Stories from an ordinary life

Where to start . . .

Ok, so I always wanted my own column like Craig Wilson in USA Today so I could tell all the crazy stories I have stored up in my head. Or maybe I'd write a book with all of them like this nearly 90-year-old guy I met in Franklinton who was the most racist, opinionated, crazy-ass dude I ever met, but I could talk to him for hours cause for every story he told, I had one right back. That guy had lived more in one life than most people could in three lifetimes. He'd been a paratrooper in the military, a successful writer and a race-car driver. He'd also learned to fly planes and used one to buy himself a bobcat, which he kept caged in his backyard. His wife was this sweet, little quiet woman who loved her cat, Suger. You can imagine how my jaw dropped the day we talked about the black guy who got hit by a car while drunkly crossing the street (and who was pronounced dead and discovered alive more than 2 hours later in the morgue cooler) and she said "he was just a drunk nigger, who cares? I don't get what the big deal is." I guess I shouldn't have told the people at the paper about that because my old friend promptly got fired, despite having written his crabby rantings for the weekly for more than 20 years. But he gave me a copy of his book, full of short stories from Franklin County's history and his life, with the inscription "Best wishes." I really miss that old guy, he was probably the best thing that ever came out of that job.

So, what the hell is wrong with me that the two people who have impressed me most professionally have been crabby old men? Maybe all good writers were crabby old men; although I think F. Scott drank himself to death at an early age. Often the brightest stars burn out most quickly.

posted by This one time . . . @ 1:15 AM