Friday, February 27, 2009

A View of "Is That All There Is"

In my last post, I told you about my almost first time and how it led to my aversion to Batman. When I finally did lose my virginity at age 19, it was okay but nothing to write Penthouse Forum about. Over time, I learned to enjoy myself and the moment more and ended up with a relatively healthy sex life.

I also learned that sometimes, one should be careful of what one asks for. Sometimes the moment, or person, or fantasy, or urge is mind blowing. Other times, it's distinctly underwhelming. I've learned that maple syrup is not a good marital aid (and no, I'm not telling that story except to say that it almost never washes completely out of your bed linens), that the old adage "all talk and no action" is especially true when it comes to someone bragging about one's sexual prowess, and that nothing kills a mood faster than rolling over and landing on a startled (and not declawed) cat.

The good folks at Slate talked about what they learned and compiled a list of the 16 Most Overrated Sexual Experiences. Some I can relate to, and I bet you can too. Others, not so much. Whatever the case, this list will not lead to an awkward moment or worries about monthly visitors being late. Read. Laugh. Share.

More later. Hope it's good for you, too.


Thursday, February 26, 2009

A View Of If It Don't Fit, Don't Force It

When I was 16, I was dating my first serious boyfriend. I'll call him "Stanley." One day, when I had a half day of school and his school was off for the day, I skipped school to spend the day with him at his house. We were going to have sex for the first time. Now Stanley and I were both virgins, plus, he was afraid of one of his parents coming home early from work, so awkward moment potential was pretty high.

First, Stanley chickened out on using the condoms his dad kept in the house ("Boy, if you gon' have sex, you better protect yourself 'cause your mama and I don't want no grandbabies!") because if he did, his dad would know something happened because two would be missing. (Oh yeah, he planned on wearing two condoms at once "to be extra safe." It was going to be a "one and done" sort of day.) Instead, we fooled around a bit. Then he decided he wanted to (as he put it) "have a taste." This would be a first for me and the way he said it, so confident (for a 16 year old virgin), I figured he knew what he was doing.

He worked his way to where he needed to be, and...

Remember that Tootsie Pop commercial? One! Two! Three! I scarcely felt a thing except a sudden whoosh of air as he suddenly stood bolt upright with a panicked look on his face, wiped his mouth as though he'd ingested the most toxic, bitter substance on Earth, and ran to the bathroom where he proceeded to wash his face and brush his teeth for almost 10 minutes. The entire time, he was muttering about how he thought he heard someone come in (he heard the mailman drop a letter through the mail slot), and he was afraid that "they might smell you on me."

I felt like a freak in the bedroom - and not in the good way.

The most vivid thing for me about the entire experience was that the old "Batman" movie was playing on his bedroom TV the entire time. I can never hear that damn theme music without thinking of Stanley fleeing for the bathroom, frantically gargling or, as he drove me home, breathing in my face asking, "Can you smell anything? I mean can you smell, you know, you?" It was like a pornographic "out damned spot" soliloquy.

We broke up after about a month of very chaste dates later. It was hard to be romantic with a guy who was so freaked out by my lady parts.

It's been years since I've heard from Stanley, but I couldn't help but think of him after I read a post on one of my favorite websites, The Frisky today. These eight stories of sex gone wrong made my experience seem very quaint. My favorite was #4. Haven't baked goods suffered enough?

Or our naughty bits? A Saginaw County man pled no contest in court today to charges related to his performing a sex act on himself with a vacuum cleaner. At a car wash. Don't even get me started on the nurses in Wisconsin who are facing federal charges for taking pictures of an x-ray from a patient in their hospital seeking the removal of a "sexual device" lodged in his rectum with their cell phones and circulating them for their entertainment. One of the nurses even posted the pictures on her Facebook page. The nurses were fired for being such insensitive screw ups.

More later, because I've skeeved myself out with this post.

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Tuesday, February 24, 2009

A View of Try, Try Again

I married twice and divorced twice. It's nothing that I'm proud of, but it is what it is. I also know that it's an experience I have no desire to go through again. Emotionally drain me once, shame on you. Emotionally drain me twice, shame on me.

At least I think that's how that saying goes.

Anyway, I came across a story about a woman who has a different viewpoint on marriage. Linda Lou Wolfe first married in 1957 when she was 16 years old. Her husband was 31 years old. They stayed married for seven years. She picked herself up after her divorce, dusted herself off, and started all over again.

That's not a typo. The former Linda Lou Taylor has been married 23 times, making her the most married woman in history. Her first marriage lasted the longest. Her shortest marriage lasted 36 hours. Her last marriage was a publicity stunt. She married Glynn "Scotty" Wolfe in 1996. He was the the most married man in the world at the time. She was his 29th bride. Their marriage lasted just under a year. They didn't divorce, though. He died a few days before their anniversary.

She's been married to a convict, a preacher, homeless men (yes, men - plural), you name it. She's been abused by one husband and cheated on and deserted by others. She says she doesn't even remember the order of her marriages. Still she says she wouldn't hesitate to marry again "because, you know, (life) gets lonely."

I understand being lonely, but after a while I'd think it's easier to just get a cat (or three) and a hobby. Reading about her made me a bit curious about marriages. Are there any couples out there who not only stay together, but are willing to marry each other again if given the chance?

Turns out there's one couple who love each other so much, they've remarried each other 83 times. Lauren and David Blair have renewed their vows all over the world. Their last renewal was in 2004 in Las Vegas. "We love telling each other we love each other and looking into each other's eyes and saying our vows," David is quoted as saying.

Something about all that love makes my tummy hurt. Still, I give them credit for wanting to be together as much as they seem to. I came across a story about how some divorced couples have no other choice in the current economic climate but stay together. They don't like it, but they make it work.

Talk about life getting lonely. Somehow they persevere. If at first you don't succeed in getting by, try, try again I suppose.

More later after being thankful for three cats, my sanity, and not having to live like the Roses.

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Thursday, February 19, 2009

A View of a Potty Blog

It's all about the precious bodily fluids today because that's all I've been seeing on the news and reading about in the news. When you've gotta go there, you've gotta go. Let's not hold back on it much longer, shall we?

It all started this morning when, while I was in the bathroom coincidentally, I heard a story on the news about something the reporter said, "...will boldly let ladies go in way they've never gone before." I put down my makeup brush to take a peek at what they were talking about, and was treated to the "Go-Girl." Originally designed for women with hip or knee replacements who have trouble sitting or kneeling, the "small pink canister" is now being marketed to women who are (and this is a direct quote) "on-the-go" with no time to "waste in the bathroom." The newscasters suggested using the product in places like not so clean public restrooms or the Port-A-Potty at outdoor events. The weatherman noted that it was "basically a funnel" then asked where one would store it when done taking care of business. The reporter delivering the story looked caught off guard. "That might be a flaw with it," she said, but noted that the creator of the product encourages all women to "have fun" using the product and that it's only $4.99. That was enough to drive me back to my bathroom. Here's a link to a story about it recommending it as a "romantic" post-Valentine's Day gift.

Lotto - Venus and Cupid, 1540, Oil on canvas, Metropolitan Museum of Art

That Valentine's Day line made me think of this painting by Lotto. This painting would've been completely different had Cupid, or Lotto for that matter, had access to a device like the Go-Girl (Go-Cherub?). In this piece, Cupid's bestowing a blessing of fertility on Venus, not because he's a fan of R. Kelly. His public urination is a good and happy thing. It doesn't always work out that way.

"Peeing on the side of a building isn't going to make someone that mad." David Short, the owner of an auto parts shop on Detroit's east side is quoted as saying that in reaction to a shooting behind his building. Well, actually it did make someone that mad. (And I'm going to pass on the obvious joke here.) The victim was shot because he relieved himself on wall of that building. The alleged shooter is Leroy Moon, a 69-year-old fish shop proprietor. The victim was Shawn Johnson, a 36-year old janitor for Detroit Public Schools. He got a flat tire on the way home from work, got pulled over by the police for driving infractions (including driving without a valid license) which led to his car being towed, and was just trying to make it home when he had to go. He was shot dead in front of his wife. Who knows why Mr. Moon went too far over Mr. Johnson's going one step too far. Public urination is inappropriate, but so is shooting a man to death over it. People in the neighborhood that Mr. Moon was known for his willingness to help out those in need. Mr. Short, told reporters about how Mr. Moon, a Detroit resident, would give food to the hungry. "The man would give anybody the shirt off his back," he said.

Had his fish shop been in Toledo, maybe he could've given that shirt off his back to Shykea Boykin. She needed it after escaping from being held captive in the apartment of Troy Brisport. According to news reports, he picked up Ms. Boykin, a homeless woman, off a Detroit street and offered to let her stay the night at his place. He then handcuffed her wrists and ankles, gagged her, undressed her, put her in an adult diaper and held her captive for three days. While he gave her little to eat or drink, and did not try to sexually assault her, he did read Bible verses to her - when he wasn't trying to choke her. Somehow, she managed to escape, banging on neighboring apartment doors pleading for help. The Toledo Police called the case a "mixed bag." "Maybe it was a saving her kind of thing," said Capt. Ray Carroll. "We don't know what the diapers are about."

Maybe he couldn't find a Go-Girl. Judging by his actions, it's clear he was able to find a copy of "Black Snake Moan." Have you seen that movie? Talk about something that you'd find in the water closet.

More later because now I can't help but wonder what Jack Paar would make of all this.


Tuesday, February 17, 2009

A View of Another Empty Vessel

So this morning, I did something rare - I got out the door early enough to guarantee I'd get to work before 9:00. The drive into work was very smooth - no traffic, hit almost all green lights, I even gained time as I made my normally 30 minute commute. When I pulled into the garage, I got a really good parking spot. This day is going to be good, I thought.

I made my toast, poured a cup of coffee, made some somewhat clever small talk with my co-workers, and walked into my office. Hanging up my coat, I started to get out my keys so I could unlock my desk and get out my laptop, but got distracted for a brief second when one of my co-workers stopped to say hello. The sun was shining, the coffee smelled good, the toast was warm and had just the right amount of butter. This day is going to be great, I thought.

I pulled out my keys to unlock my desk and...

"Well this is just great."

I put on my coat, put my toast in a napkin, left the coffee behind because the cup was too big to fit in my car's cupholder, and hoped the drive back home would be as smooth as the drive into the office.

Lesson of the day: Either double check to make sure you aren't taking your spare keys to work with you, or make copies of every key you have.

More later, after I remember what it was I was going to write about next.


A View of Empty Vessels

The good news was that my cat's paws smelled fantastic - like Kenzo Flower with a hint of Jo Malone. The practical news was that I was able to get rid of some old junk I'd never use and sweep out months of dustbunnies from under my bed.

The infuriating news was that the kitten I rescued was illustrating the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished. Again.

It began Sunday morning with a very loud, heavy crash. The crash was loud enough to wake my family upstairs. It was heavy enough to shake the floors. It was intense enough to shake the floors in my flat. A Sunday morning that should've began with coffee, waffles, and Charles Osgood instead began with me cleaning up potting soil and broken clay. My sweet little seven month old tabby managed to come this close to taking himself and my picture window out with a two foot tall Yucca plant. He's been fascinated with the plant, not because he wanted to chew the leaves, but because he likes to sleep in dirt. He's managed to take out a corn plant and a rubber plant, and Yucca was the last plant standing in my (now barren) living room. Until Sunday, when a mistimed jump led to me having to get it out of my home and to a safe haven. Fortunately, the clay planter didn't break (the saucer the plant sat on took the brunt of the fall) and the plant survived in one piece. Yucca is now living a stress and cat free life in my office.

This was the second Sunday where the little fuzzbucket has wreaked havoc. On Super Bowl Sunday, right around the time that big guy on the Steelers was making his record breaking interception, Muffin was running a Hail Mary of his own by taking a dive down my clothes chute. I was running a bath and opened the chute long enough to toss down old pajamas and towels. In the blink of an eye, I saw him hop into the chute opening, lose his balance, and disappear. My sister was in the basement and had fortunately closed the other end which allowed Muffin to land on dirty clothes instead of an unfinished basement floor. He then, just as quickly, clawed his way up the chute, out the door and proceeded to run through my house at top speed for almost a half hour before I could catch him and make sure he was okay. Not a scratch on him, though it did take almost a day for him to calm down. And me. I saw him fall and just knew he was going to be hurt...or worse. My sister told me all she heard was a muffled thump, my scream, some frantic clawing, then the sound of a crazed stampede.

I highly recommend "9 Chickweed Lane "- it's funny, sweet, and always well drawn.

After flirting with losing at least one of his nine lives, I just knew he'd reached his peak. Wrong.

The first clue that he'd run amok again hit me when I walked in the door after work yesterday. My house smelled good. Too good. Perfume counter around Mother's Day good. The second clue was that there wasn't a cat in sight. Not one member of the Fuzzy Bunch was in his or her usual spot. The third clue was when I tried to push open my almost closed bedroom door and it got stuck on a weird plastic doohickey that turned out to be the atomizer on a little perfume sample. Oh yeah, and my bedroom smelled like Perfumania had exploded. I opened up the door, and here's what I saw:

I know this isn't very clear, but that's how I saw it because I was so damn furious. There was makeup all over the floor. Broken jewelry. The tiniest shards of glass I've ever seen from countless samples I'd collected over the years (For whatever reason, perfume samples come in very thin glass vials. Why is that?) The case my father's childhood rosary came in was in little pieces. (Thank goodness the rosary was in one piece. It's one of the only personal items of his I have.) There was stuff under the bed, stuff under the dresser, stuff mingled in with dustballs as big as that damn kitten who had waylayed the storage bins I keep on my dresser. My only guess is that he was trying to jump from my bedroom chair onto the dresser - for what reason, I'll never know - and missed. Badly. If anyone tells you cats are naturally graceful and coordinated, they've either never owned a cat or have no sense of grace and coordination.

It took over an hour to clean everything up. It would've taken half that amount of time had Muffin not strolled in right as I was beginning to pick things up and decided that this was the perfect time to play "Bat the Broken Lipstick Tube." When I tried to grab him, he made a break for it - right towards the tiny shards of glass. Somehow, both of us managed to avoid getting cut.

My sister came down to visit later that evening. The first thing she did was pick up Muffin and cradle him like a baby. The first thing he did was plop one of his paws over her nose.

"Tracey, you've got to smell his paws," she said, laughing so hard she turned red. They smelled good. Too good. Perfume counter at Mother's Day good. I had to laugh too. All was forgiven.

But not forgotten. This morning, I started closing my bedroom door.

More later, after I build up the courage to go home and see what hell hath Muffin wrought today.

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Wednesday, February 11, 2009

A View of the Tracks of Non-Tears

This is my favorite song about crying. Ironic that the way Amy's squandered her talent is enough to bring a person to tears, isn't it?

I hate crying and I rarely do it. To me, crying is what happens when you can't think of anything else to do. I don't deal with not being able to think of anything else to do, running out of options, not having any other steps to take.

When I've told people this, they've inevitably said some variation of one basic idea - you feel better after a good cry. Maybe for them, but not so much for me unless it's a case where I've laughed so hard it produced tears. But that's not really crying, is it? When I cry, I'm usually angry. Or scared. Or frustrated. Or have suffered a loss. Or a combination of some uncomfortable and negative emotions. After I'm done, I'm headachy, tired, and drained - plus the initial emotions that produced the tears are still there in some form. On top of feeling drained, I still have the task of thinking of some sort of solution to the initial problem ahead of me.

It's almost enough to make you cry again when you think about it. The only people who benefit from a good cry, at least from my viewpoint, are the folks at Kimberly-Clark and Proctor & Gamble. People have told me that I'm just trying to be tough and strong, and that I might be afraid to cry. The belief people project on the healing powers of tears is very strong, and I've never had a reliable comeback to argue against it.

Until now. I read a report on the New York Times website about research into the cathartic power of crying published in the journal "Current Directions in Psychological Science." Turns out that, for some people, having a "good cry" allows for a recovery of mental balance. In others, it just leads to emotional confusion. They found that crying is infectious, much like laughing or yawning. When we cry and how we cry is a combination of biochemical and cultural factors - women (surprise, surprise) tend to cry more easily and more often them men. As for that feeling that you feel better after a cry? Well, that may be a matter of selective memory - the catharsis comes after the episode has passed. The study also found that crying varies from person to person, and that the more people who are around when a person cries, the more cathartic the cry is to the person doing it. In other words, people cry socially for attention.

The article also mentioned a book called "Seeing Through Tears: Crying and Attachment," by Judith Kay Nelson. She argues that crying has its roots in childhood. Children, especially the very young with limited use of language, use crying to get attention from their parents and regulate mood. If you had a soothing, attentive parent as a kid, chances are you love a good cry. If your parent believed in staying strong or became upset when you cried, you are probably don't find crying all that comforting.

My sister and I had a very loving mom, a dad whose personality was like a cross between Samuel Jackson and Dave Chappelle. My sister will cry over anything - I still tease her about how she cries every year when she watches "Frosty the Snowman," especially when he melts at the end. I rarely cry and if I feel the urge, I'll fight it tougher than Ali beating down Frazier. I don't know why we have this difference, but it felt so good when I read this article that I almost cried.

Then, thinking of something else to do, I decided to post this entry instead. More later, after I get this dust out of my eye.


Monday, February 09, 2009

A View of Them Taking Over

Remember when I told you about how I officially became the Crazy Cat Lady? Well, I thought it would be nice if I gave you an update. This video sums it up without me having to vacuum up all the damn cat fur. Enjoy.

More later, after I fill up the food dish and a catnip bong to calm these fuzzy little bastards down.


Wednesday, February 04, 2009

A View of Spinning Wheels

I could not get any traction this morning. As hard as I tried, I couldn't go forward or back. I just could not move.

This was happening, of course, at the worst possible time. I was running late. The alarm clock went off several times this morning, but I just could not move and kept hitting the snooze alarm. Last night I had company. I tried to spark up a romantic moment, but something along the way triggered memories of my recent divorce. I ended up in tears, frustrated that after almost a year I still can't go forward and am unable to go back. This morning, my friend tried to turn on my computer as I was getting dressed for work but was unable to get it started. The computer crashed, unable to start and the fix would not let me shut it off. I sent him outside to start the car in a manner that, he observed, was aimed at keeping him busy somewhere else. By the time I got to my car, I was so frazzled and angry I could barely see straight.

Then I ended up spinning my wheels. If I hadn't been so uptight, it would've been funny.

It took a little time, but with the help of my friend and my sister's boyfriend and some work on my part, I got out of the rut and everyone was on their way.

Last night, all I could think about was how I'm still spinning my wheels after the end of my marriage. My friend noted that I must have really loved my ex for the whole situation to still be upsetting me. That's true to a point. The thing that bothers me the most was that I gave myself over to someone and got betrayed in such a complete way. When I married, I was hoping that I'd found a partner with whom I could move forward. We'd work together toward a promising life ahead of us. Instead, I got pulled back into another round of drama and hurt.

I'm trying to get out of my rut, but right now I just feel like I'm not gaining any traction. As hard as I try to move forward, I'm unable to move. If I weren't so upset about it all, it would be funny.

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Tuesday, February 03, 2009

A View of Not Wanting to Write

It's been a while since I've written anything. It's been a while since I've felt like writing. An idea or two would peek out of the shadows for a quick second, just long enough for me to see a glimpse of a post only to disappear just as quickly. I'd scan websites, read all sorts of newspapers or magazines, watch TV or half-heartedly listen to podcasts, but not one particular topic would linger in my head long enough for me to log on and begin to type.

Some of the ideas were provocative, like an article I read just after the holidays about advertisements posted on the sides of 800 British buses by the Atheist Bus Campaign in an effort to provide a secular counterpoint to a promotion by a Christian group that warned non-believers they were doomed to an eternity of torment in Hell. Here in America, the Atheist Bus Campaign would have never gotten (for lack of a better phrase) any traction because of fears of protest by fundamentalists. In London, however, the campaign barely caused a stir. In fact, some religious leaders welcomed the secularist messages because it spurred conversation about God. I thought about writing at length about this, but let it go. I've talked several times on this blog about my atheism. Going on about it might come across (again, for lack of a better phrase) preachy. I let it go.

Some of the ideas were silly - random jokes sent to me from friends and co-workers like this one:

A Short Love Story
A man and a woman, who had never met before and who were both married to other people,
found themselves assigned to the same sleeping room on a trans-continental train. Though initially embarrassed and uneasy over sharing a room, they were both very tired and fell asleep quickly, he in the upper berth and she in the lower. At 1:00 AM, the man leaned down and gently woke the woman.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to reach into the closet to get me a second blanket? I'm awfully cold."

"I have a better idea," she replied. "Just for tonight, let's pretend we're married."

"Wow! That's a great idea!" he exclaimed.
"Good," she replied. "Get your own damn blanket."
After a moment of silence, he farted.
The End.

Or this one, which came with its own illustration:

Always Check Your Child's Homework

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on, I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely, Mrs. Smith

Both were funny but hard to follow-up, so I didn't write.

Others were uplifting and close to home, like a story my mom sent me about the recycling center my family and I use. Sadly, the city of Detroit does not offer curbside recycling with trash pick up like many other municipalities. Instead, practically all of our trash goes to an incinerator in the heart of the city. Recently, the city decided not to renew its contract to keep the incinerator running, but no firm replacement plan has been established. Plans toward more earth friendly waste disposal have been mired in red tape, held back by our ever shrinking tax revenues, and by flat out criminal behavior. Recycle Here is a glimmer of hope and progress in the city, and it as good to read about it thriving.

Good to read about, but I could not get inspired enough to write about it. Or much anything else. I knew I should write something, but I just didn't care enough to do anything.

Then a couple of days ago, the story of a local man's very tragic death made the front page of the Detroit News. Some kids were playing hockey in the basement of an abandoned warehouse and came across legs protruding from the ice. They thought it was a mannequin at first, but they soon realized it was a person. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they left the building. They didn't want to get in trouble and they didn't think anyone would believe them. The empty and neglected building is a haven for scavengers and homeless persons, some of whom had seen the body in the ice for weeks. Instead of doing what should've been done and calling for help, they ignored the body. None of them tried to get help. They didn't want to lose their shelter and besides, as one of the men in the article was quoted as saying, they didn't recognize the person's clothes or shoes so they didn't feel the need to try and get help. One of the kids that found the body finally decided to call a friend, who called a friend that worked for the Detroit News. The reporter went to the scene to make sure the story wasn't a hoax, then called police for help. The first call was brushed off with a suggestion to "call 911" instead. The next call got a promise to send out a squad car. The reporter says he waited outside the building with his photographer, but no one showed. A spokesperson for the police said a car was dispatched and officers searched the building, but left after failing to find anything. A third call the next day was disconnected. A fourth call finally led to the discovery and recovery of the man's frozen body.

The reporter decided to write about the experience. The photographer took a photo of the dead man's legs protruding from the ice. The newspaper's editor decided to run the photo and story on the front page. The story quickly spread around the world via wire reports. Some criticized the use of the photo saying that it disrespected the dead - a charge the editor of Detroit News denied. A police department spokesman took offense to the notion that his officers were lax in their duties. Few chose to take the building's owner, one of the richest businessmen in metro Detroit, to task for neglecting to secure his property.

It took a couple of days for the man to be identified. His name was Johnny Redding.

He was 56 years old from River Rouge, a Detroit suburb. It was initially thought that he was homeless and alone. He was not. He was a son, a father, a brother, and a man coping with the loss of a loved one. As I read his story, I thought of my father's death. He died alone in freezing cold water. When he was found, it was thought he was homeless and alone. Like my father, Mr. Redding's body was so frozen it took a couple of days for an initial identification. The autopsy had to wait until his body was able to thaw enough for the medical examiner to be able to run the procedure. As of today, the official cause of death is not known. Homicide has been ruled out. The family is working on funeral arrangements, and there's word that a "prominent musician" has offered to pay for the funeral.

I find myself going back and reading the story and looking at the picture. I wonder about the family and what they must be going through. I wonder about the reporter who had to bring the story to the forefront and how he's coping. I think about Mr. Redding's final moments - whether he was scared, or aware of what was happening. If he tried to call for help and if anyone heard him if he did. The thoughts inevitably make me think of my father and his final moments. They're thoughts I don't want to have, but I can't stop them so I write. It's one time I'm writing because I have to, not because I want to.

More later, after sending my deepest sympathies out to the family of Johnny Redding and anyone who's alone when they don't want to be.

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