complied and answered yes when asked if I lived in the house I just left. When asked if I had any warrants I made the mistake of answering truthfully.
I said, "Not that I know of." The officer said that most people say no and an answer like that usually means yes.
I told them I had a very good reason for answering the way I did.
One day, I was a passenger in a car with expired tags. Headed to work, we were pulled along side a county sheriff at a red light. The cop backed off as the light changed and quickly pulled us over after seeing the expired plate. The cop asked for both our IDs. We complied, the driver profisely apologizing for his minor violation. After spending time in his car, the officer came back with our IDs and handed the driver's back to him. The cop told the driver he was letting him off with a warning. This time.
Then the cop came around to the passenger side where I sat. He opened the door and asked me to step out of the vehicle. Now, I 've had my run ins with JOhn Q. Law but I'd stayed clear for a long time. I knew I hadn't done anything. I was told there was a warrant for me due to an overweight vehicle.
I laughed. I did not (and still don't) have a driver's license let alone a CDL. I told the cop this but he was so happy to get an arret that he didn't seem to hear. I wasn't even old enough at the time to possess a CDL. We went back to his cruiser after the pat down. I told the cop that he was mistaken, that I bet the warrant was for my father who was an equipment transporter for an asphalt company at the time. He called in to dispatch again with my ID only to be given back the info of my father.
See, we have the same first and last name. Different middle name. Our birthdates, apparently, sound so similar that this particular could not tell the difference between 9-30-59 and 10-31-79. The situation was straightened out but I did not get an apology. The cop did not get his big arrest, however.

Back to today. The officers check my ID, discovering that I do live where I said I did and that, in fact, I did not have any outstandinf warrants. Naturally, I chatted away the whole time, answering questions because I had nothing to hide. Suggesting the officers should have raincoats on when they get out of their car. You know, just being a nice guy. They wer enice, telling me that they percieved my actions as suspicious and felt the need to check it out. I thanked them for doing their job and that it was good to know they were watching.
It could have turned out worse. The best part is, karma rewarded me for my troubles. Three blocks down the road I found a five dollar bill.
Karma rules. I still don't like cops but I can put up with them if they can put up with me.

My how time flies...

You'd never believe it but eleven years ago tonight, I sat in a juvenile detention facility, surrounded by adults I didn't know and kids I didn't want to know. Other than being in DT, there wasn't much difference between that night and any other. They fed me Lima beans, which I had no opinin on previously and now despise. It was so cold my ass nearly froze to the lidless commode. Like today, it was a Monday. I was sprung by Thursday.
yes, it was a horrible few days. I don't want to go through it again. I've avoided brushes with the law as much as possible. And still I would not trade that day for almost anything. So many things would be different if that day had not happened as it did. Who knows where I would have gone? Who knows what I would have done?
I wouldn't be here, writing for you now. I would not be in college and so would not be the editor of the college newspaper. I wouldn't have moved when I did, meaning I would not have met some of the best people I've known. (Those in Payson, Reno and Las Vegas especially.) I may never have embraced my love (and, humbly, talent) for writing.
Not every day since then has been a good one. I've had some very bad days (and occasionally, a few bad weeks). There have been some really great days, too. Just becuase some of those great days were immediately followed by the bad days does not make them any less great. (I have to remind myself of this constantly.)
I do have a point. Really.
Shit happens. Sometimes the bad shit turns out to be the best things that could have happened. In won't seem like it at the time. It can take years for karma to come back around. Eleven is a good number, don't you think?

Another Story

Ok, this was an assignment. We had to write an 800 word story using only dialogue. Here is mine. Guess what it is about?


Glaucoma Prevention Tips

"Don’t do that."
"Do what?"
"What you are doing right now."
"I’m doing lots of things. What don’t you want me to do?"
"God, you are going to make me say it, aren’t you?"
"Does it bother you to say it?"
"No, I’m not a prude. It’s just that you are always doing it and I wish you’d stop."
"Well, maybe if you joined in more often, I wouldn’t have to do it so much."
"You’d do it anyway."
"Yeah, but not as much."
"Could you maybe go into the bathroom then? "
" I like to look at you."
"Take a fucking picture then."
"Can I?"
"No. You know how those things get out."
"Kinda like this one of your sister."
"What? You don’t have a picture of my sister."
"Yes I do. Paul took it at the wedding."
"Why haven’t I seen it?"
"We don’t want it getting out to too many people, do we?"
"I’m her sister, dammit. Show me the picture."
"Ok, but I didn’t take it. Paul did."
"Just show me."
"What do you think of little sis now?"
"Jesus, is that her head or…"
"Definitely not her head."
"All those years of gymnastics and cheerleading and it comes down to this."
"Weren’t you a cheerleader?"
"Yes, but I never did anything like this."
"I heard otherwise."
"From who?"
"No one in particular."
"Bullshit. You better tell me now or I’ll tear up this picture."
"Go ahead. It’s your sister. You were going to tear it up anyway."
"How do you know?"
"Not much of a stretch."
"Tell me who told you and I’ll think about letting you keep it."
"Nah, it’s fine. I don’t need it anymore."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Have I ever lied to you?"
"You never told me about this picture."
"You never asked."
"What? You expected me to ask, ‘Hey, do you have any naked pictures of my little sister?"
"Technically, she still has her clothes on."
"Technically, I don’t care. You can see everything."
"Only if you turn it just right."
"That’s it. Get out. You are on the couch tonight."
"Ow! Quit kicking."
"I’ll stop kicking once you are away from me."
"C’mon, don’t be like that."
"I’m tearing up this picture right now."
"I don’t mind. You are sexier than her anyway. I married you, remember?"
"Good bye to the picture. I’ll see you in the morning."
"Ok, ok. It was Megan."
"Megan…Megan from college?"
"Yeah, Megan from college. She told me about you and her and the debate team."
"She didn’t?"
"Yes, she did."
"When?"
"When she dropped off your reunion invitation last year."
"Oh my God. She swore she’d never tell anyone."
"Yeah, but do you remember what day that was?"
"No, I don’t…Wait, it wasn’t…?"
"Yes it was. The five in one nighter."
"I can’t believe it. Hearing that old story made you…"
"Made me do this first."
"Stop it!"
"I can’t stop now. It has a mind of its own."
"Why can’t it have a place of its own?"
"It does."
"Nice. It isn’t a garage and that isn’t a Cadillac."
"That isn’t what you said that night."
"I was drunk."
"So were you drunk last night when you called it …"
"Don’t say it. Please don’t say it."
"Henry’s brother. Peter Wadsworth Longfellow."
"That is so ridiculous. How did you get me to say that out loud?"
"Tequila. Lots and lots of tequila."
"I could go for another right now."
"No go. You drank it all."
"I did not!"
"Ok, I had a couple shots, but you drank most of it."
"We just bought that bottle last week!"
"If you want more tequila, I will get you more tequila."
"Are you going to put your pants on first? Maybe wash your hands?"
"Nope. I’ll tell the clerk I lost my pants drunk and I need to be drunk to find them again."
"Get back here. You don’t have to get me drunk to get a little."
"That would be true if I only wanted a little."
"If you’d hold still for a second, you can have all you want."
"Can I have that picture back?"
"No. I’m keeping it."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Same thing you’ve been doing."
"You aren’t?"
"Yes I am. I’m going to hide it from you for ten years. When you forget about it, then you can have it back."
"Oh. I thought you meant…"
"Meant what? You thought I was going to do this?"
"Don’t stop."
"I won’t."

Craziness

The blog has been acting up. Hope no one else has been adversely affected.

Well?

So, did anyone read the story? As much as I love writing, if no one is going to read it, I'll go back to just writing in my journal. The only way I know if you are reading anything here is if you comment. Just something as simple as, "Hey I read the post." I'd like a bit more than that, but I can be happy just knowing someone is at least reading.

A bedtime story...

Ok, the formatting doesn't translate well, but you'll get the point. This is called "An Appointment with the Knifeman". Enjoy

My first appointment for the evening is at 7:30. Most clients do not schedule me this early. I tend to cater to the night crowd. I arrive at the home at 7:28. I’ve learned to be precise. Showing up too early can be horrific; showing up late can be deadly.
The trees and sidewalk are clear of leaves. Spots of frost have already begun to form on the lawn. The small home hovers over the front yard, a prison guard watching from his tower. I can see basement lights barely shining through the blacked out bottom windows. The rest of the house is dark. I hope the client has not forgotten about our appointment.
I climb out of my car, then walk up to the steps. I ring the doorbell at exactly 7:30. The faint light, which had illuminated the lawn, goes out. A door inside the house slams. Anyone else might be tempted to ring the bell a second time. I resist; my client knows who is at the door because I ring only once. Just like opportunity.
The front door opens to reveal half the face of tonight’s client. It looks nothing like the drawings on the news. Not all my clients are so lucky.
"Is that you, Mr. Cutter?" the half-face asks.
"None other, Mr. Harmer." Harmer. Sounds fake. But I’m one to talk, aren’t I?
"Please," the door opens farther, "come in, Mr. Cutter. I heard of your impeccable timing but you’ve surprised me. I don’t like surprises. I’ll make an exception this time."
"I hope you’ll make many more. You may be surprised and hopefully amazed at the quality of my product."
"We’ll see about that."
"Yes, yes we will."


I walk back to my car to get my sample case. I never bring it with me to the door the first time. Some of my clients change their minds and do not wish to see me. Sometimes the client isn’t home for whatever reason. So I leave the case in the car. I have a few other reasons but those reasons are mine to keep.
I return to the front door, case in hand. Mr. Harmer has turned on the living room light allowing me to see where I should sit. I walk into the house and take a seat near the coffee table. My seat, of course, is the orange plastic chair. Stolen from some elementary school that Mr. Harmer can never forget. Mr. Harmer sits in the recliner at the other end of the table. I’m used to this sort of dominant/submissive treatment. Every client wants to be in charge. Every client thinks he is doing something new. The first to leave a note; the first to drive a panel van; the first to treat me like a child. I tell Mr. Harmer that he is in for more surprises.
I heave my case onto the table. The table is just wide enough to accommodate the case. I open it, lifting one side and turning it towards Mr. Harmer. His eyes bulge, not an uncommon reaction.
The knives, each in their place, shine in the limited light. Each knife, from the three-inch paring knife to the 14-inch bread knife, is made of 420J stainless steel. Each of the knives offered by Cutterman Inc. are full tang constructed. Ginsu may slice tomatoes, MiracleBlade might cut sheetrock, but Cutterman knives are guaranteed to slice through bone.
I’m very proud of these facts and I let Mr. Harmer know so. He scowls, grunts, and reaches for the cleaver. I gently lift the handle before Mr. Harmer can leave a fingerprint on it. Had I shifted the blade a half-inch to the left, Mr. Harmer would no longer have a thumb. I moved a quarter-inch and nicked his hand. His blood drips onto his table, not my knives. I don’t think anyone would notice another drop of blood on Mr. Harmer’s coffee table.
I know everything that touches the knives in my case. I know everyone who touches my knives.


I twirl the cleaver in my hand, slicing the air. I pull a black handkerchief from a pocket inside the case. I wipe the blade clean. Sparkling, as always.
"As you have just witnessed, Mr. Harmer, Cutterman Knives wipe clean. Even blood comes right off. That should be an especially enticing incentive to a man in your field."
"What do you know about it?" Mr. Harmer said. He springs out of his chair, leaning over the table. His snarl and sneer might scare seventeen-year-old girls but it doesn’t scare me.
"Please, Mr. Harmer. Sit back down. Do you think I would be here without knowing exactly who you are and what your business is?"
Mr. Harmer eases back into his chair. His body relaxes but his eyes remain paranoid. I can tell he would rather be back in his basement. I replace the cleaver in its space and decide to go for the sell now.
"Mr. Harmer, let me show you the crown jewel of the Cutterman collection." I hold out our sixteen-inch-long butcher knife. "As you can see, this knife is a whole four inches wide at the base of the blade. The length gives it that extra inch so many of our customers desire. The full-tang construction and 420J stainless steel make this the most durable knife of its type available anywhere."
Mr. Harmer’s eyes melt into a look of lust, replacing paranoia. "Do you have any frozen steaks, Mr. Harmer?" I ask.
"I think so, let me check the kitchen," Mr. Harmer answers. He stands up, eyes still on the butcher knife. He turns around when he reaches the kitchen doorway. I hear the refrigerator door open and the sounds of Mr. Harmer rummaging through his frozen foods.
"The thicker, the better, Mr. Harmer," I call out.
He comes back into the living room. "I don’t seem to have any up here. Let me check the basement freezer. All my big stuff is down there." I wave my hand in assent. Mr. Harmer grins and that lustful gleam returns to his eyes. "I’ll be just a second."
"I’ll be right here," I say. Mr. Harmer heads for the door that leads down to the basement. I can picture that diffused light shining on the lawn again. The butcher knife resides firmly in my hand. I love the feel of this knife. It is our most popular item and definitely my favorite.
Silently, I descend the steps into the basement, knife in hand. Careful not to trip over the pink and white Hello Kitty backpack, or the ashtray full of tiny sparkling earrings. This demonstration will be better downstairs.
"I can’t seem to find any thick steaks," Mr. Harmer yells. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," I whisper into his ear. "This will do perfectly."
"What will do…" Mr. Harmer can not finish his question with the knife buried in his chest.
"Can you feel how that extra length really does the job, Mr. Harmer," I say to him. His hand reaches to his back. He winces when his fingers nudge the tip of the blade. His fingers drip blood as he brings it back into view. "Can you feel it," I ask.
Mr. Harmer nods. His eyes close. No sale this time. Before our appointment is finished, I decide to take my commission out of Mr. Harmer.

Playing the system

Tonight, I will be attending my second concert as a reporter. I will be interviewing a British band called Athlete. They are openng for a band called Switchfoot. Ask me if I previously knew anything about these bands and I'd have to say no. We'll see how it goes.
If it goes anything like the first show I went to, I will have a couple new bands on my favorites list. That would be cool.

Here is what I've learned so far. Artist & Promotions people love it when you want to write about their band. Those first two, the A&R contacted me first. That made me feel special. To be acknowledged as a real publishing entity.

This morning I took a chance and called a record company about a band coming to town next month. Yes, I want to interview this particular band, but I also want to see the performance of the headliner. My interview will be with Lacuna Coil, a heavy metal band from Italy. How cool is that? The headliner is...
ROB ZOMBIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm half-tempted to contact his label, tell them I'm already set to get intot he show and ask if I can get a few minutes with Mr. Zombie. I love saying that. "Could I pseak with Mr. Zombie for just a moment?"


I may be broke but look at the perks!

A New Day

Everyday is a new one. Today, I can breath and be pleased that my first newspaper is finally available for the reading public. It isn't perfect but it will do. I had fun days and not-so-fun days. But I have that first one done.

I've already begun work on the next issue. I'm hopingto actually have this one out closer to my self-imposed deadline. We shall see what we shall see. It's never over, is it? No such ting as a real day off. My days off will come at the end of this month when I'm in Portland, Oregon, far away from the newspaper physically. I wonder how far away mentally I will be. If all the layout stuff is done and the paper is at the printer while I'm away, then I will survive. If it isn't done before I leave, I may experience some fitful nights and worrisome days.

Such is the life I've chosen.

NEW BUSINESS:
I'm thinking of posting a few short stories in the blog. I'm wondering what my readers think of that. Please, click that comment button and let me know.

Cold...so cold

No, the temperature is just fine. It is this damn cold. Won't go away. Keeps lingering. Really starting to piss me off. I can't get anymore of the medicine that actually worked because I have no money. I can't just stay in bed because I have shit to do. AARGH!!!!!

That whole money thing is pissing me off, too. Come the first of the month, I'll be fine. From the 21st to the 1st, I may be screwed. My bus pass runs out on the 21st and I spent the money I should have used on a new pass on food and medicine instead. Tough choice, eh? One might say, "But isn't the week of the 20th through 26th your SPring Break? Why do you need to go anywhere?" Good point. However, I don't really get a Spring Break. That week will be spent getting out my next issue of the paper. I might take a couple of those days off to veg, but not many.

We shall see what we shall see.

Finally!

After surviving the learning curve, my first issue of the paper is at the printer right now and will be ready for distribution on Monday. Also, for those of you who are webheads, we are uploading the edition to our web presence at this very moment. check out www.coyotepressonline.com Anything you see without a byline means I wrote (most of the A&E section) There are a couple pieces with my name attached, but anyone who has read any of my work should catch my style. It isn't hard to miss.
Just in case you wonder, I did not write the "Bad Ass Moments" article, but I love the title and attitude behind it.

Check you dudes later!

Feeling better....

Not quite as sick today, thank goodness. Still a bit of a headache, but the sore throat is gone. Today is Gong Show day, so I have to have my A-Game ready. Have to have my hips swiveling and my curling. This hunk-a, hunk-a burnin' love is ready to rock 'n' roll, baby!

TCB, baby, TCB!!!!!