Who, Me?

Peek-a-boo.
Peek-a-boo.

Welcome to my colorful and chaotic cyber-garden, the little corner of the big world wide web I’m cultivating, waxing philosophical about silly humanoid idiosyncrasies, observing the generally and often willfully un-observed (mostly in myself), and fussing around with the metaphorical fountain pen.

I love Frank Sinatra, silly musicals, and a good IPA. I dig myself a Wes Anderson movie, quirky and quotable, and the kind of screenplay I can immerse myself in – “Writer’s Movies”, as a friend refers to them. By way of heredity, I cry at pretty much the drop of a hat – like that one time I cried watching an ice skater tear up the rink – a beautiful and inspired streak of sequined green skipping and twirling and dancing across the ice; Or the other time I gushed over my daughter’s cats cuddling- arms flung over each other’s shoulders like besties, although they didn’t care for one another; And then there’s when I sobbed as Kermit and Miss Piggy reconciled their love in 2011’s The Muppets – tear jerker!

Adverse to my sensitive side, I talk like a Trucker, or a Sailor, or whichever one uses the F word more frequently. My son once told me that swearing made me sound unsophisticated, but my foul mouth is one stripe this tiger isn’t overly eager to change. (Sidebar: that’s inadvertent insight into my personal belief about most stripes, our quasi-categorial ability to change them, and, hell, I guess most tigers, for that matter.) A good curse word can taste pretty good on the ol’ tongue when it’s called for. But, in the interest of my readers, I’ll try not to overwhelm you guys too fucking much.

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