Slices of life … mine.
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It’s not something new I’m doing — it’s more like something I’ve BEEN doing, but have finally gotten around to building and posting the website.
Take a look at the site and see samples of my work. Everything from brochures to billboards to blogs, I’ve had a hand in it all, in both print and web media.
Got any pressing design needs? Hit me up.
I woke up this morning with the picture of JJ Danesworth in my head. And a realization … Well:
JJ was (or is – he might still be alive) a man I knew in Texas. He was the father of some high school friends and he had osteomyelitis.
If you don’t know what that is, I don’t either. But in his case … Hold your arms out in front of you, palms down, and imagine some godlike trickster comes along and softens then rehardens your bones, meanwhile bending your forearms sharply upwards at a point about four-fifths of the way from elbow to wrist, subtracting three or four inches of length while he was at it.
Had a weird moment just now. 
I’m looking out at the critters on the deck – numerous doves, starlings, blue jays, cardinals, pine siskins, goldfinches, black capped chickadees, tufted titmouses, even the occasional woodpecker (plus the inevitable gray and red squirrels) – and thinking about how tough their lives must ordinarily be.
And I’m comparing them to me.
For instance, lucky human that I am, here I am inside a temperature-controlled, rain- and snow-proof house. The thermometer outside my office window reads 22 degrees, but the one inside reads 75 (I keep my work area a lot hotter than the rest of the house, because I sit for long periods).
I’m wearing soft, clean, comfortable, fairly new clothes, including nicely form-fitting shoes. I’m freshly showered. I can turn a faucet and have fresh water gush out, at two different useful temperatures. I had gingerbread eggnog French toast this morning, with maple syrup and cinnamon, and with orange juice and coffee served alongside. In fact, I’m so well-fed I’m overweight.
I quit my job. I’m losing my house. Just barely made the late payments on my truck in time to save it from repossession. And oh, boy, do I have some credit card debt. I’ll probably have to declare bankruptcy, and I’m pretty sure that will nuke my credit for … well, just about forever. Can’t seem to interest an agent in either of my books.
I’m still not finished moving, and it’s turned winter with a vengeance here in Upstate New York. I couldn’t get a load from my old house today because it snowed, and it’s down to about 4 degrees right now, a few minutes after 1 a.m. I’m still paying for heating at the old house, and I’m late on that bill too, so I’m worried the power will be cut off and the pipes will freeze.
Way back in October, No More Mr. Nice Guy tagged me with a list of questions about atheism. I was busy at the time, and eventually forgot it. I just came across the link today, though, and with apologies to my fellow blogger, I reply today:
Can you remember the day that you officially became an atheist? Do you remember the day you officially became an agnostic?
Nope. It happened gradually. As early as 13, I wrote that I didn’t believe in God. My stepfather found it and gave me hell about it. But I must have had doubts about it even before then. I just didn’t see any evidence for the god hypothesis, and worse, everybody said different things about it. No matter how certain they seemed, nobody knew anything for sure.
A major ice storm. Forty-two hours without electricity. A tree-fall in my neighbor’s yard, and because the base of it touches the property line, the expectation that I’m somehow on the hook to help get it removed. The breakdown of my truck.
And yet it was just about the most perfect two days I can remember in a long time.
I’m moving in with a friend, fellow bachelor-buddy Carl. I’ve been painting and preparing the ground at his house, transferring a few boxes as I go. I got my office moved over earlier this week.
Thanks to PZ Myers of Pharyngula, and all the great commenters t
here.
Thanks to Carl Sagan and Isaac Asimov, Terry Pratchett and Richard Dawkins. Thanks to Ray Bradbury, and Robert Heinlein, Anne McCaffrey and Diane Duane, George Chesbro and Jim Butcher. Thanks to David Brin and Larry Niven. Thanks to Robert Service and Mark Twain. Thanks to Arthur C. Clarke, and to Chris Clarke.
And what the hell, thanks to Stan Lee, and Siegel and Shuster! Thanks to Bill Watterson, Berkely Breathed, and Walt Kelly.
Thanks to Mrs. Nicholas who took my friend Johnny and I to the library every Saturday when I was a kid. Thanks to Miss King, geometry teacher, who taught me that sometimes there really is only one right answer. Thanks to my “dad,” Dan Farris, for the years of tolerance, and to Lou and Mary Roeser, for the years in the saddle.
[Apologies to my readers. This is more than 1,700 words, but I couldn’t say it in less. Exploring a new thought, and linking it to things you already know, just takes time. And when you write it out, it’s … longish. But I do have a couple of ideas here that were “Ahas” for me, so if you have the time, I’d love to know what you think. — Hank the Interminable]
Say you did something you thought was good at the time, but later turned out to be bad. You could admit the mistake. Or you could refuse to admit it.
Any sensible person would probably say the first option was the best one. If you can admit a mistake, you can probably do something to fix it, or correct your course so you don’t do it again. And you can move on.
This is a true story.
It’s about 1990, and a friend of a friend is gettin’ married in a few days.
We work at pack stations and ranches up and down the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada mountains in California, and on this night we’re all dressed up in our go-to-town best – jeans, western shirts, White packer boots, satin wildrags and our best felt hats – intending to meet up in Bishop for a night out. Not exactly a bachelor party, but something like it.
I roll up at the ranch where Russ works and Russ and Lee are there waiting. I’m the designated driver because I’m not much of a drinker, but since I have a tiny Toyota pickup, we’re going in Russ’s truck, a big old 1966 Chevy pickup.
