100 Word Song – Deep As You Go

I like to blame the Easter Bunny for a lot of things. But this year he didn’t make me pack on pounds with Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs, because I didn’t have any. But he did leave us, here at 100 word song, with only 4 entries. Maybe with all of you back home and in a writing mood, we’ll at least double that, this week. We had a new participant, Christine aka @hanolsy from the fantastic writing community Yeah Write http://yeahwrite.me/ and her own award winning blog, a real writer’s paradise http://trudgingthroughfog.wordpress.com/ . If you’re not following, friending, and reading her, you’re missing out. She chose indie pop act October Project. If Peter Paul and Mary had a baby with the Mamas and the Papas and that baby grew up and to have a baby with The Tragically Hip, you’d have October Project. The harmonies are excellent and the lyrics are, too. So, this week’s 100 word song is Deep As You Go by October Project.

Last time: https://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2014/03/29/the-twilight-zone/

Last time: https://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2014/04/19/bizarre-love-triangle/

Silas slid spread out crumbled bills across the counter. He pulled his baseball cap down and  stared out the glass door, watching Olive and Zola dance around the Cutlass.

“Son, a good woman doesn’t take you down, she builds you up. And two of them? That’s drowning in the ocean.”

Silas looked up at the middle-aged man. His scruffy face and deep brown eyes framed a content grin. Silas responded.

“That nice lady that checked me in was your wife?”

The man nodded his head and handed Silas his receipt. Silas smiled then said, walking away.

“That’s good advice, sir.”

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

As always you have 7 days from NOW, to write 100 words inspired by Christine’s pick of Deep As You Go by October Project. Use the medias that are social to advertise you brilliance and tell a friend or 50. The writing prompts community is drying up but we continue to go strong here at 100 word song. And we rhyme, occasionally.


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 http://www.velvetverbosity.com/blog/2014/4/14/100-words-374-10-delicious-poetry-readings

Last time: https://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2014/04/10/achin-to-be/

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 http://melstepp01.wordpress.com/ and a fellow columnist at Lefty Pop http://www.leftypop.com 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 Amazon.com for your kindles, and in paperback from Lulu.com


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 http://www.leftypop.com 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.



Wanted! Outlaws, Whereever They Are

A grudge is a hell of a thing. It’s heavy to carry and I’m probably too old to still have one. But, what I have against country music is strong and at least I’m man enough to admit it’s there. The anger has built so much, I didn’t realize it had been 30 years since it started. But maybe if I get this off my chest, explain to you why I feel so much hate and disappointment toward a genre and a generation of lost souls, then I can move on.

My wife and kids make me listen to country music in the car and watch country awards shows on television. They’re heavily engaged in the Academy of Country Music Awards right now. They talk about people who couldn’t hold the spit cups of the country music heroes I grew up with like Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Jr., Merle Haggard, Tanya Tucker, Leon Russell, Steve Earle, and  the Outlaws, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Jessi Colter, and Tompall Glaser.


I was born in Atlanta, Georgia and raised in its suburbs. Rock and R&B competed feebly with country music in my family’s 1970s and 1980s homes and 8-track car stereos. My memories start at the age of five so when Wanted! The Outlaws was released in January 1976, it was like I was living with a really cool Aunt and some bad ass Uncles. It played every day in my house. It became the first country album to sell a million copies and radio stations, pop and country, played it all the time. My parents were young, still in their mid twenties, high school sweethearts who had me, their first child, when they were only 21 and 19 respectively. The appeal of gritty, brutal truth tellin’, dope smoking Christians who sang about drinkin’, cheatin, and being on the road must have been overwhelming. Because they let Willie, Waylon, Jessi and Tompall raise me for hours on end.


A couple of years later, my grandparents bought a summer-house in the North Georgia Mountains town of Hiawassee, about an hour and a half away from where I lived with my parents. It was a major fixer-upper. It’s where I learned how to fish and work hard. There was a concert hall a mile from the house called The Georgia Mountain Fairgrounds. Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, Jeannie C. Riley, Buck Owens, Dolly Parton, and every other major country artist of the 1970s played there. It’s where I learned about real country music. But something happened. I grew up, but country music didn’t. I guess I should be a snob, an arrogant punk, since I learned about that genre as well as alternative and college music as I got older; and say that I evolved while country music did not. But it just never got better. George Strait seemed okay. So did Reba McEntire. But the good stuff, the music the Outlaws sang about was banned from Nashville and the mainstream. The drinkin’, cheatin’, dope smoking lefty Christian stuff that was about real life became “alt country” that you had to search for like Indiana Jones in a Peruvian jungle with the rolling boulder of Garth Brooks chasing after you. What was around seemed bland, apolitical unless it was conforming to conservatism, and produced for mass consumption rather than anything artistic.

My grudge grew.

I think the only thing I hate more than modern country music is nostalgia. But they don’t make country artists like they used too. Even the ones that seem scraggly and contradictory dudes and gals that try to sing about Sunday Mornins’ Coming Down the way Kris Kristofferson did when I was a kindergartener seem inauthentic. You just know they have a manager dialing the Betty Ford clinic if things get out of hand.

Maybe this a me problem and it’s time I got over it.

Waylon Jennings died eleven years ago still asking a question no one’s been able to answer “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?”. His longtime wife, Jessi Colter is semi-retired but supports their son, alt country outlaw star Shooter Jennings. Willie Nelson is known by this generation for his weed use and his troubles with the IRS, two things that would’ve made him a hero back then, but tours and has the respect of several genres of music. Tompall Glaser retreated from the spotlight of the late 1970s and became an in demand songwriter and producer in Nashville. He died in August of this year.

Did country music devolve after Wanted! The Outlaws or am I just overprotective of my not really Aunt and Uncles? Did the next generation of artists sell out the Outlaws? I don’t know. I act like I do, but I really don’t. Thank God for YouTube and iTunes, huh?

But maybe I need to stop treating today’s country music of today my wife and kids seem to enjoy as enemy white noise. But like I said at the start of all of this, a grudge is a hell of thing.

A version of this post originally ran on the website http://www.raisedontheradio.com on November 24, 2013.

 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 Amazon.com for your kindles, and in paperback from Lulu.com


Drain You

Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain committed suicide in 1994.

I woke up this morning sad, but fully aware, so I went for a run around my neighborhood. I tapped the buttons on my iPhone music library until the Nirvana songs came on and jogged as hard as I could until my middle-aged gut gave up. It didn’t seem like twenty years since Kurt Cobain died until I realized that I could run longer back then listening to his music on a Walkman.

The top search phrase for this blog is Kurt Cobain Sycophant. Sometimes, you just have to be who are and play the hits. As much as I wanted to do as he and his band did on the MTV Unplugged Special in 1993 and play covers, rarities, and unusual songs, I miss him too much not to bring my usual game.


In five days, the living members of Kurt’s band, Nirvana, as well as his widow, Courtney Love, will put aside years of acrimony to be on hand in Brooklyn’s Barclays Center to accept induction of the group into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Nirvana, and Kurt’s memory, will be forever enshrined. To many music fans or the casual observer this caps two decades of chatter about the man Rolling Stone Magazine once ridiculously called “a spokesman for a generation”.

He was small, moody, weird, and cared about and sang for society’s underdogs. I identified with all of it. But his suicide twenty years ago, today, April5th, ended rock stars as heroes for me. As great as his music was, the fact now I know he was selfish, petty, a junkie and poor parent makes my admiration for him simplistic; confined to his art.


I’ve lost a lot of friends and family. Together, we had personal memories full of inside jokes, intimate thoughts and fun. With Kurt, it’s very different.

The songs age well. I miss his articulate interviews, political positions, and unique perspective. But I stick with the music.

Grief can drain you, but when it’s for someone you didn’t really know, you rejuvenate through what they left behind. Kurt gave plenty for me to remember. I miss him now, as much as I did then, thanks to it all.


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 Amazon.com for your kindles, and in paperback from Lulu.com


New Sensation

I was sweating, babbling and at one low point, almost crying, but after a speech to my 18-year-old daughter and her best friend about the potential dangers of driving into downtown Atlanta for a Miley Cyrus concert, I realized I was a dad. And suddenly, I was okay. Not really.

I think I need to stop reading my teenager’s Twitter feed because I’m starting to get more envious than worried. With two months left of her high school senior year, she’s starting to become an independent young woman, having fun, making mistakes, and doing it all with the same wide-eyed reckless abandon I did, a generation ago.

taylorwalkhallway My daughter at the schoolhouse.

She came home yesterday after receiving induction into the Spanish Honors Society. I think this means she has to order from Mexican food menus in the appropriate accent but it also means she’s very smart. At the end of this week, we’ll revisit her college, Georgia State University, where she’ll spend the next four or so years of her life becoming more grown up and really ready to be her own person.

After soaking up some academic pride, she started getting ready for her first ever no parents around concert. It was Miley night. Nothing had ever been more important. What struck me the most is how it reminded me of Def Leppard night, or Motley Crue night, or INXS night, the three concerts I went to when I was her age, a senior in high school, in 1987/1988.

Instead of ripped, bleached jeans, a baby mullet, and a touch of eyeliner, she was packing blue jean shorts, flannel shirts, and a touch of eyeliner. I felt some pride, which was weird.

Then, I lost my mind. Bad.

The speech was bizarre, like Frances McDormand from Almost Famous meets Sam’s dad’s from Sixteen Candles.


At some point I created this scenario where guys would try to entice them with better tickets by asking them to get in a van. It was awful. But I guess sometimes you have to go over the top to get the results you want.

I ended it all with “don’t do drugs and don’t take your clothes off” and I gave them some extra cash for emergencies. I’m sure they spent that on snacks. Just snacks.

I don’t know what happened to me. But my transformation into stereotypical dad scares the hell out of me. It doesn’t matter how many tattoos I get (I’m on 8 right now), how many blogs I write (two currently , go see my other place www.leftypop.com ) or how many medias that are social accounts I try to rock, I’m going to be the dope who told his daughter and her BFF to not do drugs and keep their clothes on with tears in his eyes.

tayandleimileyshow  My kid (right) & her BFF (left)at Miley last night.

Parenting is hard. Some of it because I wish I was 18 again, getting ready for INXS in March, 1988, at the OMNI in Atlanta. I promise, dad, I spent the extra 10 bucks you gave me on snacks.

My fingers may or may not be crossed.

Here’s a song from that show 26 years ago. RIP Michael Hutchence. I wanted to be you so bad, back then. Just like my kid wanted to be Miley Cyrus last night.

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

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 Amazon.com for your kindles, and in paperback from Lulu.com


100 Word Song – Anything

I owe Lindsay Lohan an apology. Every time she or some other celebrity check into the hospital for “exhaustion” I make fun of them. I could qualify for a bed, tonight. I traveled back to New York City last night and this morning, worked all day, then collapsed in my hotel room. Thus, 100 word song didn’t get posted in the morning, per usual.

One of 100 word song and My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog’s most loyal readers and writers, Carrie, from The Muse Unleashed http://museunleashed.com/ chose this week’s tune. Her Rachel story has been built through prompts and one day she’ll publish it all together and blow us away. It’s brilliant. Her choice for this week’s song is Hedley’s Anything, an infectious pop ditty.

For my 100, we go back to Silas and Olive on the run in 1989 Florida, my fiction short story tentatively titled Light of Day.

Last time: https://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2014/03/08/gigantic/

Bart put up his hand and shouted.

“Stop! Streetlight’s out. If we need to run, this’ll be perfect.”

Silas pulled the Cutlass into an industrial area and turned off the engine. Bart watched two men walk into a warehouse office. Silas noticed a flyer flapping on a telephone pole in the light Florida wind. It settled enough for him to read its advertisement.

Go Back To School. Prepare Yourself For Anything. Florida Technical College. 233-2323

Bart swigged the last of his coffee and opened the door.

“Follow the plan, Silas, and we can do anything with the money we’ll have.”

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

As always, you have 7 days from NOW, to write 100 words inspired by Hedley’s anything. Use the medias that are social to brag about your 100 then link up to the green Mr. Linky below.


Any therapist worth a minimum of $50 an hour will say that talking through it helps you heal, but the stone cold truth is, I don’t think I have the right words to describe what The Walking Dead did to me last night with their episode “The Grove”. It’s like they punched me in the stomach and stole my lunch money. It’s been fifteen hours since the greatest show ever about the zombie apocalypse went off the air and I’m still winded. The rules of the internets dictate that I start this with *SPOILER ALERT*, because I didn’t watch last week’s show until right before this week’s so some of you are gripping your DVR controller. So, here we go, dudes, plot points are contained within.

all photos courtesy of AMC


Let’s wash off the blood off our eyes and hearts of what the writers and producers put us through. The hour centered on Carol and Tyrese with their adopted brood of 3 girls, pre-teens, Lizzie and Mika, and baby Judith. They come along a Grove, it looks like Covington, Georgia, but I could be wrong. It was beautiful, the kind of place I played at one of my relative’s old farms growing up. I live right outside of Atlanta, where the show is filmed.  Anyway, the place they find has it all, a place to cook, garden, plenty of water, and little to no walkers aka zombies. But there’s a killer in their midst and well, okay, let’s not be coy, it’s bat crap crazy Lizzie.


Throughout the four seasons of The Walking Dead, man’s humanity among mass inhumanity and vice versa is the theme explored over and over. But in the past few episodes we’ve watched more about what being on the run and beheading the re-animated dead can do to kids, like Carl, Lizzie, Mika, and will one day do to baby Judith. Mika and Carl have turned into warriors, perfectly capable of icing, axing, shooting, stabbing, and killing things that are dead, while maintaining some civility toward the living. But Lizzie, as we say in the south, bless her heart, her wired got smoked. She doesn’t seem to mind killing the living and her affinity for the zombies is straight up creepy and completely wrong.


Carol is the most complex character on The Walking Dead. Her Facebook relationship profile has “it’s complicated” in every column. She appeared to us for the first time in season 1 a battered wife, so timid she could barely speak. Her brutish, abusive husband eventually dies. Then supposedly the real Carol shows up. But not really. Her stark realism of “I do what has to be done” isn’t appreciated by anyone other than Daryl. They almost get a romance started when a flu overtakes the prison everyone calls home. To save hundreds of lives, including Tyrese’s kinda sorta girlfriend, Karen, she kills Karen and another infected with the super flu person. She’s banished from the zombiepocalypse cool kids despite teaching the children how to read, write, make dinner, and kill walkers like there’s no tomorrow, because, most of the time, there isn’t one. But ol’ Carol gets redemption but not really, yet. She meets back up with Tyrese and the youngins and what happens? Crazy Lizzie and in progress Mika.


What happened in the last 15 minutes will be talked about for years. The Walking Dead has been setting bars, leaping over them, and resetting more for a while. Every mistake has consequences on The Walking Dead. Carol and Tyrese left Lizzie, Mika, and Judith alone. They come back and Lizzie is covered in Mika’s blood with a harangue of “see, it’s going to be okay when she comes back”, meaning reanimated as a pre-teen walker. Uh, no, Lizzie. That won’t happen. Carol and Tyrese know what has to go down. Carol’s words, “she can’t be around people” are the new “soylent green is people” of this generation. Well, that and when Carol takes Lizzie out back to “pick flowers” for now dead Mika’s memorial.

“Just look at the flowers.”

That’s what Carol says to Lizzie. Try saying that to your kids this weekend at the park if your knees buckle and your stomach knots.

The good news is they spared Judith, for now.

Let’s be straight about one thing. If Melissa McBride, the actress who plays Carol, isn’t on the red carpet in Los Angeles in the fall with an Emmy nomination, they should cancel acting awards, forever.

What did The Walking Dead do to us last night? They showed us that anything is possible when a TV show isn’t JUST a TV show. I can’t wait for next week. If I can recover.

Just listen to this song that’s not really about flowers.

Here’s the Nirvana.

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

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 Amazon.com for your kindles, and in paperback from Lulu.com