3 Weird Things You Rocked in the 80s If Your Parents Were Hippies

Having a hippie parent in the 80s meant one or more things: 

  • You grew up with a massive love of music.
  • Adults drank and smoked around you a lot.
  • You had loads of fun with other kids while your parents were partying.
  • You were fed on whole wheat bread and natural peanut butter.
  • You had no shortage of peasant blouses and patched Levis at your disposal.
  • When you needed a pipe as a teen, there one was for the taking in your parent(s)’ bedside table drawer.

In a nutshell, your parents were open to you doing and wearing weird shit.

Here are 3 weird things you might have rocked if your parents were hippies and open to weird shit.

1. An Inner Circle album. In first grade, you took an Inner Circle album to school for show and tell. You loved one song in particular, without knowing what it was about. You just thought it was catchy and fun to dance to.

Your teacher’s ears might have started to raise a flag at the words “Colombian red.”

But once the chorus came…

“Smokin, smokin, smokin is good for the brain . . . I don’t want no more of that there cocaine”

… she probably turned the record off and sent you home with a note of concern.

2. A Wham! Choose Life shirt. Someone gave you a Choose Life shirt cuz it was a big thing cuz it featured prominently in the Wake Me Up Before You Go Go video.


You didn’t know that your grandma would interpret this as an 8-year-old making an anti-abortion statement.

So your grandma said to your mom, “How can you let that child run around in a big weird pro-life T-shirt?”

And your mom said to your grandma, “Oh, it’s just a big baggy T-shirt. It’s the 80s. Everyone’s wearing big baggy T-shirts.”

See, your grandma was a wise woman, and your mom was wise too. She knew this was just a thing in the 80s, and she was relaxed. Someone gave you this shirt, and she let you go with the flow.

Plus, its meaning was probably more akin to Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Only it was less goofy.

And the next weekend, your mom took you to a pro-choice rally.

3. A smiley face T-shirt with a bullet hole on the forehead. The same hippie who gave you the Choose Life shirt gave you this wearable mockery of the smiley face. This was a big thing cuz Slash rocked one.

You wore it to gym class in 7th grade, not realizing it was offensive, and they sent you home for the day.

You were 12 now, but it was a lot like when you were six and singing “smokin smokin smokin is good for the brain…”

There were pros and cons to growing up with this kind of parental leniency, but mostly you’re grateful because you like who you are as a result of being raised by weirdos.

Posted in Music, Writing | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Top 5 Sexiest Sax Songs

saxThe saxophone has the power to be sexy as hell or cheesy AF.

I think the sax players of the 50s had the best balance.

This Donnie Elbert classic embodies that. Listen to the way the sax luxuriates at 1:35:

The innocence of these teens is quite a contrast from the dirtiness of the sax:

Sil Austin and His Orchestra do a sultry Summertime:

I’ve wanted to go to Prague since I was 12 years old because of this song. INXS was the first band I went to see live. I had, in fact, a red-and-white Kick tour shirt that I wore with red shorts and a red headband. My hair was long and I had a light perm that made me think I was Michael Hutchence’s soul twin. The way Kirk Pengilly wails on the sax at 2:40 after a slight taunting delay is delicious. There’s a YouTube user who puts it like this: “That sax solo makes the paint on my walls melt.” You mean the skin on your loins?

George’s feet had got good rhythm. ❤

That’s 5, but I could go on forever.

Here are a couple more:

This one isn’t slinky sexy per se. But if wailing on a good sax in general is sexy, then this is sexy. 2:45 is where it all comes to a head as if Ravel and Jay Spaceman had cowritten this song.

What am I forgetting? Let me know in the comments.

Posted in Art, Music, Writing | Tagged | 6 Comments

Today I Did Something Crazy Because I’m Sane

Today I dove into a lake whose depth I don’t know.

I do know that it’s not the shallow (100 meter) depth of Lake Titicaca, whose name tickled me as a child when my mom told me stories about her travels in Bolivia.

I do not know if it’s as deep as Russia’s Lake Baikal, the world’s deepest lake. (Being an estimated 5,387 feet in depth, I believe Baikal is a mile deep.)

The depth of the lake I’m treading is as yet unplumbed.

What I did is I quit my job.

Over my [huge benefit of having had an office job] extended paid holiday weekends, I decided to finally do it.

You will think that my job must have sucked. You will think that it must be like the job I had during the summer when I was 14, where I worked at a boiling-hot dry cleaning place that reeked of chemicals and had weird people in their 30s working there who invited me to go see Richard Marx with them.

Richard Marx.

You will think that when I quit my job today that it was like when I quit the dry cleaner’s.

I still remember being in the backseat of Farmer Dan’s Chevy Blazer, barreling down Oakland Avenue at 65 mph and stoned AF, Dan yelling over the wind, “Should I stop here?” and Kelly and Matt echoing my feeling that “The place is fucking lame”….but me being undecided about whether Dan should pull over and let me out for my 2:00 shift……until I yelled “Fuck it–go–drive!” and we barreled past the dry cleaning place, further down Oakland Avenue at 75 mph, and peeled over to Farmer Dan’s to smoke a bong.

Today I was sort of in a weird state of mind, but I haven’t smoked weed in years.

So it’s not like that.

And this will shock you:

My job didn’t suck at all.

Not one bit.

In fact, throughout my 7 years at what is a fantastic company doing serious good for more than 10 million people and counting, I have had some of the most fun, enjoyed hands-down the most professional growth, and reaped unlimited opportunities to work on and drive some of the coolest shit I’ve ever done in my life.

I am deeply proud of what we do (I’m still there for a couple weeks, and I’ll still be consulting for them), how we do it, and the people I work with.

Today also happens to fall during the week that we published one of my favorite long-form content pieces and two of the eBooks I’m most proud of.

I love working on big, spectacular, awesome, helpful projects, so you can imagine …

It was not an easy decision to leave.

It was a long, confusing, stressful, certain-and-then-not-at-all, painful decision to leave.

Because I love my job.

So why did I leave?

For the last 3+ years, the quality of my life has been shit.

For one, I’ve had a grievous physical ailment.

For another, my mother, who I told you used to regale me when I was growing up with stories of her journeys in South America, has had dementia for nine years.

NINE years. I say that like the principal in Ferris Bueller.


Except it’s nine YEARS.

Over the last three, I have had to move her three times–through I can’t tell you how many catch-22s, how many heartbreaking tragedies, and how many downs and downs and downs.

Coordinating every detail–packing every box–groping for every resource–dealing with every crisis–making every confusing decision in a sea of shitty choices–handling blame, guilt, grief, confusion, helplessness, you name it–all while giving my all to a job that fortunately I loved.

But day after day I had to drag my carcass around to get to work, where I could only work.

Many people don’t know this, but I couldn’t fully engage or animate because I was only barely alive.

This all resulted in me ending a 20-year romantic partnership something like two years ago. (There has been one strain after another after another for so long these last years that I’m not even clear on the timing of the dissolution.)

The dissolution was ultimately good for both of us and I knew it at the time, but the parting was painful. The complete antithesis of our two decades together.

One of the things that spawned that was that I had lost joy–and the ability to imagine, to bounce back, to do anything beyond basic survival, to have any vision that things could ever get better, to even remember that things were ever OK.

It was a living hell for a long time.

But last summer, I finally started to heal.

Enough suffering had elapsed, I suppose, that the universe deemed it fitting to let up.

And since we worked remotely on Fridays, I had a little more time to heal.

That’s when I had the space to discover what I need.

On long, late walks on hot summer nights three times a week, I rediscovered the healing space of time.

And I rediscovered the wonder of discovery, as I took in every detail: the majesty of oak trees twice the height of houses, the marvel of a mini garden with tiny lamps like fairies’ lanterns, the luscious feel of balmy night air on my skin, my new requirement that every doorway on earth should be arched.

These walks gave me a taste of what I need.


So for months I wrestled with what to do.

How do I make money?

How do I give up a job I love?

It was impossible to imagine that there was actually any other job out there for me.

But I needed to work remotely–all year, and more than one day.

So I searched.

And over the holidays I enjoyed more of what I’d learned during the summer.

The importance to me right now of space and time.

And my God, did I feel well.

It was glorious.

To not get home at 7 p.m. and think, “I’m so tired, and I only have 12 hours before I have to be up again. But first I have to make dinner. Then I have to clean up. Then I have to make lunch. Then I have to shovel the snow, take the garbage out, finish my laundry, get gas tonight because we have an early meeting tomorrow, deal with the mail, call the care place back, all while the cat is screaming at an ear-peeling, nerve-shattering pitch, everyone in my life is ignored because I have no energy to live or speak or do anything but work and cry, and before I know it it will be past time for bed–with no opportunity to unwind or write or meditate or thoroughly decompress or do anything that I really, really enjoy.”

So over my long holiday weekends I had time to rest and not have to give a fuck about what time it was. To not have to be anywhere, to not have to skip breakfast or fly out the door, 94% dead, late as always–but to read and learn and write travelogues and meditate and walk and exercise and heal.

Even my cat was quiet. All he did was sleep, and occasionally step out to explore.

So when we all came back for the new year (all of us “office professionals,” a group I considered fortunate when I worked in the service industry, in which one works on holidays)…I knew I was ready for the change that I’ve been ready for for a long time but was only recently ready ready for for real.

So today I jumped into the lake of returning to freelancing.

I have an idea of its depth because I’ve treaded it before.

But I got out of its murky uncertainty as soon as I could–as soon as I landed the dream job that, Holy Fucking Shit, I just gave up.

So it’s frightening.

But after much thought, I’m gambling that it’s worth it.

Because day after day of sure, doing what I love, but on the wrong schedule for my soul, is not living.

And it’s like this:

I am a writer because words flow from my brain, into my fingertips, and out into any medium possible. I am a writer because words are my life. My career is a chosen one, but I chose it because there was no other choice. Ever since I could fashion the shapes of letters with a pencil, I have been compelled to express myself through composition.

I’m also a writer for another very important reason:

I have a meditative mind.

My lulling, creative mind needs fluidity to be, and to feel at ease.




Add to that my body’s need to heal from the hell of being a premature caregiver–trying to be a good one and never feeling good at or about it–for nine years.

Add to that my soul’s need to travel and be in and experience the world and all its many majestic glories.

Remember–my mom raised me on stories of what she described as the fairyland of the Andes.

So there’s nurture.

I also have a Sagittarius moon, if you want to know about my nature from an astrological perspective. Plus it’s in Neptune.

And with all that, I’m a writer because you can be a writer anywhere.

You always could, from the dawn of hieroglyphs and papyrus, back through the time of runes and stones, and into the age of charcoal and cave walls. (If pictographs are writing, which they are.)

I have a deep soul need to get out and see the world again. The writing in the pyramids, the stories in the Chauvet Cave.

And I have a deep soul need to write about what I’m compelled to write about. To get back to The House on the Lake. To fix its first chapter, and then finish the rest.

I just turned 40 for fuck’s sake.

Time keeps on tickin’ tickin’ tickin’.

Now I know the lake could be the ocean, 36,000 feet deep (6.8 miles).

Treading it will not be easy, whatever its depth.

It will be nothing like my long holiday weekends.

And I will still lack time, because as long as we bind ourselves to its illusion, time will always be a problem.

But I should have a bit more of it.

Certainly more space, working from wherever there’s wifi and a great cathedral or temple nearby.

It’s like when I went hang gliding and took a look at what I was suspended by:

Literal threads.


That struck me as no more dangerous than anything in life.

Because life–it ultimately kills you no matter what.

Which brings me back to Bueller.

I think I might have read this question at some point in a Medium post about working remotely. If not, then I take credit for this ponder:

Did you ever notice that this is one motivational quote they do not plaster in offices?


Wish me luck.

I wish you the best too.

Especially if you’re a beloved and esteemed work chum from my greatest job ever.

So far.

Posted in Content writing, Editing, Travel, Writing | Tagged | Leave a comment

What Do the Mona Lisa and Mount Rushmore Have in Common? 


A friend sent me this image, which I love. I’ve never seen the show, but I like how this illustrates modern vs. classical, and the intrigue of secrets.

It reminded me of my first trip to the Louvre, the grand palace of art that could take you years to explore.

Before I even got to the collections, I spent hours strolling around the foundation of the building itself. I enjoyed walking over the medieval moat, beside the grand tower that protected Paris starting around 1190.

There is something about stone from the middle ages that nourishes my soul.

From there, I eventually made my way up to the paintings and really took my time with the works that I liked the most, largely from the Renaissance, when proportion started to enter the picture.

Going as slowly as this, I didn’t get very far before the museum closed.

The next day I went back and retraced my steps. I was compelled to visit the foundation again.

Then I ended up further on in the Renaissance than I’d been the day before.

An enormous crowd was gathered before a tiny work. People were pushing past each other and squeezing in between each other, pressing toward the painting.

It was as if it were the only piece of art in the entire place.

I was repelled.

I despise crowds–not on the Metro, where it’s natural for people to cram together at busy times on busy lines–but I deplore crowds when they converge for the sake of checking off a box on the itinerary.

A few years later, I was back in Paris with a case of extreme jet lag. We went to the Louvre to sit before the statues and sort of melt off our strungoutness.

This was a more off-season time of year, and it was a weekday, and it was lunchtime.

So Mona Lisa was on her own.

She is glorious–don’t get me wrong. She’s very much alive. Her background is cool too, and I love the symbolism, and her history.


One thing that’s interesting is that she’s actually quite small.

While she herself is luminous, her renown reminded us in a way of Mount Rushmore.

Years before, we’d taken a series of road trips. Along the way on our second journey we camped in the Badlands in South Dakota and caved in to Wall Drug and explored Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, and since we were hitting just about every stop that exists in the Western US, we figured we’d visit Mount Rushmore too.

On the way there, we’d cruised hundreds of miles of open road and sometimes endless eons of seeing no more than two other cars.

Now hundreds of cars, trucks, SUVs, campers, motorcycles, and RVs had converged to honk and inch up the road toward the monument.

We could see the carving from the road, which was surprisingly small and frankly underwhelming.

It was even a bit pompous, bombastic, and almost kind of sad.

So we blazed past, doing what we called a drive-by, and have never regretted it.

After a week or two in the majestic Big Horns of Wyoming, one friend and I parted from our significant others and continued on to Flagstaff, AZ.

Along the way and during our stay we kept up the momentum and the joy of hitting practically every place of interest there is west of the Mississippi: parts of the Rocky Mountain National Park, White Sands, the Four Corners, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, Hoover Dam, Lowell Observatory, a place called Tuba City that looks like the moon if its sands were blue, Monument Valley, Meteor Crater, Oak Creek Canyon, Mesa Verde, Verde Valley, Route 66, Jerome, the Museum of Northern Arizona, Coconino National Forest, Little Colorado River Gorge, etc.

We covered nearly every tourist trap and every authentically interesting place possible, but we’d missed one little thing.

So on our way back to Wisconsin we made the stop. We figured it wouldn’t be so grand, and that we’d just do a drive-by.

Sure enough, we drove into the park and it sort of looked just like general Northern Arizona: arid and rocky and dotted with pinyon pines.

We said, “This is the Grand Canyon? Meh.”

And then we stepped to the edge and looked down and said, “Holy fucking shit.”


Posted in Travel, Writing | 1 Comment

My 4 Favorite Songs From Truffaut Films


I was just thinking about framboise the drink and how some people say fram-BWA, but it’s fram-bwa-za.

From there, I thought of Boby Lapointe’s cameo in Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player.

Boby Lapointe – Framboise – Shoot the Piano Player

The format of this clip sucks, but this is actually better than the letterbox clip on YT because the sound is fuller and it gives a bit more story context.

In fact, this clip begins and ends in the same places where I began and ended the song on a tape I made years ago of my favorite songs from Truffaut films. So that got me thinking about my other favorite Truffaut film songs. I know the next two exist on YouTube, but I’m really hoping that my super favorite exists on YouTube too. It didn’t used to. So we’ll see.

Jeanne Moreau – Le Tourbillon – Jules et Jim

This is the first Truffaut film I knowingly watched. I remember requesting it from the library because I started getting super into Truffaut after viewing what turned out to be his Farenheit 451.

It was love ever after for me with Truffaut, especially once I saw this warm scene of musical accord.

Alain Souchon- L’Amour en Fuite – L’Amour en Fuite

The last in the Antoine Doinel series, L’Amour en Fuite is a bittersweet finale that seals my fondness for the character that Jean-Pierre Léaud played on and off from childhood in 1959 to adulthood in 1979. This catchy pop tune theme always makes me happy with its “dooo DO do do do do do.”

(All these songs, by the way, are good for singing along with if your French is shit and you need to practice.)

Maurice Jaubert – ? – L’Histoire d’Adele H

This song is so hard to find. And I don’t know what it’s called. But I’m thrilled that I managed to dig it up. It should autoplay below at 3:20. It runs to about 6:16.

The soul-piercing composition is coupled with what has to be one of the best edited sequences in all of cinema.

Listen to the gentle creep of the intro as the camera inches toward poor Adele, daughter of Victor Hugo, crazed with obsession, praying before an altar she has devoted to a man who doesn’t love her. Watch as the emotion of the song builds and the camera penetrates her enormous eyes. Savor the masterful editing as the camera and the clarinet (?) zoom in on the proud captain in tandem. It’s all interrupted for a minute by Adele’s desperate ramblings, and then the crescendo rises with the rage of the sea.

And! Starting around 5:23, do you hear that bass that’s like a slowed Under Pressure?

[Totally Unrelated] The Night of the Hunter

To conclude, this clip has nothing to do with Truffaut.

But like Truffaut’s films, The Night of the Hunter convinces me that a mark of a great film is the inclusion of a great song. Listen to Pearl’s tune about the pretty fly.

And talk about one of the best sequences in all of cinema. With The Night of the Hunter, Charles Laughton created the greatest Huck Finn film that was never made.

In fact, although Hunter has nothing to do with Truffaut, Truffaut did review it in his film criticism days. He wrote: “It makes us fall in love again with an experimental cinema that truly experiments, and a cinema of discovery that, in fact, discovers.”

Which is what Truffaut himself went on to do as a director, and a chooser of music.

Posted in Art, Movies, Music, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

7 Hammond Organ Songs That Are Spectacular If You Like the Hammond Organ and Songs


I think of the Hammond organ as the Whiter Shade of Pale organ. When its sound grabs me in other songs, I say that I like their use of the Whiter Shade of Pale organ.

Of course, the Hammond organ goes back to something like 1934, a little while before A Whiter Shade of Pale.

Here are some of my favorite Hammond organ songs that span a few decades.

A Whiter Shade of Pale – Procul Harum

I wasn’t alive in 1967, but I think this song struck me for the first time in 1989 when I saw New York Stories with my mom.

Spider – White Snake

This one’s good for emotional detoxing.

And if you’re interested in instruments (of which I know nothing), I’m not positive, but I think this technician is the David Morrin who’s credited with keys on Spider’s album.

Toussaint McCall – Nothing Takes the Place of You

I’m eternally grateful to my friend Becky for turning me on to this song during a Hammond discussion.

Booker T and the MGs – Fuquawi

Booker T’s famous for his Hammond playing, and this jam bares his talents as much as Green Onions and Homegrown.

Toussaint McCall – Shimmy

Booker T and Toussaint: Dueling Hammonds. Becky recommends the B-side to Nothing Takes the Place of You:

The Charlatans – Come in Number 21

This was part of the soundtrack to my first trip to England.

The Zombies – Time of the Season

All my life, anytime I’ve heard the first nanosecond of the opening bass line of this song, I’ve lost my mind with joy. What I love is the bass, and the “ahh,” and the vocals … and the organ is pretty groovy too.

Other Awesome Organs

I’m on Fire – Bruce Springsteen

The first and most prominent sound in this spectacular song could sort of be a Hammond B-3 but is, well, not a Hammond B-3.

Simon Dupree and the Big Sound – Kites

This does not, my research indicates, involve a Hammond, but rather a Mellotron. Still, I felt like including this one because it’s so completely weird and I love it.


Here’s a pretty interesting Spotify playlist of Hammond organ songs, created by The Guardian.

Top image: I think it’s a Hammond organ. By Flickr user David DeHetre.

Posted in Art, Music, Writing | Tagged | Leave a comment

3 Sweet Hip-Hop Grooves and the DJs Who Should Remix Them


Here are three beats that would make sweet re-edits, and the DJs I’d like to remix them.

These songs are spectacular as they are (especially #3) and don’t need edits, but these remixers do some fantastic work, so I’d be interested to hear what they would do with this stuff.

1. Tie My Hands (Instrumental) – Lil Wayne (Featuring Robin Thicke)

It’s always hard for me to stop replaying this loop.

2. Ghost Dog Opening Theme – RZA  (W/Dogs & EFX)

After the first time I saw this movie, I never stopped playing this intro theme. I’m still listening to it.

3. I’ve Been Thinking – Handsome Boy Modeling School (Featuring Cat Power)

A colleague and I have spent a total of 423 hours IMing each other the lyrics to this song, interspersed with random work-related bits.

Here are my top 6 candidates for remixing these songs, and why:

1. Late Nite Tuff Guy (LNTG)

Because this is a gorgeous take on Sly & Robbie and Yarbrough & Peoples and who knows what other good stuff:

2. Mark E

Because this shit’s got the spirit of what I’m talking about:

3. Todd Terje

Cuz his Roxy Music remix is a sweet dirty funk. He does a good Jolene by Dolly Parton too. Not to mention his Horse With No Shame. And I thought there was a Back Door Man remix of his out there but I can’t find it.

4. Prins Thomas and/or Lindstrom

Cuz whatever they did to this Chemical Brothers song is genius, the way it makes your spirit soar. Their Boney M Down is awesome too, as is a lot of what they do.

5. Get Down Edits

Listen to what these cats did with Minnie Riperton’s Inside My Love. The way they tease that guitar out:

6. LTJ Xperience

It’s really a solid mix of False Faces that makes me love LTJ, but it’s not on YouTube anymore. A different mix of his is though. And there’s a snippet of the one I love.

I Don’t Want This Groove to Ever End (and many others) is (are) super sweet too:

What do you want to hear remixed? Who should do the edits?

Am I crazy for wanting someone to do something with Foreigner’s I Want to Know What Love Is?

Top image by Flickr user Hernán Piñera.

Posted in Art, Editing, Music, Writing | Tagged | Leave a comment

Politics: A Simplification

It seems to me that this:

And especially this:

Is really just like this.


This is a parody:


And to me it’s like this


And this


Are parodies too.

Parodies of what, exactly, I don’t know, because I’m not sure there’s ever been a political system that wasn’t fucking ridiculous.

There’s a spectrum, I know, where some aren’t nearly as bad as others.

But so many start out as great ideas and end up as perversions of themselves.

A still from the 1954 film of Animal Farm

Most of my life, I’ve been sort of sickened by who’s in office, and by most of the stuff they do.

I’ve certainly been less nauseated in the last eight years than I was in the eight before that.

I’ve even sort of convalesced at times.

I felt remedied on election night in 2008, for example. Not just because we’ve made progress with civil rights, but because Obama seems like a human.

I still think he’s the first human president since Jimmy Carter.

I can’t say I think things have been really super great, because it seems like sometimes crazy shit is bound to go down no matter what.

But you know how all the people who run the world in The X-Files are like evil aliens or something?

That’s why this


And this


Are like this

To me.

I would be an anarchist if that made any sense. But it probably doesn’t either, really.

And I do hope for this:

Posted in Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Why Working Remotely Makes You Happier


As a writer and editor, I’m fortunate to have a vocation that I can pursue from anywhere.

As an in-house writer and editor, I’m fortunate to have a job where I get to work remotely on Fridays every summer.

I think what I love most about working from home is saving time.

Last night I had a more unhurried evening than other weeknights. This morning I felt more refreshed than other week mornings. Today I saved 40 minutes total on a relatively short but nevertheless ordinarily existent commute.

I feel more tranquil.

But working remotely is not all about ease. You still have to work. And often you work more.

Like today, I put in an extra half an hour because I forgot to take a lunch.

But here’s the best part about today:

During a 10-minute break toward the end of the day, I got a jump on dinner by tossing wild Alaskan cod in a cast iron skillet with olive oil, lemon juice, and garlic.

When the workday was over, I took 10 minutes to make mayonnaise with dill and walnut oil. I chopped some radicchio, grated some carrots, grated some beets, and by 5:12 I was savoring a succulent dinner that I would never have the energy to make on an officenight.

Now it’s 5:56 and instead of driving home and falling down dead of exhaustion after a long week, I’m experimenting with tequila and blueberries, actually doing personal writing, and full of energy for the weekend.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m lucky enough to love my office too. I have fantastic coworkers who I enjoy “facetime” (good thing, but loathsome word) with. We have a walking trail for lunch walks. And while we have email, phone calls we can take from anywhere, and tools like Yammer, Jabber, Office 365, Trello, Wrike, and web cams, sometimes it’s helpful to have in-person meetings.

But man, the joy and utility of using your web tools in your jammie clothes.

I love and don’t love living in the 21st century. In some ways I think it’s the best time to be alive: The time and place I live in offers some of the most freedom, choice, and opportunity in history, as far as I know.

On the other hand, I think a lot of things are more fucked than ever.

On a third hand, I imagine that life has always been good and bad for most people in all places in all times.

But I think one thing is certain: If you have the kind of job that can be done from anywhere, especially if it’s web-based, now is an incredible time to achieve the nearly mythical and long-sought work-life balance.



Posted in Content writing, Editing, Writing | Tagged | 1 Comment

Book Spine Poem


My friend Becky found this exercise via Stan Carey’s book spine poem.

“We’ve got to do this,” she said, and she did, and hers is beautiful.

Here’s mine:

Roman fever in the house of mirth.

Lost horizon,
a backward glance among the pond people.

Midnight magic: stuff of sleep and dreams.
The wound and the bow eats, shoots,
and leaves.

Children of the new forest,
to the summit!
A rumor of angels.

. . .

Writing a book spine poem can inspire even the deadest poet. I know, as I had a certain form of writer’s block for about three years.

Writing a book spine poem is like writing any poem, but easier, because the Muse is the books you love.

The Muse is not elusive in this exercise, because your books are there. They call to you as they always do, and they come together almost on their own as you collect them based on title, emotion, and tactual feel.

It’s an architecture as you build with books like stones.

Try one and let me know how it goes!

Posted in Art, Books, Writing | Tagged , , | 1 Comment