I don’t know anyone named Valerie. I chose the name at random in case the subject at hand might be uncomfortable with me writing about her. This probably says something about me. I’m not sure what, but something. I felt I should clarify this in case someone asked me who Valerie was or what she meant to me. My truthful response would have been: “There is no Valerie and we mean nothing to each other. We’re just friends.” That wouldn’t have made sense to anyone but me.

I don’t see any reason why changing a name here or there would impact my credibility as a storyteller. I am writing this blog for me – for further writing practice – and maybe to land a side gig here and there. In this economy, the side gigs are either drying up or going to journalists who have lost their jobs. The pool of freelance talent available write now is pretty deep, so I’m told. I am not sure if the most talented writers out there would use real names or not. Probably so.

My name is on this material. You can read about my background. You can see what talent I have on a daily basis. Good or bad, the words are here. In case they are bad, no one but me (and Valerie) will have to suffer the consequences.

200
Also, sometime last week, I passed 200 blog posts on this site. I made a big deal about it when I reached 100 posts. I haven’t done the math, but I’d guess I reached 200 in about half the time.

Congratulations are in order … for someone, I’m sure. Not for something as easy writing what’s on my mind. I have never been a numbers person. You guessed it. I’m a words person. Always have been. Here’s a short post on numbers:

My mother started buying women’s magazines in 1984. She was fresh from a divorce and looking to a new identity. She was also balancing her professional life with raising two boys, so whatever guidance she found had to come through short articles with snazzy headlines. The magazines started arriving in the mail. I don’t recall the exact titles, but they had “woman” or some variation in them: Woman; Working Woman; Women (a much better read than Woman), Women are Much Better than Men*, and so on.

On the covers, numbers were always featured prominently: big 10s, 20s, and 100s in bright colors and wrapped around celebrity faces. Jacquelyn Smith, Linda Evans, Ivana Trump: These were working women as witnessed by their business suits and you could be like them if you adhered to the “number” articles.

Of course, those numbers were tied to lists: “The Top 10 … this,” “20 Ways to … that.” The concept might have existed before women’s magazines took it and ran, but for my money, list articles started in the women’s section of magazine racks. Now every magazine publisher does it, from People and Rolling Stone to Walking and Urban Dog.

I’ve decided to develop a top list for this web site since we haven’t made a foray into that realm yet (and I really wanted to work the word foray into this post). Here goes:

Top 10 Numbers I Like
1,000: The number of words I try to write everyday.
330-350: The number of words I can write seamlessly before I start using word count to see how may more are needed. It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, I am always trapped between 330-350 before I succumb to the craving to see how prodigious I’ve been in outputting material.
34: Sweetness, Walter Payton’s number. The greatest running back in NFL history and my favorite professional sports player of all time.
1984: The best summer of my life (and the first in which I was able to come and go from the house whenever I pleased during the day without any adult supervision. I was nine and I remember being excited not to be hassled. I think that had a huge impact on me creatively, actually. I liked to spend time in my own world for a while). The best music of all time. I memorized the words to the first offense song I’d ever heard, Darling Nikki. The Victory Tour was lapping the world. The hill in my backyard was still as huge as a mountain to me and was somewhat Eden like the way I discovered on the first day of summer vacation. Good friends were right next door and hadn’t moved away. We rode bikes, knew every square inch of the neighborhood (no exaggerating) and all the people – all the dogs behind the fencerows.
7920: The digits on the house where I grew up in KCK.
77: The speed I set the cruise control on for the drive to work.
82: The speed I actually drive.
2: My son knows why.
2008: You have to face failure. And it’s healthy to recognize when it’s over and done with.
2009: New prospects, new possibilities. My imagination running wild.

*This magazine genre is like Valerie. It exists, but this is not the appropriate name. Here’s BUST. And BITCH. Love the titles … and actually, I really dig the concepts. I could find myself reading these. In case you were counting, if you were to highlight all the text on this page, including this sentence but not including the headline, the number would total 958.

Bar-Fiction
This short piece is fictional. I’m projecting a little here into a world that isn’t anything close to my life, but that I enjoy writing about. The bar scene has always fascinated me, probably because it isn’t me …
Bartenders on the block follow the ritual every weekday afternoon. They push open the doors, kneel to the padlocks resting on the pavement until the keys skip in, and as they stand, the walls raise with them. On the north open to 12th Street and East to Main, the walls roll to the ceiling on tracks. This is the first task before they tuck the towel into their belts, before they set the bar, before they slice lemons, before the radio comes on. And this is the universal sign to the regulars and otherwise that the bar is open and that the weather is beautiful.

The lunch crowds are the first takers, the legal assistants and tellers, the lustful coworkers whose lunch dates are their best times to flirt before heading off in cars to their lives at home. By 1, no later than 1:30, they are back at their desks and the effects of lunch pass. They begin concentrating on their real families and lovers. Those are the thoughts in the backs of their minds while they finish out the work day – while they drive home.

After work, about 5:30, the bars on Main are filled with some of the same workers, typically the ones who live in the city. Mixed in are a few couples who are available and who meet together for a shot at something real. The food is good for a bar. The atmosphere is relaxed like someone has poured a few beers into the air. And if the right words are said, the hearts open. Connected.

Two friends meet in the parking lot. They expect nothing, not even the ritualistic bartenders acting out the same drink requests. They walk in together, both denied the big entrance. They take a seat. They order the same beer, and for two hours they lock on and barely move.

Legs brush under tabletops while they switch positions on the chairs’ low rungs. The din from rewind rock sings out a speaker overhanging the bar, replayed in the polished tabletops. There is a ritual for sharing a few drinks, too. And their time together comes to a close with a promise to connect again. They will. But at another bar, there’s no guarantee the atmosphere will be so friendly or that they will know their roles in a process already determined for them.