On communication, professional and otherwise.
by David Murray // 2 Comments
You show up, you wade in, you get wet, you sniff some fresh new asses. Inevitably you're seen as a lovable dumb goof, and that's by your friends. As for others, who knows what they think—things move far too fast to dwell on it. You try not to trounce or be trounced—(Hey, there's a stick!) Judgment? You need only know when you're impossibly outmatched, and when the advantage is certainly yours. Everything in between is just on the way to eat or sleep. Attaboy, Charlie.
by David Murray // 1 Comment
Once the Philadelphia Phillies first baseman John Kruk was sitting at a sidewalk beer garden drinking beer and smoking a cigarette in all of his Ruthian obesity.
"And you call yourself an athlete!" sniffed a woman passing by.
"Lady, I'm not an athlete," Kruk came back, "I'm a baseball player."
In a similar mood, it occured to me the other day as I cursed the limitations of my own intellect:
I'm not a thinker, Goddamnit. I'm a writer.
by David Murray // 8 Comments
Just got this little smarmbomb in an e-mail from Scout's old Montessori preschool, the one that cost us a thousand bucks a month:
Peace is the world smiling,
Peace is a gentle dove.
Peace is caring,
Peace is sharing.
Peace is filling the world with love.
Christ almighty.
These assclowns were always going on about peace. (You would too if you were pulling down that kind of dough.)
I remember once the school had a "peace parade" around the block, and as the befuddled little dears trooped past a faux-slutty dance-fitness place called Flirty Girls, I couldn't help myself. I pointed to the three-year-olds and yelled so all the parents could hear, "Future flirty girls!"
Everyone scowled at me, and then averted their eyes.
Thank God we got out of that mess.