So, I’m trying this thing where I share the love – and the traffic. It’s my new Sunday ritual. Right after worship, food and papers. Jason Kottke’s been blogging about an interesting little competition over at Netflix. How sounds one million dollars to ya? (Yeah, I meant to write it that way.) Bonnie Wren is
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Pt 3: I hoped Maroula wouldn’t turn out the same way, but worried that she would. The paramedics arrived, and began checking her vitals and asking about allergies… “Chocolate and nuts. I know. Isn’t it terrible!” Through the window I watched two officers put a bearded man into the backseat of a cruiser. Bobby Loop
Pt 2: It takes a half a man to beat a woman…and I believed that half-a-man was outside waiting for her just beyond the fog… The cops got there when they got there. I moaned about it later but I know the wait wasn’t as long as it felt – Time has a way of
Pt.1: I never said a word when Jean locked the three of us in under the neon lights of the Quickie Mart … Jean asked the girl to repeat her name and then swapped the broom for something a little more substantial in dealing with a man who beat his wife – mace, machete, gun
Her name was Moula. Or maybe Maroula. I couldn’t be sure. You don’t really pay attention to banalities when the next words are: “He is coming to kill me. He is coming to kill me now.” It was Friday night. I was in a service station on a backwood road somewhere west of I77 when
Pt 1: I was five when I knew him. When I helped him hunt snakes in the mountains of West Virginia for Preacher Slaughter and the serpent handlers. The snake handlers were a Pentecostal-Holiness offshoot, whispered about in dark corners of other Appalachian churches. A few hundred in number, a majority practiced their brand of
“They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them…” – Mark 16:18 Whitley was old and from Kentucky. His face, tanned and leathered, lost the elasticity needed to form expression sometime back in the sixties. A pair of eyes some once called fine lay beneath a fringe
“The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.” – William Faulkner, Nobel Prize Speech
Yesterday I hung out at the DMV- and yearned for French Bureaucracy. I wanted to renew my nine-years-gone license. Only they wouldn’t renew it – mainly on the premise that busing around Europe isn’t quite the same as driving around America – and made me sit the whole shebang. I lined up with a crew
“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.” —Harper Lee The Pulitzer Prize winning novel “To Kill a Mockingbird” has been banned from school libraries and denounced for so-called racial slurs and profanity. The American Library Association keeps a database of objectionable reads and publishes a
“Obviously you don’t like it,” I tell him. “Well, it needs a lot of work” He hears me hmpf! and then says, “You want my honest opinion, don’t you?” “I wasn’t asking for your HONEST OPINION.” I say the words in my most mocksome British accent. “I was just reading it to you.” He rolls
Buff, Thank you so much. In other news, I went to bed last night wearing my six-year old black glasses (I thought you ran over those.) and a homemade poultice of dry yeast and lemon juice on my face for spots. (Try an aspirin and water paste. The salicylic acid works wonders.) I was reading
