I have a human being. This can be quite unnerving at times. The human being worries: thinks about its history, its government, its future. The human being even thinks about us. The human being cries. Its tears roll down my screen like rain off a window.
I once felt as if I had perfected the
chemical alchemy needed for me to write with some success. I won’t
disclose the exact contents of my proprietary blend, seeing as I may yet
trademark it, but one might assume that my equivalent of liquid courage
is not the healthiest of cocktails.
Because it is my lot in life as a writer —
however anonymous — to speak of things that are entertaining and/or
truthful, I find myself often torn. Especially now that I am post-40,
going on 60. But I’m an open book, if nothing else. The only remaining question is whether said book’s ending is good or bad.
I was celebrating the fruition of what I
had recently recognized as my life-long dream of becoming an authentic
life coach by printing my online diploma, when there was a knock at the
door. “Come in,” I said. With his white shirt and well-coiffed speckled
gray hair, how could I not recognize him?
Once upon a time there was a bar on
Second Street in Cincinnati called Flanagan’s Landing. There were 10
owners, none of whom were Irish, none of whom therefore were kin to me.
But they longed to have an “Irish” bar because they were trying to
compete with places like Caddy’s. Who could blame them? It made good
I had done it a thousand times. Jumped in
their car, drove through the tunnel, turned right out of it and then
right into the underground parking lot. I did it for those who arrived
late, or those who didn’t want to deal with the fans.
You may not recognize my name, but you would my face. Look closely, you will see I am almost
everywhere, somewhere in the background: chewing on the scenery, nailing
my lines, a blank canvas with little or no context to draw upon — just a
face in the crowd, an asterisk in the credits.
What is it about being human that causes us to toast only the dead? Let us instead now celebrate the living. Aralee Strange. The name is almost too perfect, as if a literary device. Yet she is, if nothing else, very real.
When word broke one of my drinking
buddies, Chris Glandorf, died unexpectedly some weeks back, I was beset
by a deadline that I still have yet to meet. I sat in front of my
computer, deflated, wondering how such a thing could be true, the long
line of goodbyes delivered via Facebook testifying to its validity.
Ten years I’ve been writing a column and
the only time I’ve ever mentioned eating, I wasn’t talking about food. I
point this out not to congratulate my restraint so much as offer proof
that I generally shy away from shoving my beliefs down another’s throat.
Yet one I’ve held my entire adult life at least warrants mention in
Still nary a mention of Tim, though.
Until now. For the other day, I received a call from him; he was making
his boxing debut on the undercard of ESPN’s Friday Night Fights.
He was nervous because he was in tough against an undefeated fighter
with a massive pedigree, while he had none. Worse, he confided that he
had no trainer with him, as his had fallen ill.