On boots and bars and motorbikes...

Let me climb up on my soapbox here. Hang on, almost there. What the hell was that popping noise? A hip is not supposed to make that sound... OK. Now, let me catch my breath... So I've been reading lots of stories-in-progress in my creative writing class at grad school. Some are better than others; some I can't wait to see published. That's really not the point. We read our peer submitted works and then offer some commentaries on things we like, things we don't, things that need work, etc. Kind of interesting, actually, to me at least. Now I'll be the first to admit, I don't fit the mold of your typical college student. I've been out in the working world for a while. I could probably have fathered half the people in my class. But we're all English majors here, we all use words regularly. I would argue that these youngsters are probably a lot fresher on their grammar skills. The last real grammar schooling I got came before most of these cats were bo

So part of this copyright law class I'm taking in grad school sends me surfing the web regularly in search of answers to various finer points of the law. What better place to find what you're looking for than seeking it out from the source, right? So I've already been a time or twelve to the U.S. Copyright Office's official website (www.copyright.gov) as part my coursework. Before you web surfing yourself, I warn it's pretty dull, about what you would expect for some government hack trying to put together an overview of his or her respective duties and provide the necessary documentation one might need regarding the subject. I will say this: I'm basically in Week 5 of my studies in this class and know only one sure fact, so far. Despite having written for most of my life in newspapers and such, I don't know Jack Shit (or his cousin George, for the that matter) about copyrights. It's a damn complicated subject. Plus, it keeps changing. We've alrea

So yeah, I followed his advice buying flowers. Sue me. But I can't help but relish his words on the importance of these calendar-bred days, nor his revelation of "sorry chump" the rest of the year, even today as it may have proven. Anyone else ready for a redo?

I intend to write a strongly worded letter to my housekeeper. You know, that little bitch left literally piles of dirty dishes in my sink. I'm talking about shit from Monday at this point. Stuff is starting to grow on this enormous pile. The corpses of dead mosquito hawks are staring blankly from their foul, watery graves. It really came to light this morning as I tried to fill the coffee pot with fresh water and couldn't fit the decanter under the faucet. Not enough clearance. I mean this is disgusting. Downright intolerable... Here goes: Dear Diary... Yeah, yeah... It seems I foolishly volunteered for this crap when I found myself spending a lot more time around the house than I am accustomed. Unemployment will do that, you know. But between writing papers for grad school, making my rounds job hunting and otherwise finding other things to fill my days, that dish pile got away from me. Well, no more. Problem solved. After merely an hour and a half of scrubbing,

This is beautiful, trust me... PROF'S REPONSE AFTER READING: Haha! I had quite a few laughs reading your post. But to elaborate on the title of the journal since I was a part of that discussion, it's called Huizache (the Spanish version of huisache) because it's considered a weed tree. People are always trying to get rid of them, yet they insist on taking root. It's a metaphor for the voices in our journal, primarily Mexican American voices that often get rejected elsewhere. Or, think of it like this, most journals will carry 1 or 2 brown voices, quota filled. I once got rejected from a journal because two Lopezes happened to submit at the same time and they liked the other Lopez story better. I am not kidding. So we decided to reverse the ratio in our magazine, to give a field for the huizaches of the writing world to take root. So here's to the WEE satch of the writing world! Live long and prosper my friends...

Let me preface this by say I scored a one hundred - perfect - on this particular entry. I didn't know what that hell to do or say, so I had a little fun with it: Assignment: Read “Suzi Writes a Poem” by Jessica Helen Lopez starting on Page 20 of Huizache . If this poem were an essay, what would its thesis be? Explain, using textual evidence from the poem. This is due on February 6.  What I heard in my head: Bobby write a thesis; write a thesis Bobby. OK. I haven’t set foot in a classroom in more than 20 years. It has been a while since anyone tossed around such collegiate terms in defining what I should write. I’m used to ledes, pull quotes and inch counts (and yes, that first word is spelled correctly for a newspaper man; bonus points if anyone cares to tell me why). Perhaps I might benefit by refreshing the old memory on what, exactly, this term actually means. Hello, Google… “A thesis is a statement or theory that is put forward as a premise to be maintained or p

Here we are again, sports fans! The biggest day of the year for the NFL. Who will walk away the ultimate champions of the world? That's today? You mean I missed football season again this year? Well, crap... No, I'm not a big fan. Never have been. In fact, most days I've tried to watch the big game with friends typically found me soundly sleeping long before a victor ever emerged. Blame it on a solid meal or over refreshment on the adult beverages typically found in surplus at such showings, but naptime almost always proves a better use of my time when it comes to football. I take that back: I had to work a couple years back on the hallowed Super Bowl Sunday. Wound up stuck like Chuck at a machine shop from 7 a.m. to nearly 11 p.m. I wound up earning a bonus because I missed the big game that day; the boss even sprang for pizza for our weary group, who had missed meals that day as well as whoever was playing that particular year. That was hellova better alternat