Fish Wrapper

A fish wrapper is what those in the newspaper business call yesterday's news. Breaking news today lines tomorrow's bird cages. It's a tough, tough world out there.

It is in this light that I use the endearing term to place above my personal journal writings. Sensitive topics have been censored, but most are left “as is." It's the only place on this Web site that my statements may be unequivocally interpreted as my opinion at the time of the writing. Beyond that, it's a buyer beware situation, let me tell you.

2007.10.02

Though, as I write I'm struck with the desire to be wrong. On all accounts. Here, there, German or in English, as long as I am companion with myself I should strive to pleasure myself. At least, work to find pleasure.

2007.06.13

Then, before you die (like Yul Brunner and others), you have a social and moral responsibility to warn others of what has happened to you.

2007.06.09

I'm sorry for caring.

2007.06.08

I suppose you've decided not to talk to me anymore. I know you're busy too, but I can only conclude that there's purpose behind your silence. Am I wrong?

2007.03.30

It tears me up that you're torn up. There's nothing I can say to make you better, and I know that because nothing anybody says comforts my ills. Just like you.

2007.02.02

It boils down to this: is this where I want to be? Mired between the proverbial rack and a hard place? What do I expect from this? What can I expect from this? Am I doing more harm than good? Am I doing any good?

2007.01.28

I think this proves two things: my contempt for poetry extends to my own. And the other you'll have to figure out on your own.

2006.12.18

You haunt me like no other could. Stalk my slumber. My time awake. I want you as a lover, yes, but I need you as a friend. This silence, your silence, is killing me.

2006.11.06

Why? Well, frankly, I'm bored. But also I'm frustrated. Not like you think. I'm no scorned lover. I talk of the undeniable traits: the stiff upper lip. To those you believe do you harm.

2006.10.06

But somewhere a little west of here, a brother toils to sounds of the eighties. He finds no solace in the breasts of coeds. There is no time. He wakes. He studies. He sleeps. No time to waste away a drink. No time.