Friday, February 23, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!


Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

Not everyone can handle the slide. When you really get moving fast, it feels like your face is going to pulled right off. You can feel your teeth rattle. You have to be committed to the thing. But if you’re willing to commit? Well, it doesn’t get much more awesome.

You start just like you’re on any other slide, but then you drop so fast that your stomach ends up in the back of your throat. Your lunch starts dancing inside you, trying to get free. You gotta keep it tamped down. You gotta hold your elbows in. The epic slide of awesomeness will rip your arms clean off your body if you’re not careful. Seriously. It is not for the feint of heart.

If you have any serious medical conditions, you should not go near the epic slide of awesomeness. You shouldn’t even look at it. Or talk about it. Stop reading this right now for that matter.

Still reading? Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. It was the epic slide of awesomeness that killed my taco. And yet I love it still. Where else can you get a free ride and a spinal adjustment all for the price of courage?

Will I slide for the rest of my life? I don’t know, man. I just don’t know. Sometimes, I think I should never slide again. But then I remember how fun it is. And I forget that I might get my arms ripped off. And soon, I’m shooting down that silver tube like a rocket, headed to infinity and possibly the Emergency Room.

Will I slide? Today, I will slide. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is another day. It’s a lot like today, but a day later. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back... 

Friday, February 16, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!


Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


The spider lived in the corner of the room. I had no problem with the spider – in fact, I considered us mates. I named him Charlie. We weren’t close, to be honest. It’s hard to develop a relationship with a spider. We were companions, really. We were like the guy you see every day on your commute. You give him the little chin lift. What’s up. I talked to Charlie, but it was the verbal equivalent.

Of a chin lift. 

“Hey Charlie. Any flies today?”

That kind of thing.

Most people who came to my apartment didn’t notice or didn’t care. But some people cared a lot. Some told me I had to kill Charlie. I would usually politely ask them to leave. I wasn’t about to kill Charlie. He never did anything to me except protect the apartment from roving insects and give me someone to talk to. He never even left his corner.

Good old Charlie.

Even my cat tolerated Charlie. He loved killing spiders and flies and chasing anything that moved. Charlie didn’t move much, but I think the cat also knew that Charlie was protected. It was like he had joined the family. And I definitely mean that in a Mafia kind of way. We looked out for each other.

Me. Cat. Charlie.

I remember thinking he wouldn’t be there long. Spiders don’t have real long life expectancies. But he persisted. He was a strong spider. Strong in spirit. He wasn’t going anywhere. And I started worrying about what would happen to Charlie when I moved back to the city. I was about ready to attempt re-entry after San Francisco had chewed me up and spit me down to East Palo Alto.

It wasn’t so bad. I had a good cat, a good spider, and I had plans. Those plans involved reading every book John D. MacDonald ever wrote and spending a lot of time with my typewriter, my cat curled around my legs. Charlie watching patiently from the corner.

I did move eventually. And, before I left, I put Charlie outside. In a place I thought he’d like. I like to think he’s there still.

But I bet he’s not.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back... 

Friday, February 9, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!


Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


It was the kind of green you could almost taste, and it stretched for miles. This must be what Ireland looks like, I thought. It was a dumb thing to think, but my mind was snatched by the vast, verdant fields. I think I even said that phrase to myself. And then felt dumb about it. I do that a lot.

The point is that, when you’re confronted with that much of any color, it can be mind-boggling. And I don’t like the term ‘mind-boggling’ – but I use it a lot. I know. That doesn’t make sense. Things don’t make sense to me a lot of the time.


Going to stare at grass like you expect it to give you answers.


I guess I could have gone to look at water, or trees, or skyscrapers. There were lots of choices. I don’t know why I settled on grass. Maybe because there was a big old patch of grass nearby and I’m lazy. Maybe because I think the color green should mean something. Gatsby, old chap. Growth. New opportunities. Literature classes refuse to let green just be green.

I did run my fingers over the grass. I did pluck a blade of grass and put it between my thumbs to make a whistling sound. I did run, briefly, before I remembered that I was old and running is not as fun when you’re old. I did a lot of things.

I did not have any epiphanies. I did get stung by a bee, but it was my fault. I was trying to get too familiar with the bee and she wasn’t having it. I asked for that sting.

So, you want to know how all this ties together? It doesn’t. It doesn’t mean a thing. But there is potential. This story is green. And you know what they say about green.

They say lots of things, and most of them aren’t true.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back... 

Friday, February 2, 2018

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


We stepped outside into the smooth, evening fog – we shrank from the lights that filtered through, ignored the sound of laughter that seemed to follow us everywhere. We weren’t waiting for the train. Or maybe we were. Maybe we just stepped outside because it was too warm inside. Maybe it was because we felt like it was some kind of calling.

All I know is that it felt like falling.

San Francisco twists you up. The noise and the weather and the wonder and the dreams that ricochet like crazy fireflies. So many get lost, but some find themselves. I think I did a little bit of both.

And I’m thinking of that one time. That time we stepped outside to the J. But it could have been any one of a million times. It could have been never. It could be something my brain cooked up. It could be a tether. Some sick mind trick I can’t sever.

A strange endeavor.

Me and Julio. Me and Patrick. Me and Jennifer.  Everyone and I. All eyes on me.

There is always an old man playing saxophone and you can never tell where the sound is coming from because it gets all twisted up in the fog and dreams and noise and the city screams. It’s like the saxophone is all around you and inside your head. And maybe that’s why we stepped outside.

My memory is tangled now. I’m old and it’s not as easy to separate the steps. The fog was always there, and I was always there. The players sometimes changed, but the game remained the same. Try to make enough money to live. Try to maintain some kind of optimism. Stay inside and put your nose to the grindstone.

Or step outside. Hop a train. Hope you find the man playing sax.

And pray it doesn’t rain. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...