Skip to content



The Stuffed Panda

Last weekend, my sister sent me a photo of her old teddy bear. She’d found the relic whilst perusing some storage boxes in her garage.


Looking at the photo of the one-eyed, worse-for-wear stuffed animal brought back a warm and fuzzy moment that I’ll quickly share.


One day, when we were little kids, my sister and I were in the family room with our father. She was perched up on Dad’s lap, playing with her stuffed panda. I was sitting on the floor right in front of them. My sister was enjoying herself, playing with the panda, when she suddenly decided to smack me in the head with it.


We all thought this was hilarious and we all laughed—my sister laughing the loudest in sheer delight.


Wanting more of a good thing, she hauled off and walloped me over the head again. This time it hurt. Badly. It was as if a first place javelin-tossing trophy had fallen off the top shelf of a Shaquille-O’Neal-sized bookcase and landed on my noggin.


I began to cry.


Yeah, I know, how could being hit with a stuffed animal make a boy cry? My dad had the same question. I looked up at him, and I’ll never forget the look of, let me just call it “disappointment” I saw on his face. It was a look that I would become accustomed to over the years.


I took the bear from my sister and began to palpate the panda’s abdomen as if I were a doctor feeling for a bloated and troublesome appendix. And there it was—a metal music box. And the metal wind-up key—that should have protruded from the bear’s side—had broken off upon impact with my head.

Self Portrait

This was rendered in SketchMee 2.

I  really dig the line work.

I know there are a lot of people who don’t like to use filters and things of that sort, but I will always use any digital tool at my disposal to get the image I’m after.

A Dude’s Duty

A dude and his duty…


to sup on

the stuff

of life

and drink

deeply from

the cup of




(See, I think that

“cup”— because of

“sup”— works better

than “well.”

What do you think?)

The Professor’s Story

My old friend, the professor, sat down at my table. He looked up at the attentive waitress, offered her a gentle smile, and ordered a glass of the house merlot. We shook hands, exchanged our customary pleasantries, and got about the business of enjoying each other’s company. It had been several months since our last visit, and there was serious catching up to do.

As always, our conversation moved seamlessly from one subject to another. I don’t remember what triggered the professor to tell me this story, but it instantly became one of my favorites…

It was just another day at Chester A. Arthur High School. I got this message to come to the office right away.

In my experience, this was never a good thing.

I went to the office, and the principal was waiting for me. He looked at me the same way a store owner would look at a suspected shoplifter. He sniffed and stated, “Your parents want you home…now.”

I walked home with great uncertainty. I had no idea what this was about.

When I entered the house, my parents were at the kitchen table. They looked perturbed and suspicious. I tensed up immediately. Then I saw my old army surplus ammo box. It lay on the table, open, with its contents revealed. “Uh, oh…” I said to myself.

My mother pointed to a small pile of grade-A weed I’d scored from friends who had found a reliably periodic connection to a source in Mexico. Usually, I kept the box locked. I’d gotten sloppy and careless. Going into my room to put away freshly laundered clothes, she’d made the discovery.

Also on the table was a public service booklet for parents on how to identify marijuana. It hadn’t helped much, as they were still uncertain as to what the unidentified, dried-out vegetation was.
“What,” my mother asked, “is this?”

Without hesitation I replied nonchalantly, “rabbit food.”

“Rabbit food,” my mother repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” I explained, “I ordered it through the mail. It’s highly nutritious, organic, and grown specifically for domestic rabbits.”


I nodded. I looked at my father who took a step back from the table, as if the stuff could bite. He was satisfied to let my mother handle the interrogation.

“Fine!” stated my mother. She picked up the weed and handed it to me. “Let’s just see how well your rabbit likes it.”

I lead the way to the rabbit hutch in our backyard. Our furry pet was a large gray, lop-eared bunny named Samson. I lifted the lid of Samson’s cage and dumped the pot into his food dish. He pounced on it immediately and began to devour it as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

My parents watched Samson silently for a few moments, then nodded with some relief “Well, I suppose it is rabbit food after all,” my mom acquiesced.

We left the yard with Samson still munching away at top speed.

Once back inside the house, the very moment I was certain that both my mother and father were off my scent and back to business as usual—I sprinted to the rabbit hutch and scooped out the remaining weed, and cussed out the rabbit for being a glutton.

Samson didn’t move for three days.

Tech Decay

once state of the art

only picked-clean bones remain

the fate of all tech

Found Objects

old spur and holster

silently spin tales of yore

eloquent earth tones