Man Out Of Time

Holidays open social media windows with pictures of manufactured perfection. I field some questions from my kids then gunslinger stare down my phone before backing down. I gave up the fight a long time ago. Now, I just amuse myself with apathy.

This week’s gargleblaster week’s ultimate question: “Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?”

Here’s Elvis Costello’s best song. I identify with it so well.

Bizarre Love Triangle

This is a new story episode of my short story, Light of Day, about Silas and Olive, 2 19-year-old Georgia lovers on the run in 1989 Florida.

Last time:

Broken sleep and a morning beer buzz greeted Silas as he rose from the floor the Sarasota, Florida Beacon Motel, room 37. He pushed himself up to a standing position and located the Atlanta Braves baseball cap and dollar store sunglasses Olive brought him from Ft. Myers. He stepped over a snoring Zola and whispered into the ear of Olive who’d commandeered the bed for herself.

“Going out for a few minutes. I love you.”

She didn’t move but a muffled “love you, too” came from her.

Silas walked outside, let the door close behind him in a ginger manner to avoid waking the women, then looked for police. He spied a newspaper stand then dug into the pockets of his jeans until he found a quarter and a dime. Anxiety rolled over him so he pulled the cap down close to his eyes and donned the sunglasses. He paid for the newspaper then found a shaded alley behind the motel’s laundry service. Pulling the sunglasses off with his right hand, the left searched for a story of a body of a man named Bart found in an industrial section of Sarasota, Florida, shot in the neck.

The newspaper article never appeared. Silas ran through scenarios in his head just like Olive had taught him. When he stumbled upon one that made the most sense, he took off the baseball cap and sunglasses and walked back to the room. Olive opened the door as he arrived. She shook her head and pulled him inside, letting the door slam.

“Silas,  what the hell are you doing? Are you trying to screw things up?”

He pulled his arm away and watched the newspaper splay across the floor. He furrowed his brow, then pulled her mouth to his. The kiss was long, deep, and purposeful. Olive smiled when he let her go.

“Not anymore, Liv.  Get your stuff and Zola together then meet me at the car. I’m going to check out of the room. We’re driving to Tampa to deliver you to your first day of work at The Jade. I’ll find a job or some way to earn quick money and we’ll follow our six month plan to run away, together.”

Behind Olive, a groggy Zola pulled herself onto the bed, wrapped her shoulder-length dark red hair into a pony-tail, lit a cigarette and announced.

“I know where we can get money, a lot of it. It’ll take a few days and some planning. But once we get our hands on it, you have to take me with you.”

Silas and Olive stared at each other. He let out a large, audible sigh but before he could respond, Olive jumped on the bed with Zola, hugged her and said.

“Silas, I told you that you’d love Zola.”

I wrote two books. They got good reviews. The third one, a sequel to the first, Woman Of Troy, is on the way, very soon.

The Ballad of Helene Troy, an underdog story about a female musician in New York City, and Soul To Body, about an ex-1990s guitar player trying to raise his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, are available, digitally, on for your kindles, and in paperback from



100 Word Song – Lips Like Sugar


Greetings from King Of Prussia, Pennsylvania. I’m here for work. Don’t worry, thank to my 9-year-old’s jokes, I have plenty of pencils. This is why 100 word is 8 or so hours late. I let Leeroy pick this week and he loves 1980s new wave/alternative acts. He picked Lips Like Sugar by Echo and the Bunnymen, perfect for Easter week. I prefer Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs and chocolate, in case you were offering or wondering.

echioandthebunnymen resese'spneautbutteregg


For my 100 we go back to the Beacon Hotel in 1989 Florida with our felonious 3, Silas, Olive and Zola, my short story noir, Light of Day. It’s also linked to velvet verbosity’s “recognize” one-word prompt

Last time:

The sugar-high conversation darted about the room. Olive giggled between cookie bites  and beer sips while Zola plotted.

“Liv, you’ve got to be at work by 11 in the morning. I’ve got a client at noon.”

Olive crawled to Silas and straddled his lap.

“Okay, Zo. We’ll crash here, hit Bart’s for clothes, then head to Tampa while you pack your stuff. No one will ever recognize we even knew Bart.”

Olive’s sweet kisses annoyed Silas as he mouthed “we need to leave, now”. She glided off his lap and joined Zola next to the bed where they planned their getaway.

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

As always, you have 7 days from today to write 100 words inspired by Echo and the Bunnymen’s Lips Like Sugar. Use the medias that are social to advertise your brilliance and tell a friend or 50. Happy Passover and Happy Easter.

Original Of The Species


I have a blended family. My 10-year-old daughter’s with us only half the time. I’m introducing her to the original Star Trek. She either becomes an astronaut like she wants or a blogger, talking about it to her therapist in 20 years.


****blogger’s note****

This is my 42 word gargleblaster for  yeah write’s prompt “Do You See Her Much?”

You’re No Good – Five For Friday

Self-awareness is a superpower. I believe this. One of the things I learned in therapy was if you own your crap, then you can get past it and concentrate on what you’re good at and try to be happy. I suck at a lot of things. But for my friend, fellow writer, and neighbor (she lives in the same town as me), Melissa, aka @realgirlmelissa from Quick Stepp and a fellow columnist at Lefty Pop just wants me to list five. For her “Five For Friday” blog hop, here are five things of which I’m no good, at all.

5) Relax. I’m 90 mph all the time. I don’t like sleeping in, lying around, hanging out, or chilling like a villain. When I watch a ballgame, I’m on Twitter, writing, helping my kids, running errands, or folding laundry. I fidget, pace, wander, flutter, loiter and babble. My wife and 3 daughters can sleep half the day and do nothing, very well. Not me.

4) Remember. This started a few years ago due to middle-age but I’ve always sucked at names. I’m great at faces or peculiar things regarding a person. But matching a name to someone is nearly impossible for me. My kids are known as “that one”, “what’s her name”, and “you know, her”. This is usually encompassing people I like and love. So if I forget your name, it’s because I dig you and include you in my wacky world. Roll with it.

3) Art, other than writing. I’m a writer so technically I’m an artist. I’m also a solid bad guitar player. But when it comes to any other artistic pursuits, I’m awful. I can’t draw, paint, sculpt, or design. I’ve taken acting classes, done some improv, and been onstage doing standup comedy 3 times and didn’t bomb, so I guess I can gab, but anything else, I’m terrible. We’re doing a photo shoot for my third book, Woman of Troy, this weekend. My wife, 18-year-old daughter, and her BFF are handling everything.

2) Style. T-shirts and blue jeans do me just fine, thank you. I live with 4 women. They dress me. I’m not allowed to leave the house without their permission. They handle my haircuts, clothes, and demand I wear a beard because they like it. My wife says it’s sexy and my 3 girls say it makes me look like a dad. Honestly? I don’t think they trust me to shave, There was a bloody incident in 2009 that we don’t talk about.

1) Handyman. Let’s be clear. I can do the basics. I was raised the son of a used car dealer and both my grandfathers worked on and sold cars. I can change a flat and tinker with preventative maintenance. My yard is cut. The mower runs. I just changed out a door knob with key lock after an hour of thinking I broke it. Point? I have no patience to be handy. I’ve worked with Habitat With Humanity because I’m a killer liberal but other than hitting nails, don’t trust me with power tools. I’m more of a helper than a builder.

There you go, Melissa. Five things I suck at.

Linda Ronstadt joined Nirvana, KISS, Cat Stevens, Hall & Oates and others in the rock hall last night. Here’s her version of You’re No Good. It’s the best one. I rule at music. So, at least I have that going for me.

I wrote two books. They got good reviews. The third one, a sequel to the first, Woman Of Troy, is on the way, very soon.

The Ballad of Helene Troy, an underdog story about a female musician in New York City, and Soul To Body, about an ex-1990s guitar player trying to raise his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, are available, digitally, on for your kindles, and in paperback from


Achin To Be

Last time:

Zola dropped her shirt on the floor next to a six-pack of beer. She sat cross-legged in her bra and blue jeans in front of Silas, offering him a can while he rocked against the door.

“You okay, sweetie?”

Olive sat next to Silas, swigging her own.

“It’s a thing, Zo. He gets like this.”

Silas snarled his upper lip, spitting his response to Zola while popping open his beer.

“I just shot someone but I’m fine. Why’d Bart burn your back?”

Zola smiled, looked at Olive, then answered.

“Not everyone’s aching to be a good guy like you, Silas”.

****blogger’s note****

This is a new story episode from my serialized noir short story, Light of Day, about Silas & Olive, two 19-year-old lovers on the road in 1989 Florida. It’s off the one-word prompt from my friend Velvet’s Velvet Verbosity “Burn”

Today;s song comes from my love of 1980s The Replacements catalog. Here’s Achin to Be.

I wrote two books. They got good reviews. The third one, a sequel to the first, Woman Of Troy, is on the way, very soon.

The Ballad of Helene Troy, an underdog story about a female musician in New York City, and Soul To Body, about an ex-1990s guitar player trying to raise his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, are available, digitally, on for your kindles, and in paperback from


American Blogger, The Real Thing

With a post due tomorrow morning for my politics and pop culture site I run with friends, Lefty Pop, my third book, a fiction novella, Woman of Troy, about a twenty-something female rock star,  currently in rewrites, and this post burning a hole in my head, my biggest obstacle is a 3-year-old cat who wants my leftover pizza sitting next to me on the couch. Shooing her away with my dirty workout panted leg and answering questions from my wife and 9-year-old daughter ranging from “did you put chicken out?” to “which one is Snow White on Once Upon A time?” to “what’s that smell?”, I lose my place and mutter a PG-rated curse word.

This is blogging to me. At least, it’s my experience.

My legs hurt from working out back to back days on a 43-year-old body, after taking 7 weeks off to travel for work. And I seem to be aging quicker than ever, as gray hair laughs with the aches and dance with my forgetfulness. Did I call about that thing I was supposed to?

Yet, I write. And it looks nothing like this.

The video you just watched is a trailer for an upcoming documentary moronically titled, American Blogger. My post is one of many already dotting the virtual landscape of Bloggerdom. Don’t worry. There are no technical English rules in blogging. We get to make them up as we go along. Bloggerdom is as much a term as selfie. Like the other posts you’ll read on this subject, I find that trailer and the movie it represents laughable and not reflective of the community I’ve been a full-time member of since May 2010, and a part-time member for five years prior.

I have no idea who the bloggers are, highlighted. I didn’t realize that children of supermodels also posted their lives, or portions thereof. But pretty people in fedoras, basking in natural sunlight tearing up at the notion of being a blogger isn’t my gripe. God bless them all. It’s the guy and his wife, The Wiegands, who made the film. I don’t know them. I think I’ve seen the wife’s blog around the corners of the internet over the past few years, but I’m not a regular reader. They say that they interviewed over 50 blogging friends. I don’t think they’re lying. But calling a flick about their clique, American Blogger, is a very bad joke. My first thought when my blogging friends showed it to me was that it belonged to Saturday Night Live as a digital short or some mockumentary. I started looking for my favorite cast members.

Being a writer, or a blogger, and yes, sometimes they’re the same like a real estate novelist and other times they’re as different as real estate agent and novelist; is a job. You have to treat it as such. I write every day, post every other day, and take it as serious as I can without upping my usual medication. I haven’t made a lot of money doing it. I’ve sold some books, made some money as a freelancer named Lance, here and there, but mostly, it’s a labor of whatever that can, at times, resemble love.

American Blogger is to blogging as Nickelback is to music. It’s bad. It has Kardashian depth in a milieu that’s diverse, unique, and impossible to film in less than two hours, much less a 3 minute trailer.

No, I haven’t see the whole film but the promotional material suggest something that isn’t what I know of the blogging world. Take away the good-looking folks, impressive cinematography, voice of God narration, and super duper clean homes, and it’s mostly hip, young, white women talking about their fashion and lifestyle sites. That’s a subculture of a subgenre.

If you really want to know what blogging looks like, check out the people who read this place, my site and my social media accounts for a community that’s very difficult to classify. Then go read and follow many other sites that I don’t even touch with my limited scope.

I wish I could write more, but my cat has won this battle of nitwits and I’ve got to take out the garbage. Real bloggers know how this is done. It’s more like the real thing.