Hurricane Trudi

Day 46 and I still don't have a job.

I'm bored but right now it's better than being tormented by the Optic Nazi and spitting up my spleen.



So that's good right?

I have done things to keep myself busy though.

Take for instance, I've perfected the art of picking up the house and washing the dishes in just two minutes and thirty seven seconds, knowing my lovely girlfriend will be home in three minutes and eleven second. HA!!! Thirty-four seconds to spare.





Though, I think she's picking up on my devious ploy by the way she oddly looks me up and down with those suspicious eyes, as if wondering why the hell I'm profusely sweating when she walks through the front door.

I've been spending a lot of time writing, mostly what you're reading right now, and whatever you might want to call it...writing, blogging or meaningless pablum and grotesque diarrhea of the brain, it is a hobby that I enjoy.

I'm hoping one day to expand it past a hobby and into a career of sorts.

I'm writing a book.

Ya, you're asking?

Well, yup. And thanks for asking!

It's a science fiction piece, loosely based on fiction with no a shred of science involved what so ever.

No, just kidding. Truthfully, it is fiction, it does have a humorous tone, and someone is sure to die a horrible death by porcupine, but at this time, that is all I can give disclose at this time.

One thing I can tell you is that I have been doing a lot of research. Been reading a lot of humorous pieces recently, people like Carl Hiaasen, Patrick McManus, Douglas Adams, Tim Sandlin, Tim Dorsey and my favorite of late, Sean Hannity's 'Deliver Us from Evil: Defeating my Soul and Sending it Straight to Hell!'





Writing a book has always been a goal of mine but never felt attainable until recently. It isn't that I'm anywhere near to finishing a truly readable manuscript. Not even close, but I do know that I'm in a better place to do so. I ask myself why and the only thing I can figure is age. The older I've grown, the more secure I am in myself and that translates into my writing. It's a confidence that plainly put, is that I don't give a crap what people think of me.

If only I would have had this attitude when I was younger. Man o' man, think of the possibilities! Wouldn't have been served divorce papers because I wouldn't have been married. I wouldn't have gone into the world of optical manufacturing therefore wouldn't have put myself in a position where I'm diagnosed with those nasty ulcers and the desire to poke out a certain optician's sclera.

And, I would have settled in a Key West hammock some twenty years ago, maybe been a hobo, jumping a train or hitching a ride or two into Mexico, recreating Kerouc's journeys, and finishing my travels with a Hemingway like stay on the beach; breathing in the salty air, getting inspiration from the majestic sunsets, and growing grouchier by the minute.

Awww...

But, being older, with more wisdom and a wealth of confidence, if I ever get to the furthest southern point of America, I'll do it the more conventional, less romanticized route. Out of Spokompton I'll buy a one way ticket to Boise, with the hopes that the pilots fall asleep and don't regain consciousness til it's too late to turn around and we'll have to refuel in Atlanta. From there I'll either hitch it or steal me a moped, the perfect means of transportation on the islands.

And just to gay down the 'ped, and being in the south, I'll paint her black and slap a big #3 on the side. Boogity, boogity, boogity...gentlemen, start your engines!

By the way, you might have already heard, but living through a Category 4 hurricane that I have already named Trudi is a dream of mine. Trudi was a gal that I once knew that could uproot a palm with one windy gust of her personality, and made people run for their lives.





But woulda, coulda, shoulda! Right? Can't live in the past so instead of looking backward, I'll take a look at the future and set my sights on a beach where written word and inspiration must flow like rum if you have sun, surf and bikini clad co-eds prancing around playing volleyball and pondering big questions like, "I hear Trudi is heading this way. Think we should head inland or go hang with the locals at the Hogs Breath Saloon?"

I'm opting for the saloon, taking in the spirit of Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet serenading us from the jukebox, and a cervaza in each hand waiting for the bitch to show her nasty face.





One day, baby!