Monday, October 31, 2011

time

More waiting.   That's all part of the game.  Submit a story, wait.  Get a rejection notice, submit a story, wait.  Repeat.  Oh boy, must you repeat.  A few times, I even paid to submit my story.  I feel so cheap.  Even a few contests.  Pitting my story, my characters against others. My poor old hitchhiking man strutting down the catwalk, looking fierce and making that all important turn.  Will he win against the skateboarding zombies or teenage vampires?  He can't introduce you to the undead, but he can sure tell you some sad stories.  Come on journals, give the ol' guy a break.  He's paid his dues.  Accept him.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

capiche?

I'm pro-metaphor, as you probably already know.  They're helpful in just about every area in life to make yourself understood.  I like being understood.  I need to be understood, in fact.  And even if you think I'm a neurotic who's highly delusional, as long as you understand me, we're good.  Careful with metaphors though, they can get bloated or even contaminated by other metaphors.  Then your chances of being understood are about as likely as a low-talker at a Monsters of Rock concert.  But that's a simile.  Don't mess with those.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

the cost of commuting

Dear Intrepid Carpool Driver:
Thanks for driving.  Thanks for the rides. You seem like a cool dude, if the seatbelt cover with princesses on it and a sweet carseat are any indication.

But I must protest about one thing:  less talk, more rock

I just don't know how well a radio station with that tag line starts one's the day.  I suppose my inquiries should be directed to the radio station program manager, namely, how do "Leather and Lace" and "Night Fever" qualify as rock?  I am no music expert, not by a long shot, but I am certain, very certain, that those songs are not rock.  Perhaps you should check with the Music Genome Project about your categorization.  It might help.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

the rhythm

Settling back in to a normal heart beat (fingers crossed).  I mean that literally.  For the past two days, I had what could only be described as a "surge" in my chest.  An occasional extra bit of umph, if you will, of my heart beat.  Not faster, just a kapowey, every few minutes.  And light-headedness.

I confess that I've had this before and uncharacteristically ignored it when it happened in May and again in August.  I made excuses.  I wrote it off as "stress."  I should have recognized the denial.  Who wants to worry about one's heart?  That life-giving organ that is really not shaped like my photo of a mud puddle to the left there.  Sure, we've all ignored sore knees or cracky ankles.  Something going awry with lady parts?  I google symptoms, I make calls, I fret and worry.  They get immediate attention.

But a major organ?  Ignore its not-so-subtle signs of "hey, dummy, pay attention" seems so... asking-for-it.  So, I listened.  Tuesday I went to the doctor; they sent me for an ECG.  Oh, nothing serious, they said, just an extra heart beat.  Wait, what?  Extra? WTF does that mean?  Now that all seems well, and that the rhythm is not going to "get" me, I can relax a little. 

Oh, and never take a decongestant with phenylephrine again.