floydjoy

Yes, it's finally official: the NFL jersey that I wear directly affects EVERYTHING. Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. Here's the scene. This morning. Post shower. Pre shirt. Vague thoughts whoosh through, around and past my brain. What should I wear today? What is today? Do I work today? Hey, the Cowboys play a special, super-duper Thursday night game this week. Is this Thursday? By God, I think it is. I must wear my Emmitt Smith jersey today. But lo! They are playing the Packers. I also have a Brett Favre jersey, because I like Brett Favre, NOT because of any kind of affection for the Packers. The Packers suck, but Favre's cool. Don't ask me why; I don't ask you about your irrationalities. My pro jersey lineup, if anyone's interested (and if you are, I fear your social ineptitude): Emmitt Smith Brett Favre Dirk Nowitzki (this one doesn't seem to work in either a good or evil direction) Roger Staubach (my favorite; if I ever lose this twenty pounds, I...

Outside, the sun is going down and the wind is cool and crisp; perfect for an evening jog. I load up my trusty iPod shuffle, kiss my wife on the top of her head and hit the neighborhood streets. This run will be short, I’ve already decided. I have too much to do. Most importantly, I need to crank on the next part of my book. At least three pages worth. And since I compose, on the average, about one page an hour, I need to get a move on if I’m going to hit that goal before shuteye. After all, the book isn’t going to write itself. I push play. The iPod’s first song starts in the middle, because it’s the same one I ended my run with the night before and shut off mid-jam: Motley Crue’s “Kickstart My Heart.” I’m not the world’s biggest Motley Crue fan, but that song clearly kicks ass, and gives me a great tempo to start with. Eventually, the Crue gives way to Deep Purple’s “Hush.” Cool enough. It’s kind of fast, has a good “na-na-na” rock and roll sensibility. It works. My legs get a little...

There's a chance that I'm twisting in the wind here, but I honestly think the world would have much, MUCH clearer communication if we all stopped maturing around the age of five. Think about it. Let's say someone said something you disagree with. What would you say? Probably some kind of PC crap that you don't even believe yourself. Oh, you might give them a little slack out of some misbegotten notion of compromise, even though they're clearly wrong, but all in all, most of us would be polite. But if you were five years old, you'd probably say, "I hate you. I don't want to talk to you anymore." See? It's beautiful. But oh, no. We have to have our ears bent ad infinitum by some yahoo with a caffeine buzz, a coworker splitting hairs, or some equally hollow blowhard. Or how about checkout clerks? Bank tellers? Retail guerillas who sneak up on you with the ubiquitous "Can I help you sir?" That's right. Repeat after me. "I hate yo...

A post. To republish. Okay, to say something meaningful instead of wasting this opportunity, 'cause who knows when I'll ever get back to it: Die Hard is the perfect action movie. Go ahead. Try to knock holes in that. You can't. So. Mission accomplished. I am a blogging master.

I can't seem to drag up the energy from the depths of my apparently barren artistic soul enough to make a decent entry, so whoever reads this - and your numbers will be alarmingly small, I suspect - will just have to make do. In other news, I drove down a common thoroughfare in hometown Tyler this weekend and something hit my windshield. I say something because I don't really know what the hell it really was, but suffice to say, it had the strength of at least a small branch, and the smashing power of at least a golf ball. The wind was gusting at an insane pace, so I really didn't get a look at it amid all the horizontally flying pine cones and tree gumballs. But I'm okay, so at least there's that. It still sucks though.

I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on blogger.com, but I'm not taking any chances. I haven't posted a dang thang since February, and even that one had little to no discernable value. So here it is. Another entry. Hopefully, this'll buy me a little time so's I can maybe devote more time here. We'll see. Oh yes, we will.

Got a short story/novella/full-fledged novel started. So many slashes, so little clue. Anyway, whatever it turns out to be, it's a cool idea, full of misfits, pathos and flying monkeys. Everyone will read, and everyone will be amazed at the sheer audacity of me actually putting words down for others to read (kinda like 21st century cave etchings, if you will). So let it be written, so let it be done. - Yul Brynner as Pharoah in The Ten Commandments