Every great writer keeps a notebook with him or her. I keep a notebook. Even if you are not a great writer, you should keep a notebook.
Like Judge Kavanaugh’s calendars.
Say you are a crazy old man with a poor memory getting worse, imagine how good it would be if you kept a notebook.
You can regale your entire family at festive holiday gatherings with tales from your notebook.
I keep a notebook. My dog died last month. His name was Hagrid. He made me a better man.
LIFE AFTER HAGRID (8/17/18)
The rain stopped. As soon as I began my walk east into the sun, I had a happy moment and the next instant, I felt guilty about it.
Then I heard Hagrid say, “No, that’s good.” I kept walking, happy again.
Some time ago, somebody told me I have “freakish intelligence.”
Just dawned on me that might not have been a compliment.
Authenticity in the moment is the key to a happy life.
How to be old. Come up with Twenty Rules. 1. Exercise freedom. 2. Get a dog. That’s as far as I got.
Sex aids for the superannuated. Sounds like a money-maker.
poor student = substitute teen suicide. That would explain the early 1960s. Maybe the whole decade.
Contrary to what some might suspect, the multiple personalities aren’t the worst part.
If the black guy and the big dog show up at the same time, you never know which way it’s gonna go. Could be a party. Or not.
No, the worst part is the battles with the world’s worst chubby salesman. (Ten Worst Years Of My Life)
Some bad times. The worst.
No Joke – PTSD. Following childhood, I was rarely able to put myself together and then not for long. Fought all my life until I stopped struggling.
Frost told about the road less traveled. Many roads, more than two.
There’s the road you should take, the road you want to take, the road you’re gonna take. And detours too many to count.
Jack Quixote – Sanity was his side hustle.
A bear, two lobsters and Stephen King walk into a Bangor bar.
The bartender asks, “So, whaty’ll have?”
”Anybody but Susan Collins,” they chorus.
The old man took a bucket of ice cubes, two dogs and a cold Foster’s Lager and sat in the white rocker on the lanai. Almost noon, almost ninety. One of the dogs was a puppy. Not ten weeks old, not yet housebroken. A bladder the size of an ice cube.
opening paragraph of the rest of my life.
Hurricane on the way. Thinking maybe I should keep more notes. Thinking these are them.
He had to pee at 5 a.m., then both of us went back to sleep. Ragnar, The Notorious RBG.