Blog Entry #4
August 26, 2025, Albuquerque, NM USA
④ minutes to read
Friends and conspirators, the godshonest truth is I’m pretty much defined by just a couple of facts. Among those is this:
I’m a damned good writer.
If I’d made a couple of different choices, gotten out more, taken a chance or two, I’d be living on the beach somewhere with at least one Emmy on my shelf. I don’t regret the choices I made, but I’m more than confident that I could’ve made it if the dice had come up different.
To that end, I sweat over everything I write. That last Facebook post? 18 words and it went through four rewrites before I put it up. I handle words like they’re live ammunition.
Every now and then, you stick the landing
Back in May, I commented on a video walkthrough of a mid-century Hollywood Hills house. You might’ve seen it here on Facebook:
When I was a kid, I thought I’d live in a house like this. I would wear Sansabelt slacks and Botany 500 blazers and drive a one-off convertible Mercury Cougar to pick up a smart but attractive young blonde named Kitty or Sugar at her tastefully decorated sixth-floor flat, and we would go to someplace with a name like Club Flamingo where she would smoke Virginia Slim 100s and I would smoke cigarillos and we would drink martinis and dance to Bossa Nova music.
The response was staggering: 613 likes, dozens of overwhelmingly positive comments ranging from “Me too!” to “What a great dream” to “If you haven’t, you should” and “You should write that movie.” My personal favorite was from Amy Renee:
“Take me with you if you find it. Every suave bachelor needs a matronly personal assistant.”
And then there was Angela’s:
“Are you gay?”
Like a stiletto in the heart.
Literally the only negative thing posted.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s not even overtly negative. Truth be told, I kinda sorta wish I was maybe kinda sorta a tiny bit gay. I’d dress better and be more interesting at parties. But Angela’s comment wasn’t curious: it was a dig. The same kind I heard half a century ago when I skipped gym class to sit in the bleachers reading Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson.
Angela’s comment? One of those forgotten things until, mid-dishwashing, it grabs its baggage and slides back into the brain like a fresh Polaroid.
“THAT BITCH!”
Opinions are like…
I have a friend, Bob, on the other side of the country. We’ve known each other off and on for close to 40 years. Bob plays in a band I’d kill to be in: tight, fun, and a setlist that’s the right mix of standards and indie gems. They’re weekend warriors, sure, but they gig on the regular and always pull a crowd. As I’ve told him, they’re as successful as they want to be.
Bob sends me videos, asks for tech advice, and occasionally vents. Recently, he invited a local friend to a gig. A gig that went particularly well. Bob mentioned to this friend a couple of small mistakes on a couple of songs he wished he could rewind to and fix. This friend, who’s never picked up an instrument or stood in front of a crowd, took that as an opening to list everything wrong with the set.
My unsolicited advice to Bob?
“If they ain’t getting you paid or getting you laid, their opinion means precisely dick.” (Sorry Mom)
What’s the score?
I wish I could follow my own advice about Angela. Because if you’re keeping score, and yes, I most definitely am keeping score, it’s 613 likes, plus dozens of positive comments full of joy and connection, against one middle school dig that stabbed deep.
Not because it was harsh. But because it was deep enough to hit me in my truest of hearts: the writer.
Maybe putting it down here will put it to rest.
But I doubt it.
Fifteen years from now, I’ll be up to my elbows in dish soap, and…
“THAT BITCH!”
What about you?
Ever had one stray comment echo louder than a hundred compliments and stick in your brain, forever ? Drop your own “THAT BITCH!” moment below; or tell me how you let it roll off. I’d love to hear your take.
Did this flip a switch? Tug at a heart string? Tickle a funny bone? Let me know. All comments are welcome.