Verbal Diarrhea (I spelled diarrhea right the first time. That's a tough thing to do).

As I'm sitting here sipping my icy manhattan, I'm reflecting on the old man sitting in his Dodge pickup truck in the AC who had the audacity to comment on the sticker on George's door: "Veterans for Obama."
"Hey, you should really stake that sticker down," he said with a cheesy smile.
Get out of your truck and say that. Sure, I'll take it down and shove it somewhere you won't like.
Well, that's what George told me to say, but, man, that guy really pissed me off.

I've worked almost 60 hours this week, which includes reading. Finished "The Witches of Eastwick." Sure, it's chick-lit and no, I don't care. Updike is a hell of a writer who knows how to craft a sentence and use words to his advantage. Now I'll finish up "Dubliners" and move on to either Tom Robbins or more Bolano.

I want to start a literature and arts magazine in Durango, but I'm skeptical about how well it would go over and I don't know how the hell to begin the process. I'm working on some stories and I have ideas for more, but I'm hesitant to make them public. It'd be like opening a new wound and having some poke it if any criticism came around.

This weekend Liz was gone. I drank beer, ordered a pizza, and played video games. Testosterone does strange things to your body and makes things like that sound attractive sometimes. I often wonder what the masculine heaven would be? A dusty retro-patterned sofa with springs much too soft, a food preferably fried or salty, an erratically moving television show or movie, the lack of a need to move for hours, alcohol, a favorite band or song on very loud (which, in the case of the average male, would include music not suited to the average, semi-intelligent human's ears), the opportunity to glance at a nude female, and possibly more depending on what specimen of male we are discussing. Often times, they're vile, lewd creatures.

Anyways,







This is where I work.