The One About My Truck vs. My Intelligence

As is the rule in Texas, I drive a truck.  It has moved me from DC to Texas, to the Pacific Northwest and back.  It is my most cherished possession though even as it falls into disrepair.  That being said, I am from out in the country a piece (You know, past the old Miller place where they used to keep the Brahmans, but don’t any more because Luckett, their oldest boy, decided to go off and be an engineer at Lockheed, but before you take the turn to get to LakeCreek). There might even be some livestock within a stone’s throw from my back door.   And in the summer I do have an opportunity to get sunburned from time to time.  Do you see where I’m going with this?  You seem smart enough, so I’ll just work on that assumption.

I take no offense to the word redneck when used properly.  My extended family has worked the land since before they came to the States.  But, my sheepskin proud friends, farming is not a measure of intelligence any more than a diploma.  I’ve met plenty of moronic doctoral candidates and their opposite in closet intellectual cattle ranchers.  It’s all just a matter of stupid pride on both sides.

So, all I’m saying is  let’s don’t judge people based on a lifestyle.  All bets are off once they open their mouths or drive a Ford though.  Let’s just take it on a mouth by mouth and truck by truck basis though.

That’s right, I’m about to say it.  Can’t we all just get along?

TL;DR Don’t judge people.  That’s just another Rook mistake.

Unless we’re talking about the Air Force.

Screw those guys,

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The one about social media idiots…

Come on, guys.  If you type things you wouldn’t say to someone’s face, stop.  I’m a parent and I’m not as media social as most people I know, but I’m not a insensitive inflamed asshole either.  Reading about Curt Schilling’s experience makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with the world my son is growing up in.

In our extended family, we only have boys.  Nephews and cousins – all male and under 13.  We raise them to think before they speak.  It’s an acquired skill and one they’re still acquiring.  They weren’t born with it. If they had their way, it’d be Twinkies for every meal and poo flinging competitions instead of 5th grade.  But they would never say anything so disgusting and callous about a girl – whether they knew her or not.  And at least one of them would let loose a loaded cuss-cannon of vulgarity directed at anyone who would say such things.  (Hey, they’re not perfect.  We’re working on it.)

Their excuse though is that they’re kids.  They have mistakes to make based on a lack of wisdom that can only come from age and experience.

I cannot understand those men-shaped flesh bags.  And I don’t want to.

The One About That Guy at the Bar…

You know the one. That guy holding court up by the bar telling “war” stories to the Gore Groupies. Cashing in with free drinks on Routh’s guilty verdict.

Buddy, move along. I don’t want your questions. I don’t want to hear your missteps and realize all you know is Call of Duty and the History Channel. I just came in to have a beer and enjoy my night.

Instead of getting in the middle of that, we just went across the street. I didn’t let it ruin my night. But I’m thinking about it more than I want.

The one about snow day behavior…

Planned on getting some writing done and a revision for a sold story, but I created gamer children.  My mistake was mentioning that it looked like a good day for us to hang out.  By that, I meant I would work while they watched The 100 or Arrow reruns – all in the same room.  Quasi-family time.  Nope, my spawn want games.  So before I can get anything else done, it’s Imperial Assault and Zombicide.

TLDR: Don’t mention free time to your kids if you already have plans.  It’s a Rook mistake.

The One Where I Started a Blog….

Here we go.

The most writing I’ll get done all day is this blog post.  I could resent it and make everyone in the house miserable, or I could give up my time to the people I love.  Throw something about a grateful heart in there.  You’re smart people, figure it out.

I need to write today though.  It helps when sand blows through my brain, bringing that smell off the desert with it.  It helps when I find myself hyperaware and on edge for no reason.  It helps when I want to blow up over spilled juice or the fact that my little one can’t find his shoe again.  It helps because there are things that need to be taken out of my head and put on the page.

Therapy helps. Writing is better.

Rook Riley: writer, game enthusiast, and all around linguistic bad ass