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Writing Pseudonym

Writing Prompt: You’re afraid that your name and personality just don’t fit your writing style. To help sell your work, come up with a pseudonym and an alter ego for it.

Tex McNabb. Call me Tex. My real name. Some folks say, what’s your baby name. I tell ’em I don’t got one. The say nah. The name they called you when you was born. I say I don’t got one. That shuts ’em up.

I live in a house my grandma built with her own two hands, mostly. Had some help, here and there. Met a man, did what she needed to do to get the rest of the house built, had my mom. She run off to be a trucker. Truck broke down one day, she did what she had to do, and then there was me. I live with my grandma, mostly.

The place is piece outside of Washout, a little town a ways from a little but bigger town a ways from a place no one ever heard of. If I need an airport, there’s Tulsa. 

But I don’t never need no airport. Everything I need is in Washout. There’s the general store, for bacon, cornmeal, coffee, the occasional vegetable. There’s the nail shop, for repairs on the cabin. There’s the typewriter store, for ink ribbons, paper, and such. Sometimes, when times is lean, I do what I have to do for paper.

You see, I’m a writer. Crime novels mostly, sometimes I’ll write one of them there thrillers. I wrote a romance once. Under a pseudonym, of course. Who’s gonna buy a romance novel from a fella name of Tex? For that one we went with Flora McNabb. The review on that one was brutal. One feller for one of them newspapers in one of those cities wrote, “What the hell did Flora McNabb do to get this piece of trash into print.” I wrote that man a letter. “She did what she had to do.”

Folks ‘spect I write westerns. Well, let me tell you. I could. I’m out here in the brush. There’s horses. There’s rattlesnakes. Clemmet, fella who runs the general, he’s one fourth Comanche.

But there’s nothin’ in it. Fella keeps to himself, rides his horse, eats corn cakes and bacon, drinks coffee, shoots a rattlesnake here and there. Then there’s a piece of trouble. He don’t want to get mixed up in it, but he does. There’s some woman, says she’ll do what she has to do to get him to help, and him, well, he doesn’t even give her the satisfaction, just helps her anyway. There’s no justice in it.

Next thing you know, his horse is run off, his rifle is out of bullets or ammo or rounds or whatever you call ’em, and the woman is dead. He’s hell-bent on revenge and boy does he get it. And then he finds his horse. But beans don’t taste like they used to, now he’s killed a man or twelve. So that’s it then. The rest of his days is ridin’ the range, tryin’ to right wrongs. 

I’ll pass, thanks. I’ll stick to the crime novels. Easier to write, if I’m truthin’. Some feller in the big city with a slick name, like David Harbrace or maybe Gregory Oldencraft. Hardened by a life on the streets. He’s broke as shit and drinks too much and when someone’s daddy gets plugged for seeing a mob hit go down, he lets whoever do whatever they need to do to help ’em. He’s a sour son of a bitch but he’s kind that way. Solves the crime, goes back to drinkin’. Not that he ever stopped.

Me, I tried drinkin’, but it didn’t sit to well. I did all of the things. I got a few bottles of whiskey from the general. Got one of them glasses, the fancy ones, crystal, cost me two hundred bucks. Had Clemmet work a connection, get me some rough-cut cube-shaped ice. Drove into Tulsa, attended a seminar on how to put the ice in just so, how to pour the liquor, how much water to add on top. The lady who ran the seminar, she was a nice old gal. A big one, for sure, but the big ones’ll sometimes do what they got to do for a hell of a lot longer than them skinny gals on Sheridan by the airport. Let me tell you.

But like I said, it never took. Got through, maybe, four or five bottles, a quantity of ice cubes, wore that damn glass out. It was a rough weekend. Had to trash most of what I wrote. “She crawls up on the roof to watch the sun set. A cigarette keeps her company. And then when it’s dark, she crawls back down, goes back inside, opens a can of soup for her dad.” You see what I mean. Trash is the right word.

That’s okay though. Nothing ventured, as Clemmet will say now and again. Got a call from that seminar woman a while ago. She said her boy’s thinkin’ of becoming a writer, did I have any tips for him. We had a nice conversation. I told her to tell him that writin’ ain’t nothin. The real work’s when you’re done and you want someone to read it. She asked what he should do. I told her to tell him to do what he had to do. That’s what I did. I think she knew what I was sayin, cause she said she’d tell him, and she didn’t seem too tore up about it. Nice gal, all things considered.

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Back Into the Blizzard

I’ve been playing Blizzard’s massively multiplayer role playing game World of Warcraft on an off since its launch. Recently came off an off of more than a year, not too very long after the Battle for Azeroth expansion launched. I was burnt-out. I had been playing way too much up to the launch, trying to level one of every class type to the max. 

That was not a wise thing to do. 

If anything, I should have been playing way WAY less before the launch. So that the new content had a chance to feel, you know, new. Instead, I was still in the grip of that “must get levels as fast as possible!” mentality, trying to force my main character to the top with all (un)due haste.

A new expansion has been announced, and I’ve recently started playing again. Blizzard has decided to give everyone an xp boost for the time being, so I decided, why not, let’s start a brand new character and get her to the top as quickly as I can. Old habits die hard, right?

Thanks to the boost, though, it went really really fast, and after just a week or so, she’s already at level 120. Yeehah. But I’m not burnt out yet, because it all felt fresh after a year off. Hooray for me.

Right before I quit (in 2018!) I was playing a Blood Elf Affliction Warlock running around a desert. As of this writing, I am in the middle of a haunted forest, playing a Human Destruction Warlock. Different environment, different faction, different aspect. This haunted forest is a lot of fun.

I keep saying to myself, if only I’d been playing in the forest, and not the desert, I might not have quit. What I should be telling myself is that I, thankfully, didn’t get burnt out in the middle of this cool forest.

Why am I telling you this? I dunno. The WoW servers are down right now for maintenance, and I have to do something… also, whenever I’m into WoW, reading and writing come to a halt. 

So I need to take advantage of these opportunities to not play (again). I guess.

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A Blood Dead Sea ch. 1

(a noir-pirate mashup)

This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

It were a calm night at sea for a change and The Pretty Panoply anchored well. Me and Cookie, the bosun’s mate, were in the galley, enjoying a bucket of salty rum popunders, aye, and a game of Dead Man’s Bones. One-Eyed-Pete was in the forecastle, looking for his other eye, while Dog was cuddling with Rapeclaw, the ship’s cat. The rest of the crew were barnacles on the ship of this here tale.

And then she walked in. Her well-oiled coat from shoulders down to the top of her boots, thick black boots that only a woman could wear, or perhaps a small man. Her tricorner hat cocked at a jaunty angle, although I keep forgetting to ask Cookie what ‘jaunty’ means. Her hair of spun gold, except much more coarse, and not gold as much as a kind of sea-dirty brown. And her eyes as black as the Arabian sea at midnight. Or any sea, really, or, I suppose, pretty much any place at midnight that didn’t have a source of light.

Captain Nobeard, she was called. Under her coat she carried two pistols, a hook, and a stump, just in case. She’d never danced with the sharkies, not yet, our cap’n, but we knew she were eager to do so one day, arrr. 

And me? Call me Larry.

“Where’s Filthy Tina?” The cap’n growled. F.T was the first mate. 

Cookie and I both shrugged. Not knowing where F.T was meant she weren’t where you were which meant she weren’t laying into your back with the cat-oh-eleven tails. Cruel one, she was, adding two extra tails likes that. 

“Did you try the hold, cap’n ma’am?” Cookie said. “Seems Little Davy were in need of a morale boost, I overheard.”

Nobeard just stared at the man. A snarl began to form on her lip.

Cookie gulped. “P’raps I’ll be the one checkin’ the hold, ma’am, cap’n ma’am.” He scuttled off. More popunders fer me.

Nobeard grabbed a mug and dipped it into the grog barrel, quaffed. She gave me a surly glare, and I found a new way to arrange the bones on the table ‘fore me.

“Larry,” she menaced.

“Aye cap’n.”

“It were you who found Dog’s left boot, the one he lost while chasing Rapeclaw for his midnight cuddles a fortnight ago, aye?”

I chanced a glance. She had one eyebrow raised, and her eyes glowed like they shouldn’t in all that inky dark. “Aye.” I said. “Crushed down ‘tween the mizzen and a tangle ‘o sheets down the orlop, arrr.”

“You’re good at lookin fer things, are ye?” she said, squintin’ at me.

“If it pleases ye, cap’n. Course there’s a difference ‘tween lookin for things, and findin ’em.”

She scowled. “You good at findin’ things too, ya scallywag?”

“Can find me own arse, usually, if ye let me use both me hands.”.

She chuckled at that, quaffed once more, then threw her mug into the deep sink. “May have a job fer ya, Larry, when we make port at Blood Island. Come see me in my quarters for yer off catchin yer next disease.” Then she left the way she’d come. 

I popped another popunder over me teeth and gulped it down. Not the best ingredients in these salty rum abominations. That’s why me stomach was feelin’ queasy of a sudden, I thought to meself.

Cookie walked back in, sat down heavily in his seat. His skullcap was askew, his shirt was in tatters. He took up the last of the popunders, gobbled ’em.

“Ye find F.T.?” I asked.

“What do you think?” he curred, blood in his yes. Literal blood, maybe not even his own. So the answer was yes.

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A Vampire Says Hi

Hello, My name is Terrence Von Diesel. I am a vampire. It’s extremely nice to meet you. I must say, you have a very nice neck. And how are you today?

My apologies. I know that can be a bit off-putting. I’m a bit of an expert, you see, and, well, sometimes I can’t help but admire. Never fear, I’m not planning on biting you. Not yet! Just a joke. Please, sit down.

A little about me- I am not a count. I don’t mind the cliche, really. I mean, culture, right? But no, I am not a count, despite being a vampire and having the “von” in my name. I had to change it, see, as the name is Dutch by origin, and was originally Van. But I can hardly allow myself to share my name with a Hollywood celebrity. Did you know I met the man once, Van Diesel? Charming fellow. He tasted of clover, more than anything, which I found curios.

At any rate: not a Count. There’s an earldom I could make a claim to, if enough people died. Not really worth the hassle. The hassle of making the claim, that is. Getting that many people to die wouldn’t be too much trouble. But I don’t want to talk shop, as they say. Let’s talk about you. Have you done speed dating before? This is my first. I’m a bit overwhelmed, if you must know.

Please, call me Terry. As in “I’ll terry your throat out!” Just kidding! You’re safe, I promise you. Look, if I was going to devour you, I would have done it by now, And if I was planning on doing it later, there’s really nothing you could do about it. Some people actually find it peaceful to have their fate in another’s claws, I mean hands. 

For example, a few months ago, I was in a 24-hour cafe, doing a crossword puzzle. I admit, I’m not very good at them! You’d think, being nearly three hundred years old, I’d have learned a thing or two. And I have, but not when it comes to trivia, it seems. Still, I try. 

So there I was, staring at this folded newspaper, when I finally realized that someone had been talking to me. I pulled my eyes off the page and looked up- it was a waitress, holding a pot of coffee, asking if I wanted more ‘joe.’ I just stared at her for a moment, still stuck in my train of thought. Ten down, a nine letter word for tasty. I looked at her neck, and then the answer popped in my head. “Delicious,” I said.

And do you know what she did? She set the coffee pot down, then took a seat across from me. Our eyes locked. And she, well, she just sighed. I could have had her right there. Or, I could have stood up, taken her by the hand, led her to the alley behind the cafe, and had her there. She was at peace. This woman, maybe in her middle forties? Probably a mother, a teenage son, born before her own life had even started, a few grey strands, some laugh lines, but I tell you this: she was beautiful. Deliciously beautiful. I was very moved.

Then some cretin in the back yelled something about an order being ready, and the reverie was broken. She got up and left without another word. I went back to my crossword, and filled in ten down. 

Why am I telling you this? Your neck reminds me of hers. The way you’re looking at me now. I don’t know how these speed-dating things are supposed to work, really. If we have a connection, do we simply leave together? Are there some forms to fill out? 

Do you– I’m sorry, a very personal question. Do you have a next of kin?

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Zombie Dead War Addiction Dollhouse Freedom

Rating: 4 out of 5.

Google is offering Stadia for two months for free, so what am I going to do, say no? I’m a video-game junkie, a drug dealer’s dream come true. They offer me the free sample, and I take it, and I get addicted, and then they say, the next one’s going to cost your first born human child, and I reply with, sure, paper or plastic?

I tried a few titles offered, and they were okay, and either they’ve got the tech right or I’ve got a good enough connection, because the game-streaming experience wasn’t too janky. (If you don’t know what ‘janky’ means, look it up. And then if it turns out I used it wrong, don’t tell me, because I’m too busy freebasing video games to go back and edit my stupid blog posts.)

But then I fired up Zombie Army 4: Dead War. Jankiness ensued, but not too much, and it wasn’t enough to ruin the experience. We’re talking zombies, nazis, headshots, achievements, stickers, weapon-mods, creepy easter-eggs, a robust photo mode… I’m like a heroin addict who’s been given access to extra-awesome chocolate covered heroin that comes in collectible boxes and includes a toy surprise.

There’s a story there too, I guess. Something about how Hitler turned the tide of WWII by creating a zombie horde and although he’s now dead we’re still to this day fighting them off. And this is the 4th installment, although I have to be honest, I never knew about the first three. Blame me, for that, not Rebellion, who makes the games.

I’ve only, so far, played the first campaign mission, but I’ve played it half a dozen times. There’s all kinds of things going on that I haven’t tried. There’s multiplayer, there’s a weekly mission thing, there’s challenges… for extra money there’s weapon skins and different clothing options for your characters. It’s like a doll house, sort of, except your dolls are zombies-killers and your furniture is weapons. 

(Or something like that. You’ll have to cut me some slack, I got the DTs here, from withdrawal, from not playing the game so I can type this up).

Should you try it? Yes, because it’s free. I mean no, because it’s free. Don’t try it. Go read a book or get some sun or maybe hop on a Zoom call with your grandma. Rehab clinics have been shut down during the pandemic so you really can’t afford an addiction right now, pal.

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Review: I Came Upon My Beverly, Clearly

I Came Upon My Beverly, Clearly, is an anonymous epic poem written in a style utterly unlike anything by Edmund Sears, which tells the story of a man, named Nomens, who reads Ramona The Brave as a child, falls in love with the character, and as he grows, so does she, in his mind and in his fantasies about her: 

Run Ramona, run from your
Childhood through menses through my
Age-appropriate dreams, you, now, my
Collegiate coquette. 

In his dotage he struggles with Alzheimers, confusing the character with her misspelled author, and relives the terror of his middle-aged years when he was diagnosed with a low sperm count, which rendered his ejaculate less cloudy: 

As clear as weak tea, unsweetened,
For 'tis sugars, yea, that giveth
The impregnating potable its ironic
Briny breath.

In order to hide this infertility he chooses to “finish” any sexual episode onto the heaving bosoms of his imaginary beloved, giving the impression that it is this modus interuptus that leaves them childless, and not the failings of his swimmers: 

I came upon my Beverly
Clearly, splashed my alibi for
Making no new Nomens on her
Moisty mamms.

Nomes tries to provide solace to his imaginary child-now-grown-wife-bride as she silently cries and wipes his inadequacies from her perkies: 

Come, Beverly, for I have,
Let me pat thy ample rump
As an inadequate means of
Soggy succor.

Saddened, Nomens seeks his own solace in a three-volume set: Normal Sized Nutz: One Man’s Journey Toward Humility, Normal Size Ass Nuts: The Return of Donkey Balls Edwards, and Ass Balls 3: This Time It’s Personal. The vast majority of the poem concerns Nomens’ meditations on this trilogy of tomes, specifically: did the author believe, before he found that his nuts were normal sized, that they were large, with gnashing teeth, or did he think they were diminutive and peering?

Shark or titmouse, again I say
How hath this Edwards seen
His erstwhile mansack, bedanglin,'
Vainly viewed.

In mirror, window front, or the crayoned
Imaginearings of his own scribblin'?
A self-portrait on the page in
Pauper's pink?

Toward the end of the poem, Nomens has a revelation while being interviewed for a taxidermy periodical called Boner Magazine, shouting:

Dead be the cloud that kept me clear!
For now I see without Alzheimer's haze 
Mine own unhaze was hazarded by but
Balding balls! 

Nomens rushes home, creates a makeshift-merkin out of donkey-hide, dons is, and ejaculates into his now menopausal imaginary mate. He then describes the result of the creampie, saying:

Judging from the drops like pearls
That drop from her now-laughing lips, 
White shine on wrinkled rose, a
Jocose juxtaposition, 

I have busted a legion of angels to fall
From labial heaven to hoary underworld,
The carpeting 'tween our bed and that
Bubbling bidet.

He dies, and is buried with the books, offering them to St. Peter as payment for admittance to heaven.

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“Reporting” on Instagram Posts

I read Google News every day. Mostly I read the “For You” section. And what’s great is how Google remembers which stories I click on, then populates the next day’s offering with more of the same. For example, I clicked on a story about QE2 once a few months ago and now I get to see what England’s Head Figure-Honcho is up to (today, she sent someone a birthday card).

I guess I clicked on a link to a story about a scantily clad woman on Instagram once several times, because I get more than a few of those on the daily. I’m not ashamed of having clicked a link that said “Penelope Pendulous Wows In Micro Bikini Festooned with Diamond Dust-Crusted Macaroni Noodles!” I really like macaroni.

But they’re always the same, these “stories,” and I guess this counts as journalism? 400 words that describes what some celebrity I’ve never heard of (cause I’m almost 50) is wearing, followed by the picture being described… Listen, I know, it’s my own fault. Probably instead shoulda clicked on that article about What The Queen Said To Her Dog (And It’s Not What You Think!)

Anyway, this morning as I sipped my Irish coffee (heavy on the Irish) and got caught up on the latest wearing of a see-through mesh espadrille I decided maybe instead of ridiculing this reportage, I should embrace it. In fact, I should write it. But since the scantily-clad female angle has already been covered, what I’m going to take care of is the average Josephine angle.  So here we go. Name changed just in a case more than one person reads this.

Sandy Persephone Coos Confidence in Cornwall Casual

Sandy Persephone metaphorically killed her followers today in a black-and-white striped T on top snug mom jeans. The raven-haired teenager who might actually be in her twenties struck a jaunty pose with one yellow-and-white checkered Vans shoe in front of the other, sans socks of course—teenager or twenty-something, she sure as fartz isn’t a Gen X-er clinging desperately to a mistaken sense of 90s fashion! 

The beauty from Brittania, who “like[s] to document when [her] outfit consists of anything more than joggers/old pyjama bottoms because it’s such a rare occurrence these days” wore her Levis-UK shirt tucked in to her Topshop denim, and posed for the mirror-selfie with one hand casually popped into a pocket, thumb-out style, while the other hand held aloft her oversized smart phone. Also on display, various shades-of-red nail polish, a rouge rainbow of sexy innocence.

Sandy, head tilted to the side, cocked one eyebrow as she looked at herself on her mobile screen, and completed her l’arrangement-de-visage with a contented grin. Her long and styled-straight tresses back-framed cherubic (this a compliment not a euphemism) cheeks. Although little skin was revealed, Sandy managed to keep an even complexion despite a global lock-down on outsidedness.

No make up was in evidence, and certainly none needed, save for a subtle shade of orange-ish pink on her lips, which may not have been lip-paint at all but just the lighting. Sandy’s natural look perfectly balanced her choice to go without any noticeable accessories- neither watch nor bangle mangled the effortless grace of her appropriately-shaped wrists.

The fit female chose to pose in front of charmingly-decored divan, complete with Ikea IE duvet in rose (or salmon, maybe terracotta? Whatever, it matched her nails) and a splash of chaotic colors on a Primark throw pillow. Behind and above the bed on a dark blue wall, art prints in black and white from Desanio. The photo, taken as aforementioned via mirror, was composed with a third of the shot featuring the white wall on which the spotless mirror hung. Lighting was provided by outdoor sunshine wafting through translucent white curtains.

The photo garnered over 300 likes in just an hour, about 100 times more than this reporter gets for his own Instagram posts.

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And You Won’t Even Throw Your BACK Out!

These days you can’t throw a gaming console in a video game store without hitting a game about shooting aliens or racing cars or playing sports. Also, you can’t throw consoles in a video game store because it’s probably not allowed. Also, you should be staying at home anyway because of Corona. Also, its way easier to download games instead of buying them in stores.

That’s what I did- via Xbox Game Pass; I downloaded a game, and it wasn’t about shooting aliens in the face, or driving cars that cost more than my house, or playing sports (remember sports? Bunch of dudes getting paid stupid amounts of money to play with a ball and give each other Corona virus? Ah, memories). Nope, this was a game about throwing video game consoles.

And other pieces of furniture. In Moving Out, you run into houses, grab pieces of furniture, and pull them onto a truck. Or throw them, if they’re small enough. And if you break a few windows along the way, or vases, so what. This is a video game, for crying out loud (although I would not be surprised in the least to find out there’s an authentic furniture moving simulator out there, with different levels of difficulty, from helping-a-friend-and-drinking-beer all the way up to professional-international-transport engineering-and-drinking-beer).

It’s a race against the clock, of course. Jump through the living room window, grab the L-shaped couched, drag it through the back door, then go back and grab the video game console, head upstairs, throw it from the second floor bathroom, and then toss one of the beds off the balcony. Do it fast enough, and you get a gold star. A gold star for throwing a mattress off a balcony! This is, like, training for how to have fun at parties! (Remember parties? Bunch of people getting stupid wasted while listening to obnoxiously loud music and giving each other novel Corona virus?)

Houses are repeatable, so you can achieve extra, disparate goals, such as “Finish a move with no windows broken,” or “Finish a move with all windows broken,” or “Pack the pink flamingos too.” Also, there’s a gnome on every level, I think, although I don’t know what to do with those yet. I didn’t touch them on the few houses I played. Gnomes freak me out.

If you have Xbox Games Pass and nothing to do, go ahead and download Moving Out and play it for half an hour, see if you like it. Or, I don’t know, go make a Tik-Tok video and throw some real furniture. You’re probably not a doctor or work in a grocery store, so nothing you do really matters these days anyway.

And if you ARE a doctor or work in a grocery store, a sincere thanks.

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Rico. Over Quya.

Helicopters aren’t what they used to be. Not a bad thing. Fuel injected, fewer parts, not reliable but more reliable. Rico has managed to secure one, or, more precisely, secure the services of a helicopter pilot who has one. A Spinoza Whirlyjet, fast, small on radar, and silent. Relatively speaking, as even the quietest ‘copter will still out-shout the loudest Ford Fiesta.

His manly man-breath, hot, spicy, redolent of tacos al pastor, cheap tequila, cheaper putanas. Caresses the microphone on his headset, bathes it in humidity, making it wet and shiny like a lover’s taut nipple. “There,” he says. 

Why am I shivering, the pilot, Forutna, thinks to herself. This is Solis, a tropical island nation. Mean temperature: 27 degrees. Celsius. I’m 27. I’ve been 27 for what feels like years now. And still not a woman. And yet this man. What did he say? She’s a little girl again, warm, safe in her papi’s arms, pretending to sleep as he carries her up to her room. His calloused, strong hands laying her gently in her bed, the kiss on her forehead, and the sweet, sweet succumbing to sleep. Papi always smelled of cerveza, sweat, she remembers, like every other man in the village. But something else, something more. Leather.

“A little lower, I think,” he says. A growl, but smooth, like a puma’s, seduces her. She’s shivering. She’s sweating. Her heart is pounding in rhythm to the Whirlyjet’s Turbo Mecca Ariel. She wants to abandon the controls, rip off her headset, leap over the seat, sink her teeth into this desperado’s neck, and as the chopper falls out of the sky, devour him whole, coming alive, finally, at 27, with the fiery crash setting the jungle ablaze and splashing the atmosphere with the stink of this man’s lambskin-soft leather jacket, her lust.

Rico belches. Lime, cilantro, onions. Opens the door, throws himself out without ceremony. Six hundred feet above the Bautista building. Trades the roar of the Whirlyjet for the roar of Galileo’s  nine point eight meters per second per second in his ears. Five hundred. Three hundred. One. Pops his ‘chute, conquers the din, floats. His contact waits below. Her name is Izzy. She’s a spy, gathering intelligence for the Army of Chaos, a rebel born. 

Later, Izzy and Fortuna will discuss Rico. Oh yes they will.

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New Runnin Watch

So I got me one of them there Apple watches. My trusty Garmin 10 was losing some of its juice, and I wanted to upgrade my running buddy. Also, I’ve been carrying an iPod Nano on my hip forever, and I thought it would be nice to have an all-in-one contraption, now that Bluetooth is a thing (yeah, it’s been a thing, but it wasn’t ten years ago). Also, the fam just switch to a new mobile provider and got iPhones (my first) so it was kinda fait acompli, as those ol’ Romans useda say.

Took it out on a maiden voyage this morning with an hour run, using the Strava app. Worked like a dream. A little too dreamy—I’m used to hitting a button and waiting for GPS to connect. This time, the connection was already there, so off I went. Of course I kept checking my pace for the first few minutes, and was dismayed to see that I was going super slow. Finally I realized that I was looking at my over-all average, which I had shot in the foot by starting off with a walk (a clumsy metaphor, but as a meta-metaphor, it aptly describe what kind of doofus I am).

And just now I went out for another foray, this one a long walk to find a Friday bar. But the bar I ventured for was closed when I arrived. Oh well. Got in a decent 4.25 miles and burned, what 400 or so calories. More than double what I would have consumed at the bar. Add that to the 600 or so from this morning and I should be one skinny feller.

But I’m not, which is why I need this watch. And this phone. Yeah, sure, “need” is a strong word here, and reeks of First World. But what am I supposed to do, just accept that at 47 my gettin-lean years are all well behind me? Nah. I’m too much of a doofus to do that. Yet.

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