Yesterday, my wife reached the limit of her patience and dragged me out to shop for new clothes.
She thinks I dress like a dumpy old man…which I do because, well, because I am a dumpy old man. Personally, I never look at my ass–ever–so if my pants are baggy in the rear, it’s of little consequence to me. My wife, as it turns out, looks at my ass a lot, and has strong opinions on what I use to cover it and now, tired of me covering my backside with enough cloth to rig a small sailboat, she was determined to change the status quo that I’d so assiduously preserved.
With this as preamble, I got stuffed in the car and trundled off on a clothes-shopping expedition. I had little say in the matter, other than to unequivocally refuse to set foot in Target. My experiences there have been…unpleasant, exceeded only by dim, nightmarish memories of similar expeditions to K-Mart. She could drive up to the door of Target, but I knew she was physically unable to drag me inside.
So she took me to Kohl’s. (more…)
Last week, a co-worker entered the elevator. As we descended, she asked, “So, are you still writing your little books?”
Example 1: When I got my viola repaired I purchased a backup-bow. It is not made of pernambuco wood. In fact, it is not made of wood at all. It’s made of carbon fiber. Carbon fiber!
While I’m taking a hiatus from writing (and if you didn’t realize I’m on hiatus, you haven’t been paying attention), I’ve been reconnecting with the musical avocation I put down when I picked up the author’s pen.
I’ve been on vacation/sick as a dog for the past week, and a ton of topics have stacked up, but this Indiana…thing…has taken up all my thinking time and must be addressed first.
The last time I walked into