Monday, March 12, 2012


I used to write a column for a newspaper I worked for, back along. In it I indulged readers in an obviously exaggerated accounting of my life, much of which had to do with members of my family.

Now, let me just say that I readily admit that I tread along the edge of a knife. While what I wrote certainly caused some in my family to blush, I was always cognizant of feelings and privacy and the such, so I deliberately did two things: I stretched the truth to the limits of its elasticity and I made sure I said nothing that would be hurtful, mean, or degrading.

It was, after all, a column of humor. Please insert quotations around humor if you've read these past columns and now find the use of that word to be a dubious claim.

Here's a quick life lesson. I wrote from a desire to talk about my life, but found that I could not be honest. Not really. Think of those who use humor as a way to deflect. This was a lot like that. There was no way in hell I was going to wrote "seriously" about my life the way I (secretly) wanted. The serious parts stayed buried in the richest literary soil from which healthy stories could be grown.

I danced in that garden wearing a big red nose and a pair of fat shoes.

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