Outlook

I'm an ultra suave guy. This page, for example, I call Outlook. But really: it's just an archive of my blog-like writings. Now I don't blog, nor do I have a blog. But if I did, and remember that I don't, they would go here.

The writings here in Outlook are not quite fiction, but they're not quite fact either. Not, at least, in the journalistic sense. What we have here are composites. Writings that are too earth bound for them to be flights of imagination. My feelings, betrayals, vanities -- all are better when consumed with a fair bit of liberty. A liberal helping.

They represent thoughts and hopes, but they do not stand unadulterated. For that you must see the Fish Wrapper.

Deus ex machina

So I go in and sit down. Woman mutters something about water pressure. Something about the weather. A Eucalyptus-mentholated blend and a quickie rinse. OK.

The now-distant conflict

I feel guilty when I lock him in his crate. This guilt is why he's not on the street. Yet. That, and he's my only friend.

Have you ever seen the rain?

I didn't do so well checking off items on last year's edition of the life list. Aside from a few key moments, last year was pretty much a wasted year.

The Rules of Digital Engagement

I've been doing a lot of thinking recently and I've got a couple of questions that have not found answers.

Nice eyes -- they may be smilin'; but smilin' eyes ain't always nice

So, I was digging through some of my old work here, looking for some inspiration, and commiserating with memories and wallet photographs, etc., and then I remembered that I owe you folks an updated life list.

You had me at EHLO

The first time I fell in love with Wanda Sykes was in a basement exposed to the sniper's nest of a city called Perth. Below me the lights of Perth and the wind howling through the patio pergola. I was lonely, alone, and overlooking a city that kept me captive for three years.

My own way

I turned 13-years-old in the emotionally empty year of 1996. Recently torn from seventh grade, my home in Vienna, and into an unwelcome adolescence, my mom was on what we all thought would be her death bed.

Baby when you sing the blues I take all my clothes off for you

But being paid for overtime is not to shabby either. That must be considered. On one hand, I'm doing my company a favor. On the other I'd rather eat razors.

Blue alert

The only escape from this misery is to escape creativity. This generally calls for an unhealthy helping of narcotics. Sure, in some moments I am happy to oblige that craving. But then comes the rain.

Blow wind blow wind

I know, I know: I keep promising a big reveal. A big "this is what I've been working on." I have so many projects I'm working on (and not completing) that my plans for a reveal are always being shelved.