The Palest Ink

What Are My Intentions Worth?

2011-02-16T12:05:00.002-05:00

Each day I try to spend two hours writing. Often, this results in 110 minutes staring at my laptop and ten minutes writing, but it is still a goal. My mantra is the line delivered by Larry, played by Billy Crystal, in the 1987 classic Throw Momma from the Train: “A writer writes.”

One day recently, I was enduring the obligatory two hours staring at a blank screen. To facilitate the passing of time, I opened a folder of Word files which I call “Stories.” There I found twenty-one files: all partially completed stories -- some dating back to the 1980s.

In disgust, I began to read book titles from the two book shelves that fill almost an entire wall in my little office. Immediately my eyes landed on a volume entitled How Greek Philosophy Corrupted the Christian Concept of God. “That’s not my book,” I thought. “It belongs to so-and-so.”

Looking to another shelf, I saw Fifty Battle that Changed the World. “That’s not my book,” I thought. “It belongs to such and such.”

Then, to my dismay, I saw another borrowed book that graces my shelves: An Enemy Hath Done This. I’ve had that one since 1994.

Hoping to get my mind back on a story I am writing for my grandchildren, I walked into the kitchen and stared out the back window. My vision was immediately carried to my two muscadine vines. One was pruned completely, just waiting for the Spring warmth to fill the roots with vigorous activity. The other stood in disarray, 2010 growth mingled with the solid growth of previous years.

I returned to my computer and began to reflect on what the world might be like if everyone completed what they started and returned what they borrowed.

What an exciting world it would be if we all kept our word: to others, to ourselves, to God. Rationalization is the religion of modern man; but what if, just for one day, everyone assumed others expected us to keep our promises. “How early twentieth century,” you say?

This much I know: we cannot be in the least dishonest without hurting someone.

What if by some supernatural act, everything returned to its proper place? Wow! Just imagine all the saucepans, hammers, cups of sugar, power drills, quarters, and books crisscrossing the air around us! It would be fantastic pandemonium!

What if by that same supernatural act, every procrastination was completed? That paper that was due yesterday…that letter to Uncle Henry…that orchard which needs pruning! It staggers the mind!

But, it is said, if anyone is offended that we kept the book, failed to complete the job, or stepped on the edge of social rudeness, they should have said something.

True, life is so much easier for the inconsiderate when the offended are vocal, but one could just as surely say of a drowned man: he should have stopped breathing. Perhaps eventually the breathing will stop; perhaps eventually the mistreated will speak up; but in each situation the results will be undesirable.

I know I’ll still leave things undone…perhaps unreturned…but I, for one, will try a little harder to avoid it from now on.

Now, who borrowed my remote control?

A Tales of Two Evils - Being Trumped by a Third

2011-02-02T14:52:00.002-05:00

I've got a bone to pick with the city of Charlotte. They seem to be very bias and segregated. Not by race, but by political ideals. All this makes this blog a very strange product, because I do not like hypocrites and the leadership of the city of Charlotte have come out as class A hypocrites.

Now the group that is discriminated against is one I really don’t like. Actually, if it were wiped from the face of the earth, I would not be bothered. The group to which favor is shown is one I really don’t like. Actually, if it were wiped from the face of the earth, I would not be bothered.

So why bother?

Because Charlotte is wrong-headed, hypocritical, and full of bunk, and someone should speak out!

A group called Racial Realist, an alleged white supremacy organization, has secured reservations to hold a conference at the Sheraton Charlotte Airport Hotel; but then the hotel canceled all the reservations after Charlotte City Councilman Patrick Cannon contacted hotels in the Charlotte area, clearly to bully the hotels into preventing a group with which Cannon disagreed from having a forum. According to the Charlotte television station WBTV, Cannon does not dispute these facts.

Now, Queen Michelle of Obama has announced that the 2012 Democrat National Convention will be held in Charlotte, North Carolina. Here is what this product of vile discrimination had to say:

“I am thrilled to make sure you are the first to hear some very exciting news. Charlotte, North Carolina will host the 46th Democratic National Convention in 2012. Charlotte is a city marked by its southern charm, warm hospitality, and an 'up by the bootstraps' mentality that has propelled the city forward as one of the fastest-growing in the South. Vibrant, diverse, and full of opportunity, the Queen City is home to innovative, hardworking folks with big hearts and open minds. And of course, great barbecue.”

Councilman Cannon expressed fear that the Racial Realist group would be dangerous, but I submit that the Democrat Party is far more dangerous.

The white supremacists are a bunch of nut jobs with very little influence. Any sensible person will laugh them off as irrelevant and borderline. They have been around for years and probably never killed anybody.

Now, the Democrat Party? They are subtle…sly…manipulative…anti-American…and will change appearances as the public opinion polls blow. The number of deaths caused by these socialists is unknown. What we see in the Egypt and other areas of the Mideast today is a direct result of Democrats’ ignorance of foreign policy. No one saw this coming? Not Obama? Not his State Department? What are they doing up there? They get caught by surprised more than those kids in the Jason movies!

And all we can do is watch several more allies become radical Islamic theocracies.

To me it is so clear. Charlotte takes the Democrats because of their money. They shut out the others because they fear their message.

I despise both groups. But I despise hypocrites even more!

And I bet Michelle Obama wouldn't know good barbecue from sauerkraut.

We're On the Back Slope of 2010 Now!

2010-12-27T10:49:00.002-05:00

I just took down the Christmas tree and all the other decorations. Our living room looks as bare as my head. It's a little sad looking actually, like a favorite dog found on the roadside for about fifty feet. Y’know what I mean. Really sad, but what can you do? In the case of the dog, let the D.O.T. get him; in case of the living room, get some chips and dip and mess it up a little.

Well, if Christmas is gone, can New Year’s Eve be far behind?

New Year’s Eve is always a big deal for Risë and me. We have this special routine for bringing in the New Year’s. I’ll be in my recliner in the living room watching Law and Order reruns and she’ll be in bed asleep. At the stroke of twelve I’ll open the bedroom door and say, “Happy New Year,” and she raises up and says, “Shut the door.” Then I’ll go back to watching Law and Order and she’ll go back to dreaming of Patrick Swayze at the pottery wheel. (I'll pay for saying that!)

I hope all of you have a great New Year. Reach for the stars. See you at the top. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Stay alert, stay alive. A sack of flour makes a big biscuit. Winners never quit and quitters never win.

Gutn tog.

Glancing Back and Staring Forward

2010-12-26T16:44:00.001-05:00

As the year of 2010 draws to a close, I feel it is fitting to look back and review some of the events, great and small, that have affected my life. I don’t think I will, however, because it only depresses me to see how little I have accomplished. Others in my life have accomplished much, but I seem to just ride along on coattails and do little to improve the lot of others. But so much for my whining.

Now, let’s look to the future. 2011. I won’t tell you my plans, because if I do, and they do not work out, you will laugh at me and say I was either a cock-eyed optimist or a lazy, unmotivated bum who failed at every turn. I don’t think I am either. I am a pragmatist. A hard-core, right-wing conservative pragmatist.

As for New Year’s resolutions, I will present the one I always present: I vow to eat more and get less exercise.

That one seems easy to keep.

In reality, I plan to lose weight, exercise more, cure all forms of cancer and wipe out poverty for those who earn more than $250,000 a year.

So, let’s see how it goes.

Just Another Memory

2010-06-24T20:30:00.002-04:00

When I was eleven years old I started working for a guy named Dick Sloop. Dick owned the Bon Ton Grill in North Elkin and I was one of his curb hops. You don't see many curb hops today, except maybe at The Sonic or some such place. I'm here to tell you, I didn't wear roller skates or short shorts.

Curb hopping back in the fifties and sixties consisted of waiting until someone drove up and blew his or her horn. Then the curb hop would go out, take the order, and, when the order was ready, the hop would carry it out to the car. Later, after another blast of the horn, we'd go back out, remove the tray from the window and dispose of the trash. It was interesting work. I earned fifty cents an hour plus tips.

Dick was a real character. I have no idea how old he was, but he seem ancient. In his younger days, Dick had been a pharmacist in Washington, D.C. He had also been a banjo player in a Dixieland band. Dick loved to whistle and sometimes he would be working in the basement and his whistling could be heard out on the curb. He was partial to Bobby Vinton's "Blue Velvet," and Dean Martin's "Strangers in the Night." Often, while cooking, he could be heard singing what could only be called vulgar drinking songs from the early twentieth century. I still recall some of the lyrics, but I won't state them here.

In addition to hopping curb, I also worked inside. I'd wait and bus tables, handle the cash register, and eventually earned seventy-five cents an hour as a short order cook. Things cost less then. A T-bone steak plate (with salad, potato and iced tea) went for $1.25. Hot dogs for fifteen cents. I've served up many a hamburger for a quarter each…a nickel more bought a cheeseburger.

Dick was a good man. He was funny – sometimes intentionally, sometimes accidentally. Whenever someone would ask "How much is your chewing gum?" Dick would answer "A nickel a pack or three for a quarter!" Most people would laugh. A few times someone would drop a quarter on the counter and take three packs of gum. We never stopped them.

There's no real narrative here. Just a memory. I can't remember all the nights I left the Bon Ton after midnight and walked home. Dick would still be there, doing something.

I worked for Dick Sloop until I finished eleventh grade. I bet I've carried 50,000 trays. The highest single tip I ever got was fifty cents. That was from my first grade school teacher and her boyfriend. They felt sorry for me.

It's funny. Even on my nights off I'd hang out at the Bon Ton…sometimes handling the register in a rush. If I had a date, I'd take her there. I learned a lot…and on the curb one could see a lot. I met a lot of people. I wonder if they ever remember the Bon Ton?

Songs of Joy

2010-06-13T17:16:00.002-04:00

While sitting in church this morning, I discovered something about human babies. Perhaps I would have discovered it many years ago if I had been able to hear. This morning I was wearing my genuine VA-issued hearing aids, or "ear plugs" as my darling granddaughter, Isabella, calls them.

As the congregation finished singing "God, Our Father, Hear Us Pray," and the first Priest knelt to bless the tokens, a baby began to whimper to my right rear, somewhere in the bowels of the chapel. Soon another, to my left front picked up the chant, this time a few decibels louder. Then another to my right front. Almost immediately, the chapel echoed with the whining, sobbing, and outright caterwauling of at least six little future tithe payers.

What I discovered this morning was that babies and dogs share at least one trait.

As I labored to keep my thoughts on worshipful things, it dawned on me: in some ways, this chapel was like a trailer park down by the train tracks. For no apparent reason a dog will bark. A yelp here followed by a short howl. Soon, a few blocks away, another cur will pick up the refrain and so on and so forth until 15 or 20 dogs are barking noisily for no other reason than to be sociable.

And so it was this morning. Not a single baby was in dire pain. None, I am sure, were starving. No life was being threatened. They were just being neighborly. And it made a horrible racket!

Alone Again - Naturally

2010-03-20T16:58:00.005-04:00

It goes without saying that true joy comes from doing things with your family. Whether one is with his wife, sons, grand-daughters, daughters-in-law or all of the above, these are the happiest times in mortality.

Still, as I get older I find solitude enjoyable also.

This doesn't mean that I love my family less. Au contraire, my love for each member of my family grows each day.

These musings are the results of a thought, actually more of a remembrance, I had today.

As I was working alone in my yard, I thought of my two favorite solitary activities. That is, the two things I most enjoy doing when I am alone. I learned them from my parents: my favorite solitary activity from my favorite parent and my second-favorite solitary activity from my second-favorite parent.

From my mother, I learned to love reading. What more pleasant occupation could ever fill one's time alone than reading? To process the words of a billboard – to ingest the wisdom on the back of a box of Cheerios – to while away hours with a good book, engulfed in a far away war or the life of a hero – to delicately peruse the scriptures as the Holy Spirit whispers to you heart – can man attain a higher joy while in mortality? I think not!

Even before I started school, my mother taught me to read. I remember watching her read to me, and yearning to take that book and read it to myself. During our afternoons together, when all my brothers and sisters were in school, my mother, who barely finished 8th grade, instilled in her youngest a tool and a joy that have never dimmed. I love to read. Indeed, I have often said that if a man can read, he is half educated already.

From my father, I learned to love gardening. This may sound strange to anyone who knew me in the late-1950s. I hated the labor I spent next to my dad hoeing, planting, weeding and picking in the two great gardens he kept each year.

In retrospect, I see that he had little choice but to garden hardy. With a wife and five children at home (my eldest brother was by then eating Air Force chow), it was necessary to grow all that he could. He must have loved it, too, because it is the only activity I ever recall in which my father instructed me diligently in the do's and don'ts.

It was many years later, the late 1980s, when I realized how much I loved gardening. I find it a source of great happiness to prepare the soil and plant, whether anything actually grows or not. Of course, when I can eat the fruits of my labor it is even better, but that is not a requirement for me to enjoy gardening.

Words cannot tell nor can tongue express the sweet happiness that fills my being when I am digging, tilling, pruning, or picking! I love the smell of good, clean clay and I love being awash in well-earned sweat! I even enjoy standing in my garden, in late December, just visualizing the weeds of July overtaking my okra and crooked-neck squash. To garden is to do angels' work.

Today I planted my pea patch (snow peas), mulched and fertilized my trees, cleaned around my lilacs, burned all the trimmings from my winter's prunings, and even climbed under the house to reset the clock on our water filter (that was Risë's idea).

That's some fun stuff, I don't care who you are!

Another Memory Before It's Gone

2010-02-24T21:07:00.001-05:00

In the original "Star Trek," everything was photographed. Whenever someone wished to recall an incident, there were always the tape banks, from which a video, even outside the starship, could be watched.

If life were like that, I could pull a tape from the tape bank and review my childhood and all the exciting events I would like to show my progeny.

Unfortunately, my tape bank is faulty, and I can remember very few of the events I would like to share.

I remember when my high school football team played Appalachian High School in Boone, North Carolina. I was in the band. Our band director, Mr. Roy Russell, would never let a band member leave the stands until after the half-time activities – then only one person from each section. On this particular night, my friend Max, first chair clarinet, and I took our break together as usual.

Another one of Mr. Russell's quirks was that band members must be in complete uniform at all times unless they were on the bus.

Max and I were in full uniform in the restroom when a boy who appeared to be about 12 or 13 came in. He looked at us and almost snarled, "Elkin sucks."

Max and I had both expressed that same opinion, but somehow, coming from this junior yosef, the comment angered us.

Before you could say, "Far below the Blue Ridge Mountains," I had grabbed the young miscreant, inverted him sharply, and dunked his head into a nearby commode.

My actions were juvenile, rude and totally without class, but they evoked laughter from everyone in the john except our young wet head.

Shaking his head angrily, the boy almost shouted, "I'm going to get some help and we'll whip your (vulgar word deleted)!" This made me laugh more.

Max and I remained in the restroom about ten minutes, enjoying a smoke. Just as I was tossing the spent cigarette into a nearby urinal, the door burst open and my young antagonist rushed in.

"Now you'll be sorry. I've found a big guy to whip you!" He shouted.

Immediately behind him his new ally rushed in. We stared at one another and then broke into uproarious laughter.

In his zeal to find someone who would beat me limb to limb, the young mountaineer had enlisted the aid of a man home on leave from the Air Force – my big brother, Seth.

We all had a great laugh over this except, of course, the young lad with ice in his hair.

I'd like to see that memory on tape.

I Will Not Be Afraid

2010-02-05T10:55:00.003-05:00

When I was nine years old, the church my family attended – Grassy Creek Methodist Church in Elkin, North Carolina – formed a Boy Scout Troop – Troop 224.

At the time the troop was formed, my brother Seth was thirteen years old. The minimum age to become a Scout was eleven. However, because I was the only male youth between eleven and birth in the church membership who was interested in scouting; and because my brother was in the troop; and because my father was a prominent member of both the church and the Scouting Committee, it was decided that I would be approved to attend the troop meetings and campouts, if Seth would "watch out for me."

Sometime, within the first year of the troop's existence, a camping trip was held. I do not remember where the campsite was other than that it was in a deep forest in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Situated not too far from our tents was a stream about fifty feet wide. This stream cut a deep gorge which was crossed by a footbridge consisting of a flat board ten to twelve inches wide with no handrails. Just before going under the footbridge, the creek took a wild tumble down a waterfall – covering the crossing with icy spray.

On the first day of the campout, it became a ritual for the Scouts to dash headlong over the footbridge. I would stand spellbound watching these acts of unsurpassed bravery, and even though I longed to join in the fun, my terror of the possibility of falling from the narrow bridge trumped my lust for danger.

On the morning of the second day, the Scoutmaster announced there would be a hike. The excitement swelled within me until Seth told me that I must remain in camp. The hike would require crossing the footbridge and he knew my fear of doing that.

"I don't want my baby brother chickening out in front of my friends. I'd have to bring you back to camp and all the guys would ride me the rest of the campout."

The thought of being left behind, and thereby being considered even more of a "baby" than the troop now thought me, was more than I could stand, and so, after much begging, fussing and promising on my part, Seth agreed I could tag along.

As we approached the footbridge, Seth and I were in the rear of the column. Each boy, having made the crossing, would make a wild sprint down the trail and around a bend, disappearing from view, their happy voices trailing after them. Caught up in the excitement of the chase, Seth was soon gone from my sight and I found myself alone on the forward approaches of the bridge.

Gingerly, I stepped onto the plank. With sickening slowness, I would make one small step with my left foot and drag my right up along side. This tedious march continued until I found myself midway on the bridge. The laughter and shouts of my companions slithered down the trail until I found myself engulfed only in the sound of the rushing waterfall.

Seized by fright, I slowly eased my body downward until I was on my hands and knees. My arms trembled as they grasped the wet board and I gazed forward, my glasses covered with mist and my eyes filling with tears.

With elbows locked and dampness soaking through the knees of my blue jeans. I could not force myself to go forward. Neither could I find the ability to move backward. I seemed destined to spend the remainder of my life – which now seemed to me to be very short – in the middle of that footbridge.

I began to wonder what would happen when I died. Would I fall off the bridge or just collapse onto the soaked board where I was? Fear seemed my only sure companion and panic quickly besieged me.

Suddenly I heard it: At the time the most wonderful sound imaginable. A gentle sound – not filled with anger or frustration. A calm, reassuring sound which seemed to understand my predicament and offer consolation -- the soft sound of my brother's voice.

Seth had come back to help me and immediately at his appearing, all fear departed. Taking my hand, he helped me across that bridge and out of that fearful situation.

Nothing else of that camping trip comes to my mind these fifty-three years later, but I will never forget my brother's being there to help me when I was alone and totally paralyzed by fear.

Someday – it may be soon, it may be many years, I have no way of knowing – but someday I will find myself having to cross another bridge. That crossing, I have no doubt, will be just as frightening as when I was nine. Again I will be frozen by terror in the middle – not knowing how, or if, I can go on. I know I will feel all alone with no companions visible before or aft.

And there is something else I know: when I have done all that I can do, when all seems lost and the icy fingers of death reach out for me, my elder brother, Jesus Christ, will be there to take my hand and help me home.

Another of Life's Mysteries

2009-12-13T22:30:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, on a cold, icy night, I find myself outside for some reason. It could be anything. Maybe I have just returned home and am walking from the car to the house. Maybe I take the trash out to the big trash can. Maybe I take the mouse out so she can do her business before putting her to bed. For some reason, I find myself outside.

The air is so clear and crisp on nights like these. As I look up at the stars I see puffs of clouds speed by as the light darkens and brightens around me. Down the way, the trees bend in the night air, and I think, "Man, I'd hate to get jumped by a big dog on a night like this!" Then in my mind's eye I see myself lying on the cold frozen ground, the living room light beckoning me through the curtains, and a big, black dog gnawing my foot off.

Then I break and run like crap for the door.

Why do I think of these things? I don't know. I just do. It's like biting a fever blister. Sometimes it just feels good to be miserable.

Have a nice day!

Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room

2009-09-22T23:21:00.004-04:00

I grew up at a wonderful time in mankind's development. I transitioned from using a hole in the ground outside my house to using a very comfortable porcelain seat with a plumbing system that takes my deposits quickly out of sight. I went from drawing water from a well to turning on a spigot and getting fresh water to paying $1.75 for a bottle of water. I went from sleeping with the windows open on a summer night to reposing under quilts on a July night cooled by an electric heat pump. I went from an education system that taught liberal and scientific arts and real-world skills to one that socialized and equalized without increasing one's knowledge at all after 6th grade. And I lived throughout the entire Cold War.

It is this Cold War of which I am thinking tonight.

I remember on a few occasions practicing in school what we would do if "the Russians attacked." We would crawl under our desks, cover our heads and pee in our pants. Our teachers must have chuckled at such ridiculous rehearsals. After all, what protection could ¾ of an inch of laminated wood offer against a 20 megaton bomb? But we practiced anyway.

I even remember when the Reds stationed short-range surface-to-surface missiles 90 miles off the coast of Florida and President Kennedy's reaction to them. Many people I knew built quite elaborate bomb shelters. My family didn't. We couldn't afford to, and anyway Daddy feared the Republicans more than the Russians.

Tonight I watched a 1964 movie that has been on my DVR for several weeks. I'm sure you all remember it: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb – a somewhat whimsical subtitle that has nothing to do with the movie as best I can tell. The only people who seemed to learn to love the bomb were General Jack Ripper and Major "King" Kong (Sterling Hayden and Slim Pickens). It is probably one of my top 10 favorite movies of all time (imdb.com ranks it 28th).

If you have not seen it recently, or at all, I strongly recommend you set aside an hour and a half and watch it. George C. Scott is at his absolute best and, of course, Peter Sellers even exceeds his Inspector Jacques Clouseau, one of the funniest and Frenchiest cops of all times!

Go watch it. You'll thank me for it. And as the closing song says, "We'll meet again / Don’t know where / Don't know when."

Where's Johnny?

2009-09-15T22:02:00.002-04:00

I watched Jay Leno's new primetime show Monday night. Absolutely unbelievable! It was even worse than one of those Harry Hamlin-versus-the-gods-of-antiquity movies!

I used to like Jay Leno. I really did.

Years ago he would come on the Carson show and tear me up! He wasn't even the permanent host then – just a virtually unknown comedian who worked hard to be funny!

Today he's a totally unentertaining celebrity who thinks he is important. He wants to be "relevant," and in attempting to be so he has become boring, unfunny and tedious.

I have a theory as to why NBC gave Leno a primetime show – a theory with two parts:

(1) Few people actually watch network television anymore and most of those who do just can't afford satellite. So NBC wanted to get Leno out of sight, and what better place than 10:00 P.M. on network TV on Monday night?

(2) Leno got a primetime show for the same reason Jake Delhomme is still the starting quarterback for the Carolina Panthers: Some short-sighted person in top management signed them both to such outrageously wealthy contracts that neither NBC nor the Panther organization can afford to let either go!

Clearly, neither of these losers are worthy of so much as a stale doughnut, and yet they receive millions a year!

This is the stuff that gives Free Enterprise a bad name!

Why does management do this? Why throw good money after bad when a venture has shown itself to be a failure? The answer is quite simple: to try to hide an obvious lack of management skills.

Leno would be fine writing jokes for NBC Nightly News. Delhomme would be fine carrying the Gatorade barrels back and forth between the dressing room and the sidelines during games. But neither should be a star!

I have always felt sorry for people who were placed in positions beyond their abilities to perform adequately (a la the Peter Principal). Even with the big bucks coming in, the stress of constant failure must hurt terribly.

The powers that be need to drop both these pitiful never-weres.

Have mercy!

"Welcome to My World. Won't You Come on In?" - Jim Reeves

2009-09-09T18:56:00.003-04:00

After several months of idleness, I have decided to resurrect my blog.

I know that for many of you this will evoke a myriad of emotions: excitement, wonder, stark terror. Let me assure you – things will be different this time around.

First of all, no political blogs. I am a political conservative – with a dash of Libertarian thrown in – but I'm burned out on politics. When I realized how many people either support Obama or, at least, are willing to give him the benefit of a doubt, I saw that we were all doomed, so let others cry in the wilderness. I'm not interested anymore!

Secondly, I plan to post on a more or less regular basis: perhaps once a week on Wednesdays. This will give you nice folks something to look forward to.

Finally, my topics will touch on everything from stupid people that I come into contact with to spiritual musings: whatever I feel like pontificating on. (Insofar as one can pontificate using the written word.)

I also (is this fourthly?) plan to re-run some of my older posts from another era, and (fifthly?) I'll even respond to some of your comments – if there are any. (I go on the theory that for every comment I receive, 1,000 people have read my blog.)

Some of you may ask, "Why not let a sleeping dog lie? Why dig up this repulsive pile of possum droppings?"

To those I would respond, "Thanks for asking."

I have tried Facebook and found it wanting. The very concept of requesting others to be my friend is pathetic. It's like my good friend Darin Cozzens said recently. (Well, I have forgotten exactly what he said, but basically it was something like, "That's so pathetic.")

I am making it easy to leave comments. No asinine codes, no memberships. Just click below and type it in. I don't want to turn this into an X-rated blog. Please keep your comment free of profanity, heresy, and character defamation.

So, beginning Wednesday, September 16, 2009, Palest Ink will be up and running. Feel free to suggest topics. I can write on anything.