When I was in middle school, in Arlington, Virginia, they gave us a test to see what sort of work we might be suited for, so they wouldn’t have to waste any education on us. They concluded I was least likely to be a good Speech Pathologist, although the correct answer is Bus Driver. And Author came out on top.
Which was cool, because authoring was what I wanted to do anyway. Specifically, I wanted to be a writing prodigy. So I spent some years writing horrible poetry, turned seventeen in despair over having aged out of fame and glory, went to college for liberal arts and emerged four years later with a science degree, got a job doing unspeakable things to lab mice, bicycled across the country to Oregon, and spent a few years making scrimshaw, before landing my dream job: retired mail carrier. I had to carry a heap of mail to get there but it was worth it.
And then, on the eve of retirement, I started writing. The first essay I sent out to a competition won the grand prize along with an insane amount of money.
This is easy, I thought.
And it is. The writing part is, anyway, and the money part isn’t so critical if you nailed down a good American union job before the financial sector showed up in the 1980s to eat your pension. Which means I can write whatever I want. A lot of it is humor, but not all. You’ll find a bunch right here.