Your instincts serve you well

I have this odd desire to write something political . . . or something about a revolution that is always occurring but never gaining any ground. I'm fighting that urge by refusing to write . . . at least I was until just a moment ago. And so ends the awkward prologue meant to explain why this post comes so late in the day.

At some point you'll be able to take this blog and chart the pattern of my inspiration. Please don't do that. I'm afraid it will look like this:

And then subsequently be used against me in a court of law or at least as another reason not to cast me in a play or allow me to host a poetry slam. I'm weird enough without your help. So no charts. OK? OK.

I'm going to go make some popcorn . . . stay right there. I'll be back.

So, not to toot my own horn, but I've discovered a special time bending method to make it seem as though no time has passed even though several minutes have. You're welcome. Now back to my premise: Fox in Socks is a mean book. I mean I got through it, but I have several years of voice and diction training. My wife is dyslexic and . . . well let's just say she's still drinking. And while we're at it, Oh the thinks that you can think is not for toddlers. It's a nice book. I get it. Imagination - sure, sure. But my kid is still having nightmares. Some thinks should be left unthunk.

Anyway, the rumors are true. I did go to high school with Shannon Elizabeth and even though she probably won't admit it, there was a couple of weeks at the very end of our senior year where we didn't talk at all. Yeah . . . I know. It was mostly because I was sort of a tool and was sporting a mullet. Good times.

Let's take a moment to enjoy a musical interlude.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s05jcrJw0as
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6zDfxZ4NcE

So my son woke up in a start last night and yelled beaver and ducks . . . no idea what that means. I'm just putting it out there. The mold is strangling me and believe it or not I am 100% sober. It's the new altered state. Black is still the new black. I checked.

As the train pulled away I smiled at the conductor. The wind blew a speck of sand in my eye. The sky was taking on soft purples and pretty pinks. The sun sagged, silhouetting the trees. The greens were crisper because of the cold. The other commuters hurried to their cars, heads down, breath forming empty thought bubbles. And I didn't see any of it, because I had sand in my eye . . . but I think we all learned something that day about time and kindness and about getting on the train first so you can get a good seat.

Good night folks!