Long before PDAs and SmartPhones, I used to carry a little pad of paper with me wherever I went. And a pen. I had ink stains in most of my jeans and shirts. The reason I did this was to write down every idea that came to me. I learned early on in life that ideas ride on the wind and if you don’t catch them when they appear, you may never see them again. And here’s the thing about…
What if we are all really just ants? Slaves to the machine. Blinded by conformity of the way things need to be. “YOU ARE FREE. YOU ARE FREE.” Too blind to see the Truth. Too tired to do anything about it. How do we break away? Or are we happy in our little plastic box with our paths cut out for us by people who know better? Certain that they wouldn’t lie to us all this time. Twenty-seven thousand…
Today is the first Tuesday in November. A voting day. I’ve voted since I was eighteen. I remember standing in the booth that first time thinking how much power I wielded as I randomly selected names from a list of people I didn’t know. I thought about voodoo dolls – and whether Bruce Some-last-name, competing for Clerk of Courts, got a little tingle when I chose him instead of the other guy. Then I thought about how stupid I was…
She took the bus home from school tonight. She said she didn’t mind. When I saw her depart, I knew why. He lives in our neighborhood, gets off at her stop, and walks home in the opposite direction. She didn’t see me standing at the end of our drive at the top of the hill. As the bus pulled away, she talked to him for a moment, turned, and skipped in my direction. When she spotted me, her skipping morphed into…
Make no mistake, I’m no fan of the Boston Red Sox. I used to like them back in the day when they had Jim Rice, Dewey Evans, and Fred Lynn. And sure, they were a great story in 2004. But there’s something about the air of entitlement Boston sports fans carry around that doesn’t agree with me. Celtics. Bruins. Pats. Sawks. It’s unnatural. But I digress, this post isn’t about the Red Sox. Or even Boston sports. It’s about heart…
I’m not a party guy. And by party I mean a gathering of revelers under the guise of a concept for justification to drink and publicly enjoy the side effects of alcohol. Namely, feeling different than we normally feel. Wilder. Crazier. Free from the shackles of real life. I used to drink. And was quite good at it. I would even sometimes go to parties where groups of people would grind against one another, sing silly songs, make fools of…
