It's quite a juggling act lately between work, writing and I am sure there should be a third thing here since I have never seen anyone juggle two things, but I am not recalling it at this moment. Give me a sentence or two and something should come to mind.

I have been trying to take some time to read what I consider classics.. which consists of anything by Vonnegut or Bukowski and now I find myself with one more ball in the circus act, Hunter Thompson. I am reading a collection of letters, Fear and Loathing in America, right now, and I must say that I feel a bit of a voyeur. Oh well, nothing I can do about it right now. It may be that mutated American inbreeding that makes me want to subscribe to the National Enquirer and follow ambulances to car wrecks on 435 that keeps me reading these letters. Hey! There's my third ball!

So I plug away on this writing gig thing that ensures that I am still in need of a day job. I have actually been writing with pen and paper and will eventually type it out. There is a method to my madness in this, meaning: In typing my written words I am able to edit on the fly. I have eliminated one of very few, if any, edits in hopes of actually having a finished product ready for self publication, or dare I say, an offer of money, a personal jet, assault weapon and microwave popcorn.---I will supply the microwave---

So off I go, for now, to eat, drink a bit of Jamesons, read and write. I will also do whatever menial task my lovely wife asks of me...

It's quite a juggling act lately between work, writing and I am sure there should be a third thing here since I have never seen anyone juggle two things, but I am not recalling it at this moment. Give me a sentence or two and something should come to mind.

I have been trying to take some time to read what I consider classics.. which consists of anything by Vonnegut or Bukowski and now I find myself with one more ball in the circus act, Hunter Thompson. I am reading a collection of letters, Fear and Loathing in America, right now, and I must say that I feel a bit of a voyeur. Oh well, nothing I can do about it right now. It may be that mutated American inbreeding that makes me want to subscribe to the National Enquirer and follow ambulances to car wrecks on 435 that keeps me reading these letters. Hey! There's my third ball!

So I plug away on this writing gig thing that ensures that I am still in need of a day job. I have actually been writing with pen and paper and will eventually type it out. There is a method to my madness in this, meaning: In typing my written words I am able to edit on the fly. I have eliminated one of very few, if any, edits in hopes of actually having a finished product ready for self publication, or dare I say, an offer of money, a personal jet, assault weapon and microwave popcorn.---I will supply the microwave---

So off I go, for now, to eat, drink a bit of Jamesons, read and write. I will also do whatever menial task my lovely wife asks of me...

Parent of the Year

(or, making beer money with dad)

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's 

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks 

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you, 

I thought I was dead, 

or at best 

left in a coma

if we didn't leave. 

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I  know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would 

start. (it did)

We peeled away, 

no headlights in the 

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

All I could think was,

"What kind of parent 

hustles pool with his 

kid?"

Parent of the Year

(or, making beer money with dad)

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's 

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks 

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you, 

I thought I was dead, 

or at best 

left in a coma

if we didn't leave. 

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I  know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would 

start. (it did)

We peeled away, 

no headlights in the 

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

All I could think was,

"What kind of parent 

hustles pool with his 

kid?"