It’s gone, gone, gone. Gone, gone, gone. Crying won’t bring it back.
I have paraphrased. Lefty Frizzell was singing about a woman. My loss was just seven minutes long. It was a blog I worked on for seven minutes, but it was moving rapidly when the keyboard went dead, and the screen turned Petty blue, and a message said that Windows needed to restart, and I hadn’t saved it because I hadn’t an idea in Christendom what to call it, and now I’m starting over because what’s done is done, and irretrievable, and I reckon I’d just as soon start over as try to remember the pooge I’ve already plundered. It was obviously forgettable because I’ve already forgot. Uh, forgotten.
No good can come from doing anything other than starting over.
The reason I write on silly subjects such as this one that, so far, isn’t a subject at all, is that blogs have become my calisthenics. A Sean Connery movie is on TV.
Give me a beer or two and I’ll be fine / At least it worked every time / I’m a ro-deo-deo-deo cowboy / Bordering on the insane.
To delve further into Jerry Jeff Walker lyrics, I’m just a writer staring at the wall, but, in my defense, the wall contains posters of Ian Tyson and Emmylou Harris, and matted photographs of Willie Mays and Ted Williams, and on another wall in sight is a small, framed photograph of Al Unser Jr.
My walls are not exactly contemporary, but they remind me I’m getting old, and at least one of my guitars is always leaning against the couch to my left, so I reckon I’ll get by a while longer.
As long as Windows, that is, doesn’t encounter another mysterious error, and have to collect information, and restart. This time, though, part of the information it collects is what I’ve saved of this blog. Chime. Saved to this point.
Thoughts go back to my father’s standard operating procedure to piss me off. Much of what I presently dislike about myself is that I find myself getting like him, and no good can come from that. Actually, I haven’t had a beer or two unless you count the entire year to date. My dad’s been dead for twenty-three years come the fall, and, somewhere, I bet he’s had that many today. I hope and expect my father went to a heaven where, as Jimmie Rodgers sang and wrote, “the water drinks like sherry wine.”
It’d be just his luck.
Did you know this blog was originally supposed to be about sports? No way you could.
Most of my books can be found on Amazon here. Three are available — and signed — here in Clinton at L&L Office Supply, 114 North Main Street. The links below are all for the print versions.
Denny Frawley is an ambitious prosecutor whose ambition, private life, and family are all spiraling out of control. Hal Kinley knows he must be stopped in Forgive Us Our Trespasses.
I’ve written lots of songs. Over time, I turned eleven of them into short stories. That’s how my collection, Longer Songs, came to be.
Chance Benford is crazy at the beginning of aptly titled Crazy of Natural Causes. He learns to cope with the world’s absurdity in a variety of ways.
The Intangibles was inspired by growing up during the tumultuous sixties and seventies. It’s a tale of civil rights, bigotry, cultural exchange, and, most importantly, high school football.
Riley Mansfield is the most likable character I’ve created. He’s a pot-smoking songwriter with a stubborn streak and the hero of The Audacity of Dope.
Look me up on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Google+ and other painstaking means of circulation that don’t occur to me now. I’m easy to find.