Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.
I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.
Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?
None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…
Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.
Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.
People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.
Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.
I am one dumb-luck happenstance away from a full-fledged nervous breakdown -- no kidding this time.
My back is pretty sturdy by now -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children, crazy family members (they're all nuts including me) -- I can carry a shit-ton of crap in my nifty ain't-life-swell backpack, but I'm no frickin' body builder. And it's not even big things that are pushing me over -- random bouts of unemployment, mounting debt, hooligan children ... it's the shit-storm of stupid people raining down on me like poops from Heaven.
The latest was a Florida couple--a mullet-sporting, NASCAR-loving twat and her top-heavy husband -- in a movie theater parking garage. I was so close to knocking their teeth down their throats -- that's assuming they had teeth -- I could taste blood.
For starters they came fishtailing into the garage and nearly plowed into a row of parked cars. They raced around the place like a couple of Earnhardt wannab…