From the Fringes of the Brotherhood

I stand behind dozens of firefighters in their dress blues; I wear an embroidered polo with my name and the Federal Heights Fire Department logo.  His casket bears his name: Joseph Eugene Grein.

I am not a firefighter, but I knew the firefighter they are honoring this day.  I didn’t know him well, mind you, just as a work acquaintance.  But I know he would have helped me in an emergency, and for that, I will always be grateful.

I am honored that I am allowed to stand with his peers and say goodbye from the fringes of the brotherhood.

Joe Grein's Funeral Ceremony

Nuclear Anxiety

As Ahmadinejad pulls his nuclear saber another inch from its scabbard, my Cold War anxieties return.  My dreams become a series of nuclear scenarios.  A nuke hits downtown Denver, the stem of the mushroom expanding to encompass my house.  A failed attack results in an Iranian Saegheh aircraft exploding on 16th street during Christmas season.

None of this is reasonable; if (when?) Iran is ready to use nukes, Denver is not a likely target, and I don’t think there’s any way a Saegheh fighter jet could make it to middle America.

But then, saber-rattling isn’t intended to produce rational results.

CARpe Diem

I hate buying cars.  I like having cars, but I’ve purchased enough of them from dealerships that my blood pressure increases and my heart jumps at the mere thought of dealing with a salesperson, finance director, and their impossible-to-please supervisors.

I’m not exactly an assertive person.  When faced with conflict, I tend to back down, and that’s exactly why I’m bothered by car dealerships.  I know it’s in my nature to allow myself to be manipulated, which fits nicely with their training to control the transaction.

Not this time.  I can always walk off the lot if I’m not happy.

Losing Momentum

I apologize in advance.

I don’t want to say what’s on my mind, because it sounds weak, frail, and childish, so this post will be intentionally vague, a roundabout way of publicly addressing my need to write while acknowledging my need for privacy.

That’s probably maddening to read, and I bet I just lost half of you, less than halfway through the post.

I’m questioning my dream of writing right now, the fiction dream.  The only fiction I’ve published was in my college literary magazine nearly a quarter century ago.

The rub:  I’m still afraid of submitting fiction to editors.

Curses! Foiled Again!

I’m not a prude, but I think a lot of people would be surprised to hear me curse.  For some reason, I come across as socially conservative, especially in regard to colorful words.  I’m certainly not opposed to them; in fact, I think there are times when they are very useful, but there are other times when they are not appropriate.

My viewpoint is not informed by any specific religious dogma.  I simply have respect for the power of curse words, and I don’t like to dilute that power through overuse.

Unlike just about everyone on reality television, evidently.