I read a quote by Elizabeth Gilbert. She’s about my age but more successful.

“As for discipline — it’s important, but sort of overrated. The more important virtue for a writer, I believe, is self-forgiveness. Because your writing will always disappoint you. Your laziness will always disappoint you. […] Continuing to write after that heartache of disappointment doesn’t take only discipline, but also self-forgiveness.”

If you create anything, be it a poem, a sculpture or a proposal for work, you need to forgive yourself. Life is a continuous act of creation so it makes sense that Life also demands Self-Forgiveness.
Your poem sucks.
You skipped writing for six months.
Laziness wins for a while.
Every idea you have sounds like a bad episode of Dark Shadows (so you write a book called Twilight…)
Anytime you screw up you have to forgive you first.
I can’t forgive you until you forgive you. No one can forgive you.

Half of what I think is probably bullshit. It makes no sense, leads nowhere and has the virtue of mushy corn meal. So be it. Anyone that knows my little life’s story understands old Duffy has fouled more balls than most ever get pitched.
So be it.
Forgive yourself and move on.


Floyd showed up with a bit of moonshine hours before Craig
made a drunken call to my home at 12:48 a.m. It was a great weekend. I came up with another story idea after talking to Craig and sipping ‘shine. I lost it in the hangover Sunday morning.
I forgive me.
Now you can forgive me too.


America is inhabited by millions of adults who still do whatever it takes to be part of the popular clique. They want their insecure faces all over the yearbooks so they join every organization they can and make sure they go to the coolest parties. Every fad, every gadget, every “Must-Have-Cause-It’s-So-Awesome” piece of crap pie that comes out is for these folks. They obsess over the he said/she said/who said and wonder why everyone else seems so fake. If it’s cool, PC, or just plain easy they gravitate towards it like lemmings to a cliff. Whatever is new, is best. Whatever sounds good, is good. Whatever looks right, is right. They jumped on the Green bandwagon, the no spanking craze, the Atkins diet, the Bush bashing, the Obama bashing and defend every single idea they’ve never thought all the way through. Everyone who is not part of them, is no one. The non-members are to be ruled by Student Councils, Town Halls, and White Houses. They used to tout their “Random Acts of Kindness”. If it’s random…how do you plan for it? How do you intentionally do anything randomly? Clique logic. Any apparent disloyalty to their notions of reality are cause for your immediate dismissal. Expulsion is routine. Safe-conduct is given, so long as you shut up and walk the line.
They randomly move as individuals but are as uniformed as a school of mindless fish.


I was in line at Starbucks the other day. The girl in front of me was ranting to her cell phone about politics and men and her mother and her finances and her period and how she can’t stand rude people in line. The bald girl working the counter tried to smile but her lip ring got in the way. Cell-phone girl, with her Sasquatch legs, hung up and ordered something that sounded obscene to my ignorant ears.
When it was my turn I said,
“Yeah, hey. Can I just get a medium, strong black coffee with no sugar or cream?”
“You mean a Grande Sumatra blend, Black with no room.”
“Sure. A medium, black, preferably in English cup of coffee.”

Sasquatch was eyeballing me. Her eyes cut over as if I wore a “Buck Farack!” button on my Glenn Beck shirt.
I paid the irritated bald girl and awaited my order near Sasquatch.

Sasquatch spoke up,
“It would help if you ordered according to the menu.”
“I don’t speak Menu. I speak English.”
“You should try a latte. Actually, you know, expand your horizons.”
“You should try a Gillette. Expand your horizons.”
Her jaw dropped as a squeak of surprise popped out. It is her Role in life to educate dumbasses like me on the finer points of human existence. She is the one carrying the American sub-culture on her arm like an nuevo-impressionist tattoo. Me? I’m just some fat fucker who can’t order in the right language at Starbucks. To her, I don’t eat Chinese cause it’s made of cat and question the Moon Landing on my Ham Radio program each night.

We didn’t speak again. I got my coffee and disappeared into the Business/Economics Section of Barnes & Noble…where all the nutjobs and freaks hang out.