A Dessicated Rose

Turning my head slightly to the side, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. In the car next to me, would she have smiled too?

Funny. The metaphor wasn’t lost.

So how much of this is autobiographical? You have no idea.

An outstretched hand leads the way. Following the flashlight’s beam and heading down the stairs, it’s time to go back.

Seashells ’82. That’s what the cover says. Was what I saw. What a strange secret I’ve kept. All these years, I thought someone was watching. Instead, I’m the lead.

Far away, I kid myself that she’s peeked too. And me? Left rummaging in the basement, looking in a book. It’s usually kept just safely out of reach. Except for tonight.

In between the pages, the wax paper cocoon is a silent tomb. It’s a thirty-something haunting.

I put it there; then.

Now I look in the mirror. Same person, different shell. No longer of the sea, the change in seasons has parched the skin. In my hands tonight though, the rose I hold has dried out too.


A Roast Beef Sandwich

The mechanic was telling my uncle that he only had a few months to live.

Cancer he said.

Working at the gas station as a kid during the summers, my concern was getting through the day. I was 12. And working over the summers? Thanks for the memories mom and dad.

It was a roast beef sandwich that I’d remember too.

We’d order lunch from the deli next door. The gas station guys. One of my jobs was to place the orders and pick up the food. I’d get looked at sideways enough though to order something cheaper than say, the roast beef. Liverwurst or bologna was usually a safe and financially sound bet.

My uncle? He’d always get roast beef and swiss with a little mayo. Sounded so good. Even today.

On that day, while eating his king’s fare and listening to the mechanic, I finally got my chance.

“Here. You can finish the rest,” he turned to me afterward and said. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

And I did, not knowing that the taste would last for almost forty years..

Married with Cynicism

You’ll do anything to get out of the house. Anything. No, it’s o.k., I’ll go. Yeah, but we don’t need any. It’s o.k. really, I don’t mind. Yeah, but we don’t even have a ferret.

You live in a house with a wife and three daughters, all with long hair. You’re basically bald (except for your ears and nose). And yet, curiously, your hair is the only hair that falls on the bathroom floor.

You’re forgetful, you never listen, and you did it.

And even though you don’t do anything around the house, no one else is capable of taking out the garbage, letting the dog out, or cleaning the cat box.

Driving Through Richmond


Driving through Richmond as a youngster, something hit me. I-95 was under construction (when is it not?), and I thought, “while I’ve been living my life, so have they. Down here. People in other parts of the country were living their lives and had no idea about me.”

I didn’t matter as much as I had imagined.

Maybe that’s made a difference?

Dan Wetzel: Yahoo Sports Writer Just Gets It

For years Dan Wetzel, Yahoo Sports Writer nonpareil, has been one of my favorites.

Two reasons:

A. I usually agree with what he has to say, i.e., he and I typically share the same opinions (always a big fan of the person who can articulate what I think and has the forum to do so), and B. he doesn’t mess around.

In this link here:

he does a nice job of taking Lance “Alex Rodriguez/Tiger Woods Wannabe” Armstrong out to the woodshed.

The Untold History

Just finishing Oliver Stone’s The Untold History of the United States, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, I had had it wrong all my increasingly increasing years. That maybe we were and are the bad guys?

Oh and I know you’re probably saying that perhaps I should consider the source before jumping to conclusions. That I might want to keep in mind that authors want first to sell books. Even so, if even ten-percent of what Stone chronicles is true, then we’ve (they’ve) got some “splaynin’ to do.” Jus sayin.’

Tatoos and Vikings: What’s Missing in Sports

You know, I think what’s missing in sports these days are tatoos. And dredlocks. Maybe it’s me, but where was I when that memo went out? Asleep? Working? Cleaning the house?

And the high-energy, locks-flowing blonde football player too. The wide-receiver type. You just don’t see enough of that these days.

Yeah, that’s what’s missing.

Sir Lance Earned A Lot

So Lance Armstrong is all set to come clean to Oprah? I can’t take it anymore. I guess this is the price to be paid in the world of sports and money? Break the rules big enough to amass a fortune, fall on your I’m only human sword, and then live relatively happily ever after.

What fools we are; the sports loving public.

P.T. Barnum was right. There are suckers born every minute. And I’m one of them.