On boots and bars and motorbikes...

I spent the morning engaged in a long lost art: letter writing, to an old friend. Life may have long ago parted our paths, but we stay in touch nonetheless. She's one of those who pushed me to start writing again, even when I was certain I had packed away my pen for good. She reminded me recently of an old friend we both shared named Harlan Hobbs. Now I only met Harlan a couple of times in my life, albeit, but we spoke like long lost friends when we did. An old writer himself, we shared a passion and common interest. And he had a talent for making even weirdos like us feel right at home, important, understood and appreciated. He would often speak of this "great conversation" in which we should all take part, we writers especially. At the risk of sounding grandiose, think Shakespeare: "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts." Think Whitman: &

So today I turned in my first creative writing submission at grad school. Twenty-five pages. Two full days of editing and revising, my red pen playing harbinger of dead words. I started banging out copy not long after the new year. I wrote probably the first 8-10 pages over the course of two weeks, finding myself hammering out details, characters, plot lines and all that other crap. I actually kept coming back and editing everything I wrote in an attempt to act like I was still being productive. Sad truth, the damn thing got shorter and shorter. I walked away for a while. Did some crazy shit, like go see some relatives, piddle around with other crap, deal with unemployment bullshit. Hell, I even went to church. (It's still standing; neither of us burst into flames, yet.) Whatever the cause, I sat down one Sunday and started typing. It turned into an all-nighter. Before I knew it, the craft part was done. I moved my story into the desired format and typesetting, and I'll b

OK. I'm fucking 43. When I bought this ticket, I wasn't even asked for ID. The twerp behind the window in his bulletproof sales counter didn't even ask my age. He just doled it out like it was the least he could do to help an old bastard enjoy his movie experience. Oddly, just a few weeks later, I find myself enjoying student discounts at the same establishment for the very fact I enrolled in a graduate program at the local university. I'm still the same age, a few days older in fact. But I now qualify for the same discount as the daughter I raised, who should be a sophomore in her college studies at North Texas State, if my math is correct. Of course, leave it to the boob tube to make me feel my age anew. A historical burb I caught today detailed the life history of the first chimp in space, long before Alan Shepard made his historic flight. The monkey survived his trip no worse for the wear, it would seem, and lived out his years to the ripe old age of

Ever watched CBS Sunday Morning ? One of my favorites... So I saw this today, all cleared from the western front of my state. I live in Victoria, a mere 30 miles from the coast. Plenty of days left to pursue my dream of catching the monster Red in my daily haul at the bay, yet far enough away to realize my South Texas fishing holes may leave some desires when it comes to conquering Old Man and the Sea . It targets West Texas, but I would argue they were among the last to know about the clusterfuck called oilfield declines in my home state. Hell, I live in the Eagle Ford Shale region. We've been all about boom times over the last few years. Still, I can't help but sharing how my dumb old ass found himself on unemployment. I worked at a local machine shop for 5 years. I paid my dues, respectively speaking. I caught plenty a bitch days behind a grinder during my days on the job. On Jan. 18, I was told my job was no more, victim to the latest round of lay offs at my comp

I worked politics at one point in my career. I truly wish this parody wasn't reality. I can't do that. I even wrote prize-winning editorials in Texas, telling readers exactly what their 60 percent voter turnout meant in the Lone Star State, an all-time high as I recall in  my lifetime, the day is was published. While even the newest, most poorly executed versions of Democracy the world over typically boasted minimal figures of 90 percent or better voter turnout, we get mighty proud when we get over half the populace to show up in our country. Such turnouts were common in the post-911 days of apocalypse some of you may remember. I can't say I've seen it since. While impressive for any election I could ever recall in my years, it betrayed another set of numbers none of us wanted to see:  Although 60 percent of any given population may seem like a lot, a full 40 percent - often tens or hundreds of thousands of people - did not vote. As I was proud to point out in

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 bit ove