The Bloggy Blogface!

   One of the less depressing stories amid the election aftermath concerns itself where President Obama's family might move to after his tenure ends next month. It appears they will stay in the Washington, D.C. area so that their youngest daughter, Sasha, can finish school. I'm grateful we never had to move when I was a kid. I switched schools often, but never a mailing address. It wasn't until my naive self got to college where I learned more about such normal concepts as split families and military ones that move around often. Sure, I was familiar with those circumstances, but never experienced them firsthand. Everyone was just...married, and there, right where I knew them. Except my late aunt's family. They moved around some, but always stayed within the city limits. Their son, my cousin, never had to transfer schools. He did, however, have to walk to a public school for a few years while living directly across from a private school. At least Sasha Obama doesn...

   A few nights ago, the Chicago Cubs reached the World Series for the first time in over seventy years. I'm sure you've heard the Cubs backstory ad nauseam - all the curses, general bad luck, et cetera. I know the media made damn sure you were aware of it all and then some. It provided a great storyline, but this current Cubs crew busted through all that by winning over one hundred regular season games and eventually three straight to capture that National League pennant. As a Mets fan, I'm...kind of happy for them? I don't know. Sweeping their asses in last year's National League Championship Series was pretty fun, but that was then I guess, and this is now. I'm rooting for them in this World Series, It's been a long time coming. Or, maybe I'm rooting for the Cleveland Indians. That's not such a bad thing, is it? They're a good team. Swept the Red Sox, whooped the Blue Jays in five - I mean what's not to like? They're likely the unde...

  A friend back in New York City is enrolled in a M.F.A. program in creative writing. I haven't spoken to him much about it, but he just recently started the program. He's about my age. Good guy - poet, performer, and activist. We met attending the same college back in the day, specifically working the school's summer new student orientation program together. I don't remember if he graduated with my class back then. Maybe a few years later. At any rate, to pursue higher education after being out of the game for so long is no small feat. More power to him. His pursuit of the M.F.A. got me thinking about my past futile attempts at such. Most of my wild dreams about the degree occurred well over a decade ago. For reference about those days, I recently took a gander at some past Livejournal entires that date back to around 2004. Most of my friends on that site hailed from the school in Louisiana I worked at. Prior to leaving this position, I had created a somewhat satiri...

   A fellow barfly has been missing in action recently. He hasn't been frequenting the few places we often spot him here in town. Maybe he moved? That's somewhat doubtful, as he mentioned awhile ago that he just bought a home. Unless he made that story up, of course. One of the last times we saw him, he was accompanied by a woman he claimed was his neighbor. She was an older lady, chain smoking with leathery skin and an appetite for all the rum and cokes that night. Their body language together suggested they were, in fact, just friends. And possibly neighbors. The missing barfly - let's call him Greg - is indirectly friends with people in our social circle here. In fact, they all used to hang out back in the day before I came into the picture. I've had the endless artificial joy of hearing story after story of their early intoxicated, sometimes drug-fueled adventures - whether at bars, bonfires, music festivals and the like. Greg certainly was a party kind of guy. ...

   The latest issue of a weekly rag in this town features its annual "Best Of..." winners. One of the category winners happens to be a nearby bar, specifically one I first began frequenting when I relocated here. It's just off the main road, attached to what looks like a couple of makeshift row homes that are actually empty retail spaces. In front of the building sits a small parking lot, with some more spaces across the street and in the adjacent dirt lot. The dirt lot is often jam-packed on weekend afternoons, thanks to the restaurant area being largely kid and pet friendly. A friend and I started spending many evenings at this place, mostly due to the fact it was accessible by taking side streets, avoiding any bar-closing hour patrols. Back in the day I guess this place was sort of a rough house - there's still a few bullet holes visible in the ceiling. The front entrance leads you into the dining portion of the space. Lots of wooden tables, chairs, and booths...

   The note was an apology, to my mother, for whatever I did way back when. Somehow I managed to rise before she did, crawling my five year-old self out of the small twin bed with a mission at hand. The note was already composed, now it just needed a delivery spot. Placing it on her nightstand was out of the question - she's a light sleeper, and their bedroom was up a creaky stairwell with a door that craved oil on its hinges. So was the kitchen table - as a family, that's where we placed birthday cards for the lucky member to spot. Too confusing to put an apology letter there. I decided the best place was in her car, where she could spot it before she ventured to work in the morning. Most steering wheels on cars from the 1980's, by the way, are a perfect resting place for such correspondence. The horn often sat back a bit from the spoke, or whatever the technical term is for it, making for an ideal spot to balance something if need be. I strapped on some quick winter gear...

   We drove straight through a thunderstorm, because of course that's the weather when careening down curvy mountain roads. Some lady we had to pick up along the way fills our ears about how long it has been since she got to see everyone. We overhear a couple of phone calls to her husband, who is trying to sell their  other home on the other side of the state. She's concerned about something with the awning and siding on that other house. Prior to all this, she was gnawing on some super crunchy chips with her mouth open. She's lived here her entire life, and knows where this place is we're trying to navigate through the storm. I'm annoyed, because I am the one driving through the mess. The one scenario I despise the most is slowly taking shape - driving in the dark while it's raining. I'm sure I am pissing off some of the locals driving behind us, as I'm trudging through the storm a couple miles below the speed limit. They'll get over it. I tighte...