A week after Trump Care passed, we find a woman, a girl, and a baby in the kitchen of a house in the rural south. GIRL (16): But Momma, because baby Brittany was sick at birth, she’s gonna lose her heath care now. WOMAN: It’ll be fine, Darlene Mae. We’ll make do. The important thing is that we keep winning the war against the libtards who want to give away our hard-earned money to people who sit around smoking pot…
We compete with other soft Americans for the best life on Facebook. Shining light on our cars and jewels. Smiling with a glass of red. Seemingly oblivious to the plight of others who fight just to survive–even here in our own country. Oh sure, we change our avatars in support of injustice, and vent our frustration in our status updates (true solidarity among the privileged) for a few days–until we scroll to a photograph of a peer enjoying a beer…
What if all the birds in the world are singing the same song? A song with very specific roles for each type of bird. Where every chirp, tweet, and whistle is significant. A song so grand in scope that it has no beginning or end. A song so sweeping and pervasive that we cannot hear it except in miniature.
“The best, most creative advertising you ever write will pale in comparison to word-of-mouth.” – my copywriting professor at the outset of our first class, 1995 Fact: Every company on the planet has a product or service. Fact: The better the product or service, the more people will use (buy) it. Fact: People will tell others about their experiences with your product or service. For good and bad. I know it’s hard to believe, but the idea of word-of-mouth has been…
The following is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. In 1982 I was sixteen. A skinny white punk in the suburbs of Houston who hung around a few other like dregs. We weren’t into school, weren’t into social conformity, but were into heavy metal. We were into chicks too, but the chicks hadn’t come around to metal yet and so we existed, together, a band of suburb outlaws. We hung out in the woods…
The following is a guest post by my daughter, Agatha Rose who is a 10th grader. I assisted in copyediting only. *** I hear the trumpets from down the street. The noise is beautiful. In fact, I wouldn’t even consider it noise at all. It’s art. I’m writing because the trumpets let me decompress. I’m not sure why, and wish I did because I hate writing–nobody understands my train of thought. Except the writer who lives next door, and…
