7:48 a.m. - 2005-06-19
skillz
Have you seen my inner writer lately? Tiny, balding, spider with a top hat and a feather-pen? Eight little starched-but-grimy shirtcuffs? I think he's fled under pressure from that part of me dedicated to assuring and maintaining my current, steady, supply of hugs (over there...that giant, horny, bear in the track suit and obnoxious sandals).
The irony being, of course, that my inner writer brokered this whole hug deal to begin with.
(Ever notice how saying the word "irony" out loud just kinda kills it, usually? That irony stops reverberating once bound tight in its label? So from now on let's substitute "the irony here is..." with "and here's the motherfuckin' kicker, yo...")
Anyway, instead of writing I've been working extra-hard; building this maple vs. coconut-hardwood wet-bar; which is looking like, in carpenter's parlance, "the tits". And while I was working the other day, I got to thinking - one of the good things about getting older (e-mail me if you can think of another one) is that, without any formal statement of objective or conscious effort, you learn how to do stuff. Remember when you got your liberal arts degree? And you wore a special hat and your mom was proud and your profs who had been dicks were suddenly nice and jokey and you were thinking to yourself, "What the hell do I actually know how to do?". It's the opposite of that.
Back to it.
