Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.
— Don Delillo
It's another Five Star Friday held over to Monday due to house guests, family, and a variety of other factors that made the entirety of last week and the weekend flash by before I could even take note of what was going on. I even also almost missed that this is the
100th
edition of this little corner of the internet. Inconceivable!
Happy 100th, everybody!
This Five Star Friday roundup is brought to you by fatherhood, sudden illness, sex education in schools, finding inner peace, a loyal friend, rehab, prostate cancer, a feisty baby, a C-section, life lessons, cleavage, and daycare.
I know that some of you have been sorely overlooked. This, too, is inconceivable, so please leave urls to your own excellent weblog writing in the comments.
Happy Monday!
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Top Ten Ways to Find Inner Peace
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Peace. Miss Universe wants it. So does Miss Wichita Home Heating.
Do any of us know what peace is, though? Because the moment they inform Miss Wichita Home Heating that all the machine guns in the world have been plugged up with daisies, all those soldiers standing there will be left to ponder the fundamentally distressed state of individual humanity.
And they will freak the f*ck out.
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I walk a line called fatherhood and my balance is precarious at best. Toes fall over edges smoothed with kind words and late night hugs. Feet slip upon surfaces left wet by tiny tears and early morning accidents. It is a path that my father walked before me, and his before him, but the scenery is vastly different.
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Regarding the Birds and the Bees
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So he tells me this yesterday like he’s saying “Look. A ball bouncing.” and that’s the way I heard it too. I’m just listening to all this stuff about catching it early and radiation or removal and a good prognosis until we finally hang up and everything’s silent. Not emotional. Silent. A silence much bigger than quiet. It’s the calm before I begin to question my aptitude for being a son.
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Snapshots From Before Going Home
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Little Napoleon Apple Tornado Blues
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Of course I never said nothin' to her about the bottles she whipped by my face. She wouldn't of had the time to ponder my aches and just as sure as a buzzard likes hot guts, that lass would have hung lead on my bones without lifting her eyes from that Dora.
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I Call Bullshit On the Offense
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