It has warmed all the way up to 57°F in my little paradise. I may have to don shorts and turn on the air-conditioners again. But it doesn’t matter. I am not going anywhere this morning anyway. I masterfully brought down a Union Pacific train down off of Tehachapi Pass this morning, dropped off a cut of cars and six repaired engines in Bakersfield, and sent the train on its way to Fresno, all from the comfort of my studio.
So now that I have completed a major task for the day, I am free to chronicle. But chronicling is a cheesy substitute for writing fiction. Writing fiction is too much like real work, and I have concluded that I shan’t be completing my novel in this lifetime. I am a producer of tripe, a keen observer of humdrum. And truthfully, I like it that way at this stage of life.
But once upon a time I was exciting. No. Really! I was! I was a carnival flat joint barker and ride operator. A lumberjack. An oilfield roustabout. A truck driver. A bartender. A bartender in a brothel. A programmer. A harvester. A cook. A janitor. A night host. A drug counselor. A deacon. A painter. A carpenter. A sot.
But these days I just molder. If you look closely, you can see the mushrooms sprouting from me. And I write tripe. Once a day, every day, I write tripe. Around two-hundred or so words of tripe.
So, stopping here at 259 words of tripe, I wish you good morning!