Why the hell am I doing this?
Blame it on old writer friend, who not so long ago admonished me for not putting pen to paper in far too long. Blame it on too many a memory, stacked tight over a fleeting lifetime of mistakes and missteps. Blame it on turning 43 and finding little reason to still consider myself worthy of claiming any right to being a crafter of words. I could blame life, which tossed me one too many breaking balls in the ninth to drive my runner home; a job that robbed me of energy and inspiration as days became weeks; a family that simply walked away, no kiss my ass, auf weidersehn or goodnight. Truth is, I got lazy. Angry. Pathetic. I became a sad sack. A Glory Day-ser. An asshole. I rode my meager success to mediocre, proud and pompous. But I've always wanted more. I embark on that journey, once again. Thank you, Richard, and the many who came before you. So what's with the title of this endeavor? Boots: I have a pair for every day of the week. I are a Redneck, just a b...