L Eckert-A Tribute to Texas

Noise in the High School Hallway

Before dawn Mr. Henry arrives to click on the lights, and the roaches and mice skitter away to their hiding places in the cracks of our old dilapidated school. Minutes later my students are knocking on the glass doors for a chance to look at a computer, read with their teacher, or just escape the morning cold.

 Sometimes shouts and laughter echo around the empty hallways; around, and around, the sound travels as fast as the Large Hadron Collider, but our school is anything but a scientific experiment. My students are alive, impressionable, and listening for drama.

 The Morning Ritual

 The students gather in the commons for visitation time. Some of them are out of dress code, and you can spot them easily by the shouts of other students, “Oooo, Girrrl, Look at YOU!” the students press each other on because the drama is loud and the teenage desire to defy authority is the tie that binds them closest together.

 Finally, after everyone else has arrived, and most of the students have worked out their missing student identification, found some school sanctioned apparel, and started to slowly move on to their classes, the principal performs her grand arrival.

 She lazily drags her briefcase into the school on a business cart, and the clitter clatter of her little wheels signal her late arrival. The door to her office squeaks on the hinge, and she is safe at her desk for most of the coming day. A cloud descends upon the school, and the atmosphere is charged with negativity. Finally, the speaker crackles to life and the principal’s voice reels around the hallways causing my students to inhale sharply.

The message drones on, and we are all newly reminded of the negativity, the no excuses mantra, the implied messages: you are not good enough, you are not as good as me, you are all underachieving thugs grade levels behind, and nothing worthwhile can take place here. Before she has finished her speech, my students are talking, eating on chips, or desperately trying to find a way to squelch out the negative tonal quality, the condescending blah blah, and the ridiculous repetition.

 We all breathe again when the speaker clicks its good bye. We are happy to get down to business.

 Later in the day, she stages an event for the students, targeting a teacher for removal; she meets with administration members during the passing time between classes, and she intentionally allows the students to overhear her hateful messages. The teenage desire for a bit of drama, and the opportunity to defy authority, is satisfied by the chronic drumbeat of negativity relayed by the principal’s narrative. The hallways are suddenly filled with noise, and we have broken hearts, but my principal’s only priority is herself. The conversations poison the well, and my students are cheated.

Warning to New Teachers in Houston ISD

Good morning to all!

 Read this email from my union rep. This morning we also received an email that states the principals are being told they are not firing enough teachers.

This is the sick process education reform has created in big city districts. They just churn through teachers, especially new ones, as fast as they can with no regard to the person’s life, skill set, or qualifications. The harm they do to the students by destabilizing their neighborhood schools cannot be measured. They don’t care if you are a blazing success in the classroom; your teaching certificate is basically meaningless to the administration.

If you are a TFA recruit, you don’t even need to teach in your subject area, much less study for a certificate. You will get treated like royalty even though you only receive five weeks of training and never studied in the subject area you are selected to teach.

Last year a TFA recruit told me he was a political science major from Georgetown, and he had been assigned to teach “Applied Science.” He asked me in the hall, “What is applied science anyway?”

 In my case,

Chief of High Schools (Orlando Riddick): brand new to the job

School Support Officer SSO or SIO (Xochitl Davila) (otherwise known as regional superintendent): brand new to the job—Michelle Rhee wannabe---previously served at Lee HS as principal

Principal: 28 years old with no experience, and she comes from the lowest performing charter school in the state of Texas (Amber Wilson/Williams) Hope Academy--I believe it is a White Hat Management entity

Dept head: 26 year old TFA recruit with no subject area degree (communications) and no experience (Britney Maloney) Handpicked by Davila

 In the student’s mind, a standard classroom teacher is a disposable throwaway. They see no reason to follow the rules, do their homework, or take the exams seriously. They know the teacher will probably get fired, possibly in the middle of the year. They have no respect for their teacher, and no reason to believe their teacher has any ability to discipline or instruct.

This is the message inner city students have been receiving for over a decade. This is the message reformers convey to the students, the parents, and the taxpayer.

At new teacher orientation you are led to believe something much different; at the job fair, and in the media, you are told that working for HISD is wonderful, with a fair evaluation system, great pay, and fabulous bonuses.

Working at HISD is the biggest mistake I have ever made.

I was warned about education reform. I was told not to do this, and I didn’t listen.

 Honestly, I didn’t even know what “education reform” meant…I thought it was a bunch of talented people swapping ideas about how to best educate the children of poverty. I thought it would be fun, challenging, and engaging. In my ridiculous mind, I could see a group of teachers sharing ideas, lesson plans, and stories. I really believed I was going to learn something positive about public school. I didn’t know it was a scam engineered to deprofessionalize the teaching business, and hand the jobs off to cash strapped ivy leaguers that couldn’t find positions in their fields of study.

Now I know that people like Michelle Rhee made millions off the backs of the teachers she fired. I know that most of these people have cheated, including some in my own Apollo program. The Atlanta Journal Constitution even did a nationwide study, and can prove mathematically that these districts have failed to educate these students in spite of their “so-called” reforms. This wrong-to-right erasure math is indisputable…

As for me, I don’t need a study; I can tell everyone about the chaos, the achievement gap, the poverty, the filth, the lies, and the smokescreen.

 It is funny that Arne Duncan (Obama's Secretary of Education #erasetothetop) came out here and toured Lee HS with my SIO, and he listened to a few talented students, and the police cracked down on the school before his arrival, and they managed to sign up all of the students to some kind of college (mostly 2 year institutions) and convince Arnie that it is a “turnaround success.” But you only have to look at him closely to see he is a Walmart kind of guy. And now we have the privatization of the public trust…we have the Walton Foundation, The Broad Foundation, The Gates Foundation, and countless other vultures, and venture capitalists, including Pearson (the great testing empire), all throwing money to this “teacher witch hunt” fully engaged in the age-old philosophy of “you gotta spend a buck to make a buck.” So, they are making the bucks off of me and my students, and I am helpless to stop them.

I asked my leaders for help, but I was ignored.

 Subject: Conf. for the Record- 48 Hour Notice

 I have been getting phone calls from people who are entering meetings with administration that turn out to be Conferences for the Record.  Please disseminate this message to our membership:

 Upon entering a meeting, always ask, "Is this a conference for the record?"  ALWAYS! Never assume they are calling anyone in to have coffee.  A conference for the record will go into the employee file.  It will, usually, entail some kind of adverse, punitive action against the employee. Therefore, always, always, preserve your right to representation and request that I be present during these CFR's.  A CFR should always have a 48 hour notification attached to it. Respectfully, decline to participate in the meeting if the administration confirms it is a CFR.  Advise them that I (employee) will be more than happy to participate in the CFR as soon as I secure representation. 

I have been told, repeatedly, today that the principal said the SIO is on the way to fire you if you don't resign.  DO NOT RESIGN!  IF YOU RESIGN, WE CANNOT RESCIND THE RESIGNATION!!!  It is better to err on the side of caution.  Call if you're in doubt.  This is your career, your future.

 Corina Ortiz,
Representative- Houston Federation of Teachers
3100 Weslayan, Ste. 255
Houston, Texas 77027

 

The Fight Today

    This morning I am all of the faults my Grandmother detested: contemptuous, fatigued, imposed upon, and impatient. I never asked to come here, and my tenure has turned into a trap of sorts, a place I can walk away from; however, if I do, then I will self-destruct and all of my arrows will have missed the mark. A vision of my Grandmother passes before me dressed in her starched apron, her hands kneading the dough, a soft breeze rattling her screen door.

    We will all forget, as soon as humanly possible, the spoilt and petulant, slightly plump little valley girl feigning credentials, yet possessing none, but still allowed to trounce on the souls of hard working, dedicated professionals she perceives beneath her. But, in the academic world, she is simply nothing but a communications degree that failed to make a west coast splash, a loser of plump proportions, a twit beyond description.

     And in the hallways a woman creeps like a lizard peeking into the rooms, searching for fault, and when finding nothing, she constructs a drama from thin air, and she weaves these falsehoods to support the plump and gelatinous, the petulant and feigning. We watch these actions in horror, from behind our glasses, and our dependents look on helplessly, some of them resisting injustice, and others tricked by the duplicity, all of them cheated by the sheer force of the inept and incompetent leadership of our establishment; the falsehoods created to destroy me are openly discussed in the hallways, and this undermines my authority; I am defeated.

      I check under my eyes, and they are darker than ever with lines forming on my cheeks below, and after another bout with the illogical and duplicitous, I wipe a frustrated tear off my cheek, and I grit my teeth for another round because we have never had more to lose, and I do not want to disappoint my Grandmother.

      After all of my years on the docks, the roadways, and the cities and towns of  North America, and after all of the rough characters that have passed in and out of my life from the communities around the world, and after all of my experience, the scholars, the sages, the poets, the chiefs, the professors, the professionals, the workers, the soldiers, and the quitters, after all of these lessons, I was still not prepared for the disgraceful spectacle I now witness—a spectacle of negativity that completely derailed the future of an entire urban neighborhood.

     I question why our supreme leader sits on his hallowed throne and allows this scandal to continue, and I am answered by a poet with underworld connections,

“It is his golden rod, and those who parlay to kiss its tip are whisked away by a magical lizard.”

   My poet winks at me, and I nod in confusion unraveling the riddle, and pondering its meaning. I rock back on my heels, and my sudden laughter fills my vacant room as I comprehend the absurdity of our dilemma: the carnal weakness of man.

 In the world hereafter, I know my Grandmother is smiling.

Writing about a Book

Writing a book has always been my dream, and recently I shared this idea with a scholarly friend that knows the story of my life. My friend sat and thought a bit, and then she remarked, "Well, for a book you need characters. Have you got any ideas? You need a well planned plot, and a worthy protagonist. What are you thinking about?" I had to laugh when she started asking about characters, because I have plenty of them. Some have created a constant background noise throughout my life; flat, not well-developed, and in my story, cowardly followers sipping from the same toxic well. Of course, these followers have plenty of dialogue, lots of hysterical ideas, and can move the plot forward just by the sheer force of their insipid arrogance. In a good play, you would see them whispering in ears, and tip-toeing about the stage tripping over their own self righteous, forked tongues, walking a dog, maybe catching a cab. Cowards are in abundance.

My scholar reached across the table for her cheap little eyeglasses, and then she wanted to know more about my supporting roles, and main character.

"The supporting roles are easy," I told her. "My main character is very independent, and this is why she is hated." "Yes," she snapped, "but even supporting characters are not always supportive of the main character. What a ridiculous conversation we are having!"

It is a "ridiculous" conversation, but one I must have, because my life is no longer about me, and neither is my book. Instead, my story should focus on the faults of the flat character: cowardice, ignorance, jealousy, and selfishness. Instead of allowing them to languish around in the background of my story, I should bring them to the light. I should show them to my world, and I should reveal their flaws, and their failure to create a thesis for their life, their inability to understand harmony, rhythm, and the techniques needed to manipulate an empty page. Never mind that flat characters are technically lacking traits both positive and negative, my composition will endeavor to redefine the 'flat' character, and give it dimensions. I shall move one of these cowards up to center stage, and give it a name.

But, that's a bad idea, because I would spend all of my time trying to humanize a character not worth knowing. My story would no longer be about the best of life, but about the filth, and suddenly I understand why this painful story is so hard to tell. My friend and I are back to the beginning. She orders a drink, and I stare out the window…thinking.

"You need a metaphor. Your book must stand for some principle. What is your principle? What symbol will you use?" I laughed again, as I thought of the symbols in my life: the winding white line along the roadway, the quill, a signature dog, and the number seven. None of my symbols were worth a dime, unless I equated a dog turd with the characters in my life; then, maybe, I could go places. "I am dry on symbols," I replied fretfully, as the image of a dog turd floated around in my brain. "I simply have nothing good to say. I see no way to win with so many flat characters."

But, I have to.

Where the Picture is Dark

Since I moved, I can't find my rear with both hands. Some of my books are in Oklahoma, and some of them are here, and many of them are digital. Some of my books are at school, and my dog ate the rest. I threw a bunch of stuff away, and I sent the wrong box of clothes north, so now I have nothing warm to wear; except that doesn't really matter because it's going to be in the 90's on Monday.

I never have a moment alone.

I have Vince walking around the apartment like a zombie looking for my secondary writing book; I offered him cash if he unearthed it someplace. We have clothes in the dryer, my sheets haven't been washed in two weeks, my dog needs his hair done, Vince thinks I am the worst parent in the world, and I have a whole new set of worries related to work that I haven't even mentioned yet.

The top of my dresser is stacked with baubles, clothes, cheap jewelry, and hair junk. My closet has one box for shoes, and one box for purses, and I haven't even had time, or the will, to dig to the bottom, or kick the boxes out of the way.

But, I am happy. So now I just have to find that book, get back on the pathway, and iron the 4 foot tall pile of clothes that have been stored on the right side of my dirty bed for two weeks. Then, at last, everything will be as smooth as butter on bread. Maybe then I could go visit a lounge, take Vince to a movie, act like a parent, meditate and pray, or take a nice drive in my cutie car.

I don't have any time.

Whatever happens in the next 24 hours, I know my responsibilities will continuously haunt me. I have the October blues, and there is nothing that can be done for November disillusionment, and the false hopes of post Christmas, the melancholy of January. The piles of paper, the demands of work, and the gains and losses of life are part of me now, like never before. If I lose, then I lose with a crowd.

This afternoon I hit the couch, exhausted, and I started to dream. I could feel the rumble of my truck, and hear my steel belts clacking away on the Lake Pontchartrain Bridge. I was alone again with my thoughts, dreading the scales, the cops, deadlines, and Houston traffic. I could smell the smoke, hear the music, and see the graceful deadly swamp with the mossy trees, and glassy black water completely at peace; but I was alone, and I was lonely, and the picture was dark.

Moving Day...OMGosh!!!

Dear Friends,

Today I have to start moving in earnest. I don't know what to do, and I am completely overwhelmed! If only you could see how much junk I have accumulated in the short 6 years I have been living down here. All of my furniture is BIG. All of my furniture is super HEAVY! I live up, not down, and even though I have been going through drawers and closets throwing stuff out and giving it away, everything is still completely full. Not only that, I have a computer network. At least it looks like a network, tangled wires are everywhere, and once I unplug this mess, what then? 

I am lonely. The Direct television crowd turned my service off a whole day early...I have no background noise. That means I can only get music as long as I leave my computer wired in.

I can't get the keys for my new apartment until tomorrow!

My child is still sleeping in his bed...he is clueless. He has no idea how much work he is in for today!

But we have so much to look forward to. My new place has two balconies, a marble kitchen, and a garden tub. The swimming pool is beautiful, and the fitness center is open 24 hours a day, completely sanitized and clean. Up the road, a fabulous junior high for Vince, a school with awards, a place where all of the drama is between the kids, and not the adults.

In Katy, people are friendly, they mind their own business, and life is too busy for wild speculations and chronic gossip. I will have Target, Starbucks, fabulous restaurants, the YMCA, a skating rink, my son's karate class, and my Jazzercise.

So, I am happy, just overwhelmed :-(

I Dream in Color

Last night I dreamt you came to see me. You brought a few of your employees, and a friendly beautiful blonde woman sat at the table with me; she held up a massive gilded mirror, and in its reflection I could see a pair of lights in the nighttime sky. I knew I was safe; someone from above was watching over my shoulder.

You delegated duties, so effortless. When we were finally alone, you told me, once again, how much you loved me.

Why do you care about me so much, and where have you been? I miss you always; you weigh on my heart.

Dreaming about you has made me tired today, and so sad.

A man just came into my room. I am living in disorder, and I am aghast at the mess around me; how has it come to this?

Please, help me.

Compared to you, he is nothing…so many of them are nothing, a virtual parade of zeroes, one after the other.

The woman in the dream asked me to stand by the road and take the tolls, so I did—for a while.

You came along, and together we took our walk; and you held me close to you because you are my brother, my friend, my love, you know everything.

For you, I abandoned my own to run alongside for a day, for years, and I am still beside you.

Now the woman is having a tantrum; the toll is uncollected.

My dream was in vivid color…I love you.

Suddenly, this morning I realized, you are mine.

 

 

The Blab Sisters

She came home with a cold watermelon and sat it down on the back porch, her sisters were home. Being the prettiest of three, but divorced, Babs had quite a bit going for her. That's why when it came time to do something special she would dig down deep into her beaded coin purse to pay for family fun. It didn't make much sense, it was never appreciated, but Babs was a martyr of sorts, a whiner. She smoothed her rumpled, short, brown hair with one hand, and scratched under her arm with the other. The day was hot in Waller, Texas.

Petty theft was a problem with the Smith family. Almost all of them had been caught up in some kind of bookkeeping fraud involving the modification of a financial document. Since the latest mess had been featured in the local rag, Babs was now keeping a pretty low profile even though she wasn't the recently accused. She watched a roach run across the cabinets and thought about the problems she had caused for a neighbor down the street.

For the first time in her life Babs was beginning to regret some of her lies and gossip. Her sister Joe was about to spend some time in jail, and Babs was thinking more and more about karma, God, and the limitations of mundane verbality. She swatted a fly off of her sweaty arm and grabbed a knife from the drawer.

"Come on Joe, come on Carol, let's eat some of this watermelon out there at the table!"

Two very unattractive and not very intelligent women strolled into Babs cheaply furnished kitchen. The moment was sad, and a clock clanged noisily from the living room, while the three middle aged matrons stood apart looking at one another with worn eyes.

"Joe, why did you take the money?"

"I don't know Babs, I just had to have it to give to you. I don't even feel sorry about it, they owed me."

"Nobody owes you nothin' Joe."

The three Blab sisters sat down at the table together with their watermelon and nervously chewed its flesh and spitted seeds onto cheap ceramic plates.

The silence was heavy.

Waiving the Office Holiday Party

This year I believe I will waive the office holiday party joining ranks with the likes of Goldman Sachs. After all, I have made such an indecent amount of money, and my opportunities have been so abundant, it just isn't decent of me to flaunt all of this wealth. For once, I wasn't sold out like the proverbial step child for some petty amount of money, or ridiculous hollow favor. I was held in reserve like the finest of wine, my efforts and complete honesty appreciated by all.

My unwavering patience and fair dealing, was noticed and applauded, as well as my own requests for honesty and respect. I couldn't be luckier; the finest of people have supported my efforts.

I can see one of them now...sitting in his shorts in the middle of the night with his fat arse hanging over the side of a cheap chair playing 'farms on Facebook' like a mindless meth sniffing idiot. Of course, taking this guy's business advice can be compared to eating raw chicken: risky. But if you are in the mood to gamble, then let me suggest you question him closely about the character of your employees. Even if he has never met an individual, or been witness to some incident concerning a person's integrity or technical skill, he is still a completely reliable source of information. He is, in fact, clairvoyant. His whole family has mental telepathy!

As for me, I don't really belong to an office anymore, I am just making this all up, the way people who love to write do. But if I did have a job, and I was invited to the holiday party, I would probably pass anyway. Even though my character playing Facebook games in the middle of the night isn't real, he is a symbol for a larger problem. Hollywood has made films, authors have written award winning books, and art has depicted the agonizing pain and misery caused by controlling adults with this type of personality disorder. They hate women, Jewish people, and anyone else who is not just exactly like them.

Sparsely talented, and financially vulnerable, it's possible the office party would offer me the highest form of entertainment available this dreary holiday season. I should count myself lucky to even get invited. But, no, I will stay home with the dogs and my child, and pray for better prospects next year.

A Little Story about me and the Law

Tonight I want to tell you a little story about my experience in Oklahoma City in the mid 90's. As everyone knows, when I get tired of traveling, I like to do other types of work. The summer of 95 I had the great fortune to get a little part time job in a law office. The duties were easy and fun, and during my off hours I was able to work in my mother's little store. My employer's suite of offices was located on the main floor right on Hudson Street only a couple of blocks from the ill fated Murrah Building. He had several partners, and various hard working associates; I worked in the back as a proofreader and fax machine operator.

I always wanted to create a case file, but everyone said that kind of work had to be done by real paralegals. So I had to sit and watch the busy lawyers take their newly created cases to the nearby Court bumping and skipping on little rolling carts, while I watched the phone and sent the faxes.

I didn't mind at all. My job was the funnest on the corner—I faxed the lawsuits, and then I answered the phones.

We did a few product liability cases that summer, sued a few drunk drivers, and even settled some business disputes via mediation.

But what I liked best was standing over that fax machine and waiting for those calls.

They always had the documents prepared to go late in the afternoon. This meant I started my faxing while everyone was already home, at the nearby cocktail lounge, in with a client, or still over at the Court.

It never took very long…I would run a lawsuit through the fax timed with its filing in Court, and sometimes in concert with a process server. The Defendant would always call me. They would call me just about everything you can imagine too! I had grown men begging and crying over the phone, drunk drivers cussing and swearing, I have heard every single threat known to man, and I was told by my employer to simply say "Thank you for the business."

The most valuable lesson I learned in that long ago law office was that we can make ourselves count…not just our dollars, but also as people.

My advice is to never think you are big for your britches…You might have some flashy red shorts, and a big pickup truck, a cool job, and you might be draining off the bucks in a big way…but you can be had. If you are not humble enough, then you will be.

My fictional hero is taking shape!

She couldn't believe he was gonna stick up for me. He met with her at noon over tacos, tea, and heavy iron lamps; the room was dark and romantic. She took advantage of the opportunity, flipping her hair, lying through her smile, and tarnishing what bit of integrity she had left. He never flinched, he simply said, "I don't believe it, and I don't care."

Not many real men are left, but he's a classic. He really couldn't care less, and the noisy din of gossip and lies fell on the deafest of bored ears; I was overwhelmed with pride, thankful, and in awe. So many times before people were prepared to believe the upmost in trash, they revelled in the smut, and enjoyed the wreckage their words brought into my life.

Now I have won something worth having.

My pen means a lot to me. I was able to tell my story in pages and pages of handwritten anecdotes, and I pushed them into his lap through his open window. "Take this, please, it's my story!" He was angry and tired, put off by my brash behavior, but he flung the huge stack of words into the seat beside him, and he said, "I don't really need this, my mind is made up!"

My lip quivered, my heart broke, I knew I had lost again to that terrible thing that has followed me for a lifetime, to her jealously, her hatred.

I was wrong!

Today I am sitting in my new chair, in my new room, and I am so happy. I think I have my hero!

The Quest for a Hero: Onward Ho!

Imagine a rudderless yacht pitching and yawing into the bleakest, darkest abyss, an empire without its noble champion, the meaningless monarch wandering into the mead hall hours after the Court has already assembled, exiting stage left before all of his other players, flapping his jacket like a goose poised for flight.

In my quest for a hero, I need not look here; yet, you know who you are.

No matter where she lived, her house always smelled like wet plaster. I sat in her overstuffed Lazy Boy recliner trying to appear painfully stupid, while some of the worst advice to ever pass tonsils flowed across the room into my seemingly ignorant ears.

"You should just use some White-Out on that document, photocopy it, and take it right up there to the tax office. No one will know there is a lien holder on that property."

Amused, and somewhat stunned, by the low-life assumption that I would falsify a document of any kind was rather maddening.

"I might think about it," I told her, "But I wouldn't want anyone to imagine I was trying to steal something."

"Well, you aren't really stealing," she replied. "You are simply owed the money, and you will be saving attorney fees."

I remember when my hero first made his presence obvious; she asked me, "Why would anyone of any stature care about you?" Her newer and larger chest heaved in anger, while she glared at my mother screaming, "Well, it's real to her!"

Anyone that purveys bad advice to you is not your friend.

Someone is pretending to lead the people, when instead he is simply enriching himself. However, over on the other side of the spectrum are people who actually sacrifice for their internal beliefs. Looking beyond the obvious and into the theme of the 'goose poised for flight' is an art I have mastered. Should we cook the goose, or let him remain? I believe even the most cowardly bird can be salvaged…..almost. It all really depends on how cheap the bird is, and whether or not he keeps a tawdry Court.

But in the quest for a fictional hero, one must usually 'cook the goose.' And in the case of an anti-hero, we often find our truest subject. As for me, I wouldn't want the purest of heroes, nor do I want Terry Eagleton's painfully honest interpretation of evil to dance across my pages. Or has it already done so?

Her rooms always smelled like wet plaster…hmm?

Planning for an Epic: the Hero

Writing is so lonely, I wonder if I can do it. Putting these little blog posts up are so easy, instant gratification. Whenever I post a blog, I get readers right away. Sometimes I get comments, and sometimes I get hate mail. Whatever I get, it is all meaningful. But when you write 'fa real' then you write all alone… you write without critics, and you develop living and breathing characters from the life you have experienced.

I guess porno perverts are good fodder for late night writing, crime stories, and small town scandal; but, please, am I not worth more?

Maybe I could tell a story about the school superintendent who sits on his duff at home for most of the day…everyday. This is a complete epic: corruption, cronyism, drugs, theft, child abuse, and so on! Maybe I could talk about the woman who walks dogs for financial favor, or create a character that peddles in child porn and mingles with kids. My story could include the man from my past who watched me busily doodling with my pen at a pay phone…a mafia like character, shady and serious; he knew so much about my scattered life.

I could spice my vignettes with old ladies who have no class and never mind their own business.

I could make all of this stuff up, or I could just write what I know.

The only way to get rid of a set of hips like that is to get liposuction. That's exactly why after 10 years of never seeing that woman, I had to laugh. Her butt had always been bigger than the Titanic, and now it was skinnier than my own, dressed in a black pant suit, and her hand sported the ugliest and gaudiest diamond ring I had ever seen, definitely not purchased at Tiffany's.

"Just like a crow," I thought to myself.

She works in finance, calling herself an advisor; but, strangely, everyone in her immediate family was as poor as dirt. If that was how she wanted to advertise, well then, people should have been smarter.

How could I write what I know? What I actually know is not worth sharing: characters without any character, stealing and lying scum, better forgotten than remembered. Well, maybe I might include one.

The stories parade through my mind like acts in a play, all day long. So many places I want to go, yet, so many characters I am confused about. Who should I kick, and who should I keep?

To me the greatest hero is one who tosses his magic into the sea. After the strife, after the climax, after the conflict, he returns to his docile self, a man without balls. Just kidding.

To me the greatest hero is one who keeps his guns very close and his friends very far.

You know who you are.