Piddling Drivel

Funny/Boring story- While picking up some trash the other day I found a take-out bag with an unopened fortune cookie inside. Not wanting to throw the cookie away,   I tore the wrapping and cracked open the cookie, and this was the message- A keeper, I thought, so I brought it home and taped it to my favorite bookmark. Have an enjoyable weekend, all.

My brother's message scared me once I had a decent signal and could listen to it.    However, I wasn't completely prepared for the days to follow. We can't change things that might have been meant to be, but it doesn't make it any easier. His goal was to remain hidden, not wanting to be found. He'd reached some end, couldn't dig his way out of whatever he'd gotten himself into, and aimed to hide, much like a dog or cat when they know their end is near.  I'm sure that, even if I'd heard his message earlier or, more so, answered when he'd called, his mind had been made up. Though ten years apart in age, he and I were alike in some ways, and when his voice said "I thought you would understand" at the end of the message, I knew something terrible had happened.   After two days of searching by the family and many volunteers, his body had been found. By then we all knew. It was in our family already. One successful suicide, two confirmed atte

  Are creatives overly dramatic?  Do you consider yourself among that type?  My wife and I each grew up with drama to some extent (who hasn't, really?).  Hers was due mostly to her mother.  She was unhappy, cried easily and felt like she'd been dealt a raw hand. Everything had to be about her.  My family, on the other hand, was just fucked up dramatic.  Everything that happened, everything anyone ever said or did was like, "Oh my God, can you believe that?" or "Holy shit!  Wait til I tell...." or "Why me?" and on and on.  Nothing could be simple or easy to explain.  I'm finding that I still, after so many years away from my over-dramatic family and with my level-headed wife, find I need to catch my words and phrases as my mouth opens to pour them out and rearrange them in a less dramatic way. Old dog/New trick, right?

  No, seriously, I mean, is this really where we're at?  I read and watch the news most days, and I can be naive and simple, but what the fuck?   A friend and I were catching up the other day, and she was telling me about a vacant commercial property she shared ownership of that'd been sitting on the market pretty much since the first days of the pandemic.  She mentioned that they finally leased it with the option to buy, and the one clause the lessee wanted added was that, in the event of war they could be released from the contract.  Just words, sure, meant to cover their asses, but frightening nonetheless.   No doubt, we're all aware of the headlines from half a world away, and given the past behavior of those responsible for said headlines, times most certainly are causing stress and feelings of dis-ease, but really?  I know I don't have that mature content warning on this blog, but what the fuck?!   How is it that we've come to this?   For that matter, how is

  Yeah, I'm back.  I'd lost that creative spark some time ago, and my blogging/writing time has for months been eaten away at by job and home hunting.   So anyway, Yesterday afternoon, after a vigorous intimate encounter as my wife and I lay in our bed working on a word puzzle on her cell phone, something odd happened.  Apparently, and without realizing it I'd suggested the same word as a guess four times in a row, forgetting between each guess that I'd already guessed it.  My wife looked at me at one point and asked, "Are you okay?"  I felt odd, puzzled and uncomfortable.  Around the same time for who the fuck knows what reason I'd realized that I could not for the life of me remember the names of two people I typically encounter several times a week at work.  Also, I couldn't remember the make of car someone close to me had just purchased and with which we'd had a recent bout of difficulties.  Now, I have no clue why I was thinking about any of t

     My beer, a chocolate colored ale with banana bread notes, was perfectly chilled.  The bright midday sun streamed through what amounted to a large glass-paneled garage door   warming my back and lulling me almost into a dreamy haze.  My wife sat across from me at the tall cocktail table whose top was littered with syrupy glass rings surrounding a stack of obviously unused paperboard coasters, sipping her frosty Kolsch.  Hillman Beer, one of so very many brew pubs in and around Asheville proved to be the perfect spot to break this spell that's been haunting me for so long now.  Our conversation began as a couple took a table across from us, their half German Shepherd/half gray wolf nudging us at the end of her leash for attention.  London was her name, the man told us, and she ate up the attention of strangers.        "We'll stay where we are for the time being as long as you're happy with your job," my wife said.        "Are you sure you'll be okay co