When I was a boy growing up in rural Arkansas, there were only two lessons dogs needed to learn.
I know what it is like to know shame and regret for the fact a dog once gave me more love than I deserved.
When I became aware of sex, well before I learned how to masturbate, my first access to naked women was the Penthouse magazines that mom’s boyfriend’s teenage son kept on his nightstand. Soon enough, however, I discovered that the boyfriend had HBO and that movies with breasts would come on late Friday night while they were out clubbing in Little Rock.
I had forgotten about it, but, according to a plaque I received at the time, I apparenty hit my spiritual peak at 18.
As stupid as I felt then—as silly as I feel now for having choked as I did—what I said was—is—true.
In college I was a diarist. In small spiral notebooks I wrote everything from notes for essays to minutiae about my lackluster love life.
Accidents happen, sometimes.
I ran my first 10K race this morning.
What does it mean to say, “College was the best years of my life”?
It just won’t go away!
I’ve missed a lot of buses, and every time there’s a little twinge of the first.
In spite of all the times I sat among the congregated when my grandfather preached, I remember little of what he said.
It’s the rapture baby!
The sad story of the making of a collage.
Open a book, open a blog, write a sentence, wash a dish, vacuum a rug, bury a hatchet, sharpen a knife: every minute my mind reaches for something else, returns to a previous task, collects a memory, projects a future.
in which our blogger does write about leaving…and may put his readers to sleep, even losing the readership of Greg and Kathy
in which our blogger asks even though the gospel is for all, is evangelism for all?
At thirteen I was soft and pudgy.
This is a link to the story, not a film review.
parmesan sage turkey…cranberry, cherry, walnut, port wine compote…homemade yeast rolls…chestnut, sage stuffing…pomegranate, grapefruit vinagrette…and other goodies.
Why is it that the more troubling, but more truthful story is the one that is forgotten? Why is it that the classic captivity narrative is the one that is remembered?
These days my ears buzz when I go to shows; if I have no plugs, I am in pain for days afterwards. I had no plugs that day, but I think the pain in the end was worth it.
