I thought this new blog would be a good place to set down some pithy commentary on life and her many rough charms, but I've found myself drained of clever when I sit down to type.
Back before I was a "professional" writer, I could fill pages with brain leakage, often while sitting behind a sales desk somewhere, working in day jobs of various sizes (but all the same basic shape). Now I struggle to write anything without straining a mind muscle.
Typical day today. Waiting on a call from an editor, who should have notes on three separate projects. Watching the second leg of a Champions League semifinal between Liverpool and Chelsea. I could give a shit who wins, but they're into the second period of extra time (Liverpool having just almost hit the winning goal before being whistled for being offsides), and I'm a sucker for sporting drama. As an Arsenal fan, I have no real love for Chelsea, but I have to admit to being a fan of Frank Lampard.
It seems like all the little girls in my neighborhood ride these little mini motorcyles. Most of them look like little dirt bikes, but I can see out the window, one of them is on a miniature crotch rocket. It's telling most of these girls don't have brothers, but have fathers who love big boy toys.
For a suburban neighborhood, it's an odd mix of people. Or maybe not so odd. I guess suburban stereotypes are no more "real" than any others. But on this street we've got an amateur racer, whose wife once went to New York to pursue an acting/modeling career, and, as fate would have it, got to know Frank Coraci, the man assigned to direct the Hawaiian Dick movie. Weird to be sitting in a Kansas City backyard get together, talking about what "Frank" was looking for when casting his last flick. My next door neighbor runs the family body shop, and coaches the local girls softball and soccer teams (the ones my daughter plays for). Great guy, with a great wife and great kids. One of my favorite summer pastimes is wandering outside late on a Friday night and throwing down a few cheap beers with he and his softball buddies (he's a smaller guy, but every other guy on his team looks like sasquatch offspring). The head of the neighborhood landscaping committee came down the other day, to check on some mowing we needed done. With his gravely voice, mirrored sunglasses, salt and pepper goatee, Harley Davidson bandana and skull-adorned Vans, he didn't look much like your typical suburban committee chair. But that's a good thing.
We've got our share of salesmen surrounding the house (four, to be exact), and each of them works on their own schedule, so it's not unusual to see a couple of them mowing their lawns around noon on a weekday. But they're good guys, too.
Chelsea just missed a penalty kick after the second period of added time. I'd put my money on Liverpool from here.