About, well, Me, of course


What’s to tell?


I’m a poverty-stricken, pained, 58-year-old man, aging as ungracefully as I can.  I smoke.  I drink way too much coffee.   I don’t drink alcohol because I’ve had esophageal ulcers and no alcohol tastes good enough to be worth the pain I get from having drunk it.  Physically, I’m not particularly impressive.   Slightly out of shape, but not particularly overweight.  I could stand to keep an eye on that and maybe lose another 10 pounds.   I don’t know many 58-year-olds who can’t say that.  I’m not very tall.   Only 5′ 8″.  I wear thick, distorting glasses to accommodate for being legally blind without them.  I’m hard of hearing.  (That’s genetic, unfortunately.  Not from attending too many rock concerts in my youth.   I went to a few, but not many.   Didn’t see any of the great bands.)  I haven’t cut my hair since 1996 (a story for another time, perhaps), and the very, very thin end of my ponytail reaches my belt.  I almost always wear it pulled back.   It still gets tangled.  I have a mustache and full beard just because I don’t like to shave.  Not because I think it looks good.  I idly trim bits of it sometimes when I’m bored, but it doesn’t seem to grow very long even when I don’t.  My beard has a lot more gray than my hair, but my hair is catching up.

I’m currently a medical transcriptionist by trade, working an odd schedule, but basically it’s overnights.   I was a short-order cook for a number of years.   I’ve loaded trucks, mowed lawns, cleaned offices and loaded boxcars as some of the ways I’ve tried to keep the wolf from the door.  I think the door held, but the roof fell in and some of the walls have collapsed.   The wolf nips at me at his leisure.

I used to be a member of Mensa.  Said wolf ate my dues money, so I’m no longer an active member.  I was never particularly active to begin with.  I joined more for bragging rights than for any other reason.  I did like reading the monthly Mensa Bulletin.   In fact, I like to read.  Period.  I read a lot of things.   Been on a kick reading murder mysteries for a couple of years now.  I like J.A. Jance, Jonathan Kellerman (I’m in love with Robin Castegna, of course.), Lee Childs and Michael Connelly.   Fell free to suggest a favorite (that’s how I heard about Michael Connelly), but Patricia Cornwell, John Grisham and James Patterson just don’t do it for me.

I’m a dyed in the wool socialist at heart.  One of my catch phrases is “Cooperation is better than competition!”  Anathema, of course, to a capitalist.  But how many brands of goddamned toilet paper and paper towels do we really need?   Isn’t there something better to expend our energy and intellectual capital on than market share?

I like to think of myself as a writer at heart, but the list of things I’ve actually finished is shorter than most 5th graders’.   I’ve signed up for NaNoWriMo several years, but never made it more than about 5,000 words into it.  The Infernal Internal Editor destroys my momentum with harsh criticisms, and I’m far too prone to paralysis via analysis.  I never think I know enough to write the story I want to write.  So, I start, I stop.   I have ideas.  I start something else.   I don’t finish and don’t submit.  That’s why this is so out of character for me.  Whatever I put out there, at least it’s putting it out there.  Someone besides me may read it.

Then again, maybe they won’t.

I probably won’t like it when people tell me they don’t like it.

I’m a Nightowl.

What else does anyone need to know about me?


(Now lets see if I can save this correctly.  I’m such a tyro.)


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