Finally remembered my own password!

...actually, that's not the case at all...writer's block...severe case...bad stuff.

9:30 AM, Saturday, June 16, 2012

<sits down, proper cup of coffee at the ready.  Paper is read.  Online news sites (cbsnews.com, msnbc.com, foxnews.com) checked.  Took two Tums after reading foxnews.com.  Wife is outside interrogating the backyard azaleas that are not performing up to snuff.  Ruby the dog still has not reported in from her morning patrol.


Fires up computer, elbows resting on table, fingertips tapping together, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.  Places fingertips on the keys, awaits inspiration...>

"I got nothin'..."

This post brought to you today by my wife, three daughters and mother in law, each of whom has, over the last couple of weeks, chastised me for not writing more frequently.

From Kid 2:  Daddy, when are you going to post again?  That's the first thing I check every day.
Me:    "Don't know.  Leave me alone.


Mother in Law on the phone with my wife:  Is James almost done with his next book?
Wife to me:  Mama wants to know if you are almost done with your next book.
Me to wife:  Haven't even started it.  All I have is the outline.  Leave me alone.
Wife to MIL:  He hasn't even started it.
MIL to wife:  Well tell him to get on it!  I just finished his last one!


Let's cut to the chase:  Writing, for me at least, is hard work, even on the best of days.  I'm not one of those writers like Frederick Forsyth (in my estimation the best novelist at work today) who can sit down and crank out 10 perfect pages a day.

On a good day I can write 10 pages, bit those 10 pages are fraught with self doubt and impressive amounts of editing and revisions.

Lately I've been beset by a bad case of the, "ations."  I've got no inspiration, and no motivation.  Combine those two and I get a severe case of frustration, which is tempting to treat with some adult libations, which will likely lead to intoxication.  After that all I'll  have is a hangover, and still won't have written a thing.

I think that there's a tendency among those folks who don't like to write to think that writers just channel this inner stream of words that flow from their mind through their fingers and finally onto the screen, or paper.

It ain't like that, at least for me.  In my case it's like I can see, or at least sense, all of these great sentences and paragraphs somewhere inside my brain, but the trick is getting them through the filters and into my fingertips.  It's as if the fingers know what keys to hit, if only my mind would get out of the way.  Put another way, it's like I can see what the final puzzle is supposed to look like, it's just difficult (and frustrating) to try to put the pieces together.

As the saying goes, "All the words are there, they're just in the wrong order."

On the other hand, sometimes, when the moon is right and the stars align just so, the words can flow pretty easily.  For instance, an old friend of mine that I used to work with told a story over a few beers one night after work.  It inspired this, which I wrote in about five minutes.  It's not great, but it's a good illustration of how the elusive "inspiration" can strike:

Moralis was a reporter, a newspaperman, one of the small school of freelancers who wandered the world turning over strange rocks in odd places,  asking tough questions to the suits, the men who didn’t want to be identified, or quoted.  He was skilled and experienced at sifting through the ambiguous mist of official lies to draw out small nuggets of the truth. 

As he drove his old Jaguar west out of Austin through the rain he fished a Marlboro out of his pocket and lit it with an old steel Zippo.   He’d borrowed the lighter from a source in Nuevo Laredo, but both men were drunk at the time, and Moralis had kept it by mistake.  Before he could return it the man had been found floating face down in the Rio Grande, his throat cut from ear to ear. 

He thought about that man, and humming an old Methodist hymn, fished in the glove box and pulled out the bottle of tequila that he’d boosted from a Mexican whorehouse in Matamoros three days before. 

A man who wasn’t comfortable working in the shadows wouldn’t have taken the midnight call, much less agreed to drive two hours to meet with a man he hadn’t seen since the end of the last war. 

Garcia-the name brought back a lot of memories, few of them good….

So see, it can happen.  Maybe there's still hope...

A "Moderate!"

My apologies for the delay in posting.  I was distracted by something shiny in my in box and just completely forgot to post anything.

I have no illusions that the cyber community really missed anything that I had to say.

On to the topic at hand...

This is election season and across the country, well, in Texas at least (I can't speak for any other states), the race is on for the candidates to beat their chests and proclaim themselves more conservative than the other guy (or gal).

Last week I even saw an ad for an opponent of David Dewhurst, our current Republican Lt. Governor.  I forget which opponent this is, however; there are a couple of them and I didn't notice who's commercial I was watching.

In any case, this candidate pointed fingers at our man David and proclaimed him to be, get ready..."a moderate!"  That's right, friends and neighbors, these days even a political moderate is too "liberal" (whatever "liberal" means).

I've never really followed ol' Dave's career, other than to note that he hitched his political wagon to Governor Goodhair's some years ago.  That doesn't say anything about him, I don't think, other than that he's politically astute.

The interesting point here, at least to me, is that in 2012, some 20 years after the Reagan Revolution, we've come to the point where being a "moderate" is a bad thing.

Boy, talk about polarization!

New neighbors, and questionable water

Last week was truly a week of firsts since we've been in Polk County.

Last Tuesday while the wife and I were out for a stroll after dinner,  just walking down the street.  My wife called my attention to a funny looking little red dog that trotted out from a side street.  He had turned and was heading away from us when my wife said, "Look at that!"

He turned sideways to us, and craned his little head to look around at us, and we saw that he wasn't an ordinary dog, he was a little red fox.  He looked at us for a moment or two, then resumed his appointed rounds, trotting into the forest.  Pretty cool.

A few days later we were doing a little fishing from the dock, not too seriously.  I was halfway dozing in my chair when the wife said, "Look at that eagle; he just got him a snack from the lake."  I looked up into the sky, saw Mr. Eagle, and said to myself, "That eagle looks like a Bald Eagle.  THAT'S A BALD EAGLE!"  He was holding a pretty good sized fish in his talon and was slowly flying away, over the trees.

That's something that I never thought I'd see.  I knew that we had bald eagles in Texas, but I always thought they'd be found far out in West Texas, in the Big Bend.  Nope, you can see them here in Polk County, right on the edge of the Big Thicket.  That was very cool.

Then Sunday, while on the way to Livingston to see how much we could spend at Lowe's, we were on the bridge over Big Sandy Creek when my wife hollered out, "There's a 'gator!"  I looked quickly over the side but didn't see anything other than a few logs.

"Turn around!  Turn around!"

I turned around, drove back over the bridge, and sure enough, there was Mr. Gator, lying on the bank with his head under water.  It looked like there was around six feet of visible gator just sunning himself on the bank.

"Told you!"  She said.

In other news...

Overheard at the Dairy Queen Saturday in Woodville, Texas:
     Grandad (to Granddaughter):  Did you hear that Donald Duck was in a car accident?
     Granddaughter shakes head...
     Grandad:  He quacked up.
<groaning...>  I know...

Also in big news, we got a letter this week from our friends at Lake Livingston Water.  They politely informed us that, "our water system has exceeded the Maximum Containment Levels for Radium 226 and Radium 228."

 The letter goes on to say that, "This is not an emergency.  However, some people who drink water containing radium 226 and/or 228...over many years have an increased risk of getting cancer."
The letter doesn't say who, or what introduced such vile levels of these radioactive gunk, though, only that, "we are working to correct the problem."

Lord God; they're radiating us!  

Conversation with my inner self

Yesterday I was shaving, and I looked up in the mirror to see that my inner self had showed up, and it was immediately obvious that he had something on his mind.

Me:     What do you want?

IS:      I thought you wanted to be a writer?

Me:     Oh man,  not this again. I am a writer; I've written two self published novels, I've outlined a third, and I'm working on a book of short stories.

IS:      What have you written lately?

Me:     Not a damn word.

IS:      Why not?

Me:     You go to hell; I don't have time for this.

IS:     Answer the question.

Me:    Look, I just haven't, OK?  I've got plenty of stuff started, but just haven't sat down and written anything new.  Happy?  You think I'm happy about that?  I'm not; I'm just having a hard time getting motivated.

IS:     <Snorts in disgust>  You're a pathetic excuse for a writer.  If you want to be considered a writer, you have to write!

Me:    Well, I've been busy.  We just moved into this house a couple of months ago, and it's just taken awhile to get things sorted out.

IS:     Lame excuse.

Me:    Look, writing is a process; you know this.  You can't just jump into it and crank out five thousand words.  There's a measure of inspiration and motivation that needs to be there.

IS:    Bullshit!  Why don't you at least try to get your two books published?

Me:    I've tried.  The mainstream publishing industry doesn't appreciate my work.

IS:    What's not to get?  Your "work" is a collection of ninety five thousand words of rubbish.  I'll be  you can't even describe it.

Me:     Well, it's sort of Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences.

IS:     Oh my God, "Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences?"  What does that even mean?  You don't even know what kind of fiction you're trying to write!

Me:     No one ever said that writing is easy.

IS:    Being easy has nothing to do with it.  Either write, or try to get published what you have already written!

Me:  Hey, back off! I am a successful writer; my stuff has sold in the high single digits!

IS:   <fading from view>  What a loser.

Engage filter before opening mouth

Every gal has two "looks" that she can give her husband or boyfriend.  The good look is the one that melts your heart, and reminds you of why you fell in love with her in the first place.  The bad look, the "other" look, is the one that freezes your blood and makes you want to crawl inside a hole.  This is the look that says that she can't wait until you fall asleep so she can cut you up like a chicken.

I had this conversation with the wife outside the grocery store a couple of days ago, where the total at the register was more than I had anticipated, based on looking at the amount of groceries that were in the cart:

Me:  How much was it?
Her:  Hundred and sixty one
Me:  Dollars?  Wow; I didn't think it would be that much!
Her:  Well, we bought some expensive stuff, and some medicine.  And my make up is expensive.
Me:  Is it just more expensive, or does it have to do more work?

Guess which "look" I got?

However, I was able to redeem myself yesterday.

We took advantage of a beautiful, sunny day here in Onalaska and spent the afternoon fishing from the dock.  At one point we spotted an S cruising slowly by in the water.  Though he couldn't be completely and accurately identified (could have been a rat snake, but he could have also been a water moccasin) the wife was outraged and demanded stern measures be immediately taken, so I hotfooted it into the house and grabbed my trusty Daisy Red Ryder.  Bringing accurate rifle fire to bear against Mr. S, I drove him out away from the dock, negating the threat.

One of her fears is catching an S instead of a fish.  That's one of my fears, too, because after she screams, throws the rod and flees the scene, guess who'll  have to deal with the irritated Mr. S?

<Update on the medicine cabinet.>

Out of the blue last night wife commented, "If you only have three things on your side, why do you need all that space?"

I guess that makes some kind of sense.

She also threatened mayhem if she opened medicine cabinet and found fishing hooks and lures in it.  I made no promises, but reserve the right to stock my side with whatever items I choose.  

Gender warfare in the bathroom

Two months ago this week we moved into this new house.  In the master bathroom is a wooden medicine cabinet mounted on the wall; it's the kind that has two mirrored doors that open in the middle, and lights on the top; there are two shelves inside.  It has a sticker inside that's dated 1991.  You'd recognize it if you saw it; you might have a similar one, or there (more likely) is one in your parent's or grandparent's house.

When we moved in I knew exactly what would happen with this deal.

When my wife unboxed everything in the bathroom and put everything where she wanted it, this medicine cabinet's space was equally divided.  The way I see it, if she's going to volunteer to unbox stuff and put it away then she can decide where stuff goes.  That applies to all rooms, but especially, especially, to the kitchen, and in this case, the bathroom.

My side currently holds anti-perspirant, a razor, and my beard trimmer.  There are two "neutral" items on my side as well, cough medicine and a flashlight.  (Not sure why that's there, but this is the fourth time we've moved since we've been married, and I learned long ago not to question these types of decisions).

What's on her side, you ask?  Well, there's currently 27 various items.  Some I can identify, and some I cannot identify.  She swears that each is vital to her daily routine.  I love her, so I'll take her at her word.

This morning, as I opened up the door to get the razor, the inevitable happened. Her stuff was on my side. Specifically, a package of cotton "rounds" had tumbled over and spilled onto my side.

Now, in the grand scheme of things, this really doesn't matter.  I just pushed it back over to her side with all of the other girly stuff, picked up the razor and went about my business.

What's puzzling, though, is why she needs 27 various items just to get ready to go somewhere.  I don't know if this 27 constitutes the entire list, either.  For all I know there could be another 27 bottles of goop hidden around; there may be 127.  Who knows?


(Note:  I took a break here, and the wife read what I've written so far.  Her comment?  If you only have three things in there why can't I have your space, too?)

I can't fault the logic, so to counter her argument I'll just fill up my side.  I'll put some tools in there, pliers, screwdrivers, etc, and maybe some fish hooks and lures.

Nazis lobby Congress...the AMERICAN Congress!

Well, the political freaks are coming out of the woodwork.  The American Nazi Party now has its own (vile) congressional lobbyist.


The story can be found here on MSNBC:  Nazis lobby Congress!


The gist of the story is that the American Nazi Party has employed an old boy named John Bowles as its first registered lobbyist.  I guess the key phrase here is, "registered lobbyist."  The difference being that racists and others of that ilk routinely lobby Congress on behalf of their nefarious goals.


Bowles is quoted as saying, "“You know, congressmen and congresswomen have always been telling the American public that they were open to other viewpoints.  I’m going to see if they were sincere about that, or I’m going to call their bluff.”


Business Insider has some additional information on Mr. Bowles:  John Bowles

Here's a link to the American Nazi Web site.  It contains some scary stuff:  http://www.americannaziparty.com/index.php


It's easy to laugh at Congressmen bringing up the old Red Scare, and at state lobbyists railing against Girl Scouts, but to have something as vile as the American Nazi Party officially start to lobby Congress just seems to be a first step down a horribly slippery slope.  


What's equally as scary is that there may be a few Congress-critters who would happily listen to the Nazi diatribe so long as the cash keeps flowing.


The old saying is that, "politics makes strange bedfellows," of which I always that a prime example was the Allied countries of World War II (England, the US and the Soviets).  Who'd have thought that less than a century later the Nazis would be back, officially lobbying Congress on behalf of their poisonous viewpoint?


Seems to me that we've been down particular road before, and decided as a nation that the Nazi philosophy has no place in a civilized world.


The First Amendment is a great thing, but sometimes it's a bit hard to stomach.