Sittin' on the Front Porch

The ramblings and meanderings of a middle-aged mind trapped in a middle-aged body might seem pointless, but points are not always well taken and they do not always add up. With two small children and a loving and lovely wife to keep me centered, I set off to explore ideas and ideals, and I try not to try too much.

Name:
Location: Richmond, Kentucky, United States

Friday, September 30, 2005

What I care about

Above all else, I care about God and my family. I care about my friends. I care about my students and my job and the trivial stuff that I teach. I care about truth and beauty and love and honor and compassion and all those wonderful and all-too-rare qualities that Faulkner talks about.
I used too care a lot about things like movies and music and comic books, and there is a part of me that still does. I can still work up a good lather about the sorry state of pop culture as the masses enjoy it, and bemoan the lack of interest in the truly great things that go mostly ignored.
That is probably why I started this thing: so I can talk about the things that still lie about in small cluttered messes in my life, the things outside of God and family and work, the things that add just a bit more to the mix and make each day a new adventure.
This is about getting to talk about which Barenaked Ladies cd is best, about whether Howard the Duck was really all that bad a comic book, about which Bruce Campbell movie should be required viewing for initiation into eternal adolescence. This is about talking about nothing--ah, this is a place Mercutio would bring Queen Mab for a tryst, a place to dance around in sweats listening to Violent Femmes and reading Invincible or e.e.cummings or Harvey Pekar. It is a place to make notes about the things that delight or irritate me and not have to worry about who doesn't understand.
Not that anyone will ever bother looking, and that is not the point. This is about me. This is personal.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

My world and welcome to it

And so it begins. . . .