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To Err is Human, to Forgive is… um…

Postaday for May 7th: Forgive and Forget? Share a story where it was very difficult for you to forgive the perpetrator for wronging you, but you did it — you forgave them.

I can’t remember having ever forgiven someone because, you know that proverb: forgive and forget. Wait, not proverb. Psalm. No, not psalm, maybe… idiom? Cliche. Saying? Folkway. I don’t know what it’s called! But I always do it: forgive and forget.

Remember that movie, Momento? (it would be a delicious irony if you didn’t). I’m like that guy when it comes to forgiveness. I’ve even taken to tattooing the names of people I’ve forgiven on my thigh (this is a total lie but so is the forgetting thing).

I can’t tell you the numbers of times I’ve found myself sitting in a filthy motel room, needle in one hand and a broken Bic pen in the other, cell phone cradled in one shoulder as I talk to some strange person about forgiveness. These memories are in black and white. There’s a post it note stuck to one knee, with a name on it, or names, or sometimes a doodle of a duck. I think I must have had some serious issues with ducks in my life because I’m always finding post it notes around my house and I can’t help but think, when the heck did I draw this?

On my right leg I’ve got my wife’s name three or four times, which make sense: people in love hurt each other all the time. Forgive and forget, it’s how a marriage lasts. Also on that leg: my dad, my mom, by brother, and my wife’s sister and her husband. That last one has something to do with a train in Switzerland. Or maybe Sweden. I don’t really remember.

On my left leg I’ve got Robert Downey Jr, the 2005 Pittsburgh Steelers, Twizzlers, and the ending of Gillian Flynn’s novel Gone Girl.

Notoriously absent: Oklahoma City, a bouncer at the Taj night club in Vegas, Verizon, 1986, and every single freakin’ person who changes lanes more than once in less than a quarter mile on Highway 5.

In general I’m a pretty easy-going person. I don’t have to forgive very often because I don’t take offense too often. At least I don’t think I do. It’s hard to remember. For example, I don’t remember names very well at all. Maybe the reason I can never remember names is because those people always offend me? Maybe, instead of being embarrassed every time I see someone and realize I can’t recall their name, instead I should be angry?

“Hey good to see you again!”
“Hi…”
“Jason, right?”
“Yes… uh…”
“It’s Dave.”
“Ah, right, Dave. You bastard.”

Memory’s a funny thing. So’s forgiveness. And it occurs to me that a saying I’ve heard, “first you must forgive yourself” does not bode well for me. Or maybe that’s an idiom. Or a Psalm. Darn it, I can’t remember!

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NaBloPoMo Day 7: Your Time

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: When was the last time you asked someone to take a picture of you?

Can’t recall specifically. Other than selfies, which means I’m asking myself to take the picture. I’ve probably asked my wife to hold the camera. “Take a picture of me doing something stupid!”

It’s been touched on before, how much I don’t like being in pictures. Aligned with that is my displeasure in asking people to do things in general. And strangers especially! I just don’t like putting people out. I’ll spend 15 minutes balancing my camera precariously on a rock before I’ll ask someone to squeeze the trigger a few times.

My wife’s not so shy. She’ll grab any old person walking by and ask them to take our picture. And you know how people will take the picture, and kindly say, “is that good? I can take another…” I die inside whenever my wife says, “Yeah, can you take it again?” Aaaaah!

But they don’t seem to mind, And my wife has one of those faces that makes people smile— I’m sure the walk away (eventually) thinking “I did something nice today. I’m a good person!”

For what it’s worth, I, personally, am always flattered when some strangers asks ME to take their picture. So you’d think I’d get over myself, and ask others if needs be… but then, I don’t like being in pictures anyway, so…

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Time

Nice little yard-work break.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


My time is leisurely. I work from home. I spend time on con calls, and puttering around the house with the laundry, the dishes, making the bed. Occasionally I get outside and do yard work. But no matter how much work I do, I always break it up and spent as much or more time doing nothing. You tell me if blogging is “leisurely.” 🙂

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The Bukkhead Comes with a Side of Maui Onion Potato Chips

Postaday for May 6th: You, the Sandwich. If a restaurant were to name something after you, what would it be? Describe it. (Bonus points if you give us a recipe!)

I have no idea why a cheese, mustard, and pickle sandwich tastes so good. But it does. Not all of the time, but sometimes. And I’m talking cheap-ass cheese, cheap-ass mustard, none of your Grey Poupon here, monsieur. French’s Yellow Mustard. But good bread, quality bread, thick slices, white bread.

If I had my druthers I’d be the type of person who gets hungry around 11:45, shuffles out the door with his Chromebook under his arm, and waddles to a nearby cafe and orders a Bukkhead (on white). So there’s me eating my sandwich and tippy-tapping the day’s blog entry.

They’d name it after me because I’d eat it every day. Some days it would have onions on it. Some days the pickles would be sweet. Occasionally, instead of American cheese, it would be a hand-sliced slab of sharp cheddar, and the mustard would be brown, and the bread would be fortified white. It would still be a Bukkhead.

Other days it might be a more wheaty-bread than white, a more mayonnaisey-mustard than yellow, a more lettucy-cheese than American, a more turkey-like pickle than dill. Still a Bukkhead, though.

Maybe the blog would be influenced by the sandwich ingredients. No, I have a better idea: the sandwich would be influenced by the blog. No one would know how or why. I’d lock my front door, shuffle to the cafe, stand there in front of the ordering counter and peer at the menu as if I hadn’t memorized it years ago, a thousand blog entries ago, as if I wasn’t going to order what I always order. “Gimme a Bukkhead,” I’d say and:

As I’m typing up a screed lambasting the new proto-nerds for their hypocritical denigration of so-called neckbeards, Carl, the chef, is grabbing sauerkraut and corned beef. As I’m pecking away at a short story about a secret door behind Mrs. Tanner’s refrigerator, Carl’s looking for the pimento-loaf and the thousand island dressing. As I’m formatting a review on a novel I’ve just read about a Henry VIII’s Thomas Cromwell, Carl’s adding a few dashes of paprika to give the egg-salad some zip.

He rings a bell. Order up. The kid grabs it, brings it to my booth. Sets it down. For a few moments gazes at the rapid-fire staccato of my two index fingers whizzing around the flat keyboard. Until I start to slow down. He blushes like he caught a glance of his dad coming out of the shower. I give him a look as he walks away, which he doesn’t see, but Carl does. It’s a look that seems to say “I don’t know how I do it either, kid.”

I pick up my Bukkhead and take a bite. Chew slowly. First it’s the tang of the mustard, and then the vinegar bite of the pickles comes through. The coldness of the pickle against the softness of the bread. Chew, chew, swallow, the tang and bite fade to the fullness of the cheese. Inhale,exhale, another bite, set the sandwich down, go back to the keyboard. Correct some typos.

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NaBloPoMo Day 6: Your Love

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: How often are you in your photographs?

Rarely if ever (except for selfies). I’m the photographer. I’m the one behind the camera, and even if someone else happens to have a camera, or happens to take mine from me (which I allow; more below) I don’t wind up in the shots too often.

As described in yesterday’s NaBloPoMo post, I don’t like being photographed. And while I do like taking pictures of people, it’s not my first go-to, so to speak. Sure, everyone gathers around for the group photo, and thanks to Ellen, the group selfie is hot right now. But if I’m going to take pictures of people, they’re usually candids, and candids of me don’t happen to often.

Now, on the subject of other people using my camera— I don’t just allow it, but encourage it. I truly believe that taking photos is easy. The camera does all the work, and I know there are photographers gnashing their teeth when I say this, but let’s be honest: once you’ve got the right ISO figured out, auto-shutter speeds and image stabilizing lenses take care of a lot.

Too often I think people shy away from trying things they think are difficult. So when folks see a schlep like me clicking away, and they want to try it to, I’m all for it. And then I stand behind THEM and help them choose the shot. Which is never of me 🙂

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Love

Weekend island hijinx. #orcasisland

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


Woke up with a headache this morning, and my love, my wife, crawled back into bed after taking a shower and getting dressed, and sat on my temple. It worked. For about a minute.
Above photo from a visit to one of the Puget Sound islands. I don’t recall which one. But as soon as I read today’s prompt, I knew which photo I wanted to post. I asked her permission first.

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Gunshots Heard at 4:30 PM

Postaday for May 5: Idyllic. What does your ideal community look like? How is it organized, and how is community life structured? What values does the community share?

Yesterday at about 4:30 PM I heard gunshots. It took about 30 seconds for that to filter through me head. We watch so much violent TV, play violent video games, read violent books, visit violent web sites, drink violent coffee, shop at violent discount markets, eat violent bananas, sleep in violent beds with violent pillows and dream about so many violent cows wearing tutus and playing violent flutes that we sometimes don’t recognize real violence when it happens. But eventually I dialed 911.

I was connected with the state troopers, and I could barely understand what the fella on the phone was saying. I told him I heard what sounded like gunshots, and he asked me if I was in Seattle. When I said, yes, he said he would put me through to Seattle PD. The phone rang and rang and rang. The guy was still listening though.

Then I heard sirens, lots and lots of sirens, and I told the guy this. He took my name and number. Half an hour later the Seattle PD called me, asked me what my emergency was. I told him about the shots, and they said, yeah— multiple reports. He thanked me and said to keep my eyes open!

More sirens, and helicopters. At one point I could see the helicopters through one of my skylights. It was right above our house! I set the alarm. I found a website with a police scanner, and listened to that for a while. Heard nothing about what was going on, but did here a lot of other chatter. The police in Seattle are not idle.

Later in the evening, I went to the Seattle Police Blotter website, and read:

Officers are investigating after gunfire erupted in the Haller Lake neighborhood Monday afternoon.

Several residents called into 911 after hearing gunshots at about 4:30 PM in the 13500 block of Roosevelt Way North. So far, officers have found no victims or damage as a result of the shooting.

Officers have collected shell casings at the scene and are speaking with witnesses now. According to witnesses the suspect shot several times out of his car window and then fled the scene. Police are searching the area for the suspect vehicle.

I’m guessing it happened at the 7-11, the one I go to for Cokes and frozen burritos.

My house sits well off the road, at the end of a long driveway. I have easy access to highway 5, and shopping is convenient, with options less than a mile away. There’s that 7-11, which has a gas station next to it. There are parks and churches around here, bus stops, schools, and not a heck of a lot of traffic.

I like all of that. But here’s my favorite part, which I’ll quote from the report above:

Several residents called into 911

People are people, and things are going to happen, no matter where you go in the world. This is my ideal community— a place where folks let each other be, but keep their eyes and ears open, just in case.

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NaBloPoMo Day 5: Your Style

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: What is your favourite angle for being photographed? Head-on? Slightly above, below, to the side?

I don’t like being photographed. Hate the way I look when I smile. See photos of myself and think, good God, is that what I look like? How come no one told me? How are people not falling down in hysterical, terrified laughter every time they see me?

Very arrogant.

I’m sure, 90% of the time, no one notices me at all. That’s not self-deprecation, that’s just logic. Heck, it’s probably more like 99%. And that other 1%, I can’t possibly know what standards are in any other mind. It’s silly to assume I can understand an entire lifetime of context that a person brings to whatever they view.

That said, I still don’t like being photographed. So I have no real answer for what my favorite angle is, although: I do like a good selfie. And for those, in the mirror, I’m usually going head on.

My wife tells me that people should always be photographed from slightly above, to hide multiple chins. Ariana Grand, I’m told, always demands being photographed from only the left. Old west cowboys (the actors who portrayed them, at least) were always photographed from below to show how huge and manly they were.

So you can see my dilemma. I don’t think I’m photogenic, I want to hide my chins, maintain my pop starlet style, and show off my machismo. Talk about existential angst, sheesh!

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Style

Took a WFH day. Getting chores done too. Shame is for sissies.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

My style is: throw on clothes. Tend towards gray. I like looking stylish, don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who doesn’t care. But once I’ve tried, and failed— then I don’t care.

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A Football Makes a Lousy Briefcase

Postaday for May 4th: Coming To a Bookshelf Near You. Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

In a novel of slapstick mayhem and unrelenting self-contradiction, a robotic assassin makes chaos out of hubris and peanut butter out of chaos. The crunchy kind.

Chris Hutchins is just a lousy GS-11. He occupies that lonely every-man’s land on the edge of the spy world, close enough to look in, but bolted firmly on the wrong side of the bullet-proof plexiglass.

Lancaster is the ultimate assassin, spy, evil genius, oxford comma connoisseur, and cowboy aficionado, all wrapped up into one metal-alloy skeleton. His mission: he could tell you, but then he’d have to kill you. Come to think of it, he doesn’t have to tell you anything, since he’s going to kill you anyway.

When a series of increasingly ridiculous assassinations force the spy community to put their differences aside and take action, the metaphors start to fly like broken china in a shop run by bulls. Or something. Surfing the edge of the sea foam on the waves of Lancaster’s dastardly plan, Chris has only one hope—that the author will stay drunk enough, long enough, to focus on the plot and stop toying with the fourth wall so much.

Drawing from the very tropes that prop up almost 90% of all spy fiction, and unabashedly stealing from the originality of the other ten percent, this is, if not a hilarious novel, at least a hilarious attempt at one.