Sudden Return of the Negligent “Writer”

Bittersweet is a silly word. Bitter melon is actually kind of sweet. To be bitter takes too much energy and to being too sweet makes those nearby wary of your motives.

There is no excuse in existence that justifies not writing, no reason true enough to prove a just absence, and I ain’t got no good explanation on why I haven’t been writing. “Ohh, personal things going on” (said in a whiny, upscale maitre’d sort of way), “Ohh, I have too much stuff to do”, “My work and home life is consuming me”, blah blah blah. Truth is I’ve just been lazy and weak. By weak I mean allowing circumstances around me to dictate my behavior and moods  instead of controlling my own envrionment.  Weak, as in succumbing to self-imposed stress and crying about why things aren’t going my way instead of using said circumstances as insight to my advantage. Yeah. Tony Robbins style. Banana-bunch hands gripping each situation and giving it a daily choke-hold to remind the world that we rule it, it don’t rule us.

But why no writing? No shooting photos? No bicycle, no work out, what do you do with all your mad energy, Mr. Writer? You’re going to let some silly elbow condition stop you from doing what you love? Let your job and it’s silly fears and frustrations prevent you from having fun?  With all your heaping turmoil and degrees of madness, wouldn’t all that be endless fuel for the “tap tap tap” of a typewriter? boy, you’d think.

Enough “I” this and “I” that. What about you, fair reader? What about your morals, madness, desires and legacy? What drives the bones to feed on whatever delicacies you consider valuable? Ancestral knowledge piled up in the far corner of our reputed 20% brain tells us that all really need is love. Damn Beatles.

Defining “love”. 

1. A fine pastry

2. A good woman

3. A great song

4. A noble pet

5. A half-assed blog


Months of Missing a Minute to Write


The last few months have watched a man work more days than he’s ever in his life, six, sometimes seven-day weeks where it all blurred together into one sore, methodic venture. Consequently, a muscle was torn in his elbow so “medial epicondylitis” is now a household word where curses mixed with groans are used to describe each day.

Naturally, it’s the right elbow that’s injured so he’s left not being able to properly “service his vehicle”, if you will. A warm, buttered bagel or a sanded knothole in a fence theoretically could suffice but reality has a habit of standing in the way while his wing is on the mend.

The blues as a musical art form is something like an arduous sweat, a lowdown, dirty wail that brings the gruff and then extracts the toxins from every one of my poor bones.

I love that even in the midst of a tough time, there’s good and beauty in the slightest of places. Like when you’re driving and rocking out and the song ends right when you arrive at your destination, or when you’re flipping channels and you randomly land a few seconds before a game winning goal. My favorite: when the traffic that is horribly backed up is on the other side of the road.