Viva La Pink Ponies

For those of you who have never had children or never been around children or never even been a child, this blog might not resonate with you.  But for everyone else, let me start by saying, I’m no PhD in Child Psychology, but I’m pretty sure my child is better than yours. 

Grateful to Know That Nothing Lasts Forever

At this point, people know a little something about my life’s story–the ups the downs, the tragedy and triumph of living in my skin for the past 25 years.  And the cool parts, the crap I talk about at cocktail parties, are the successes. But the parts I don’t exactly scream from every rooftop are the not-so-cool details about life in prison. 

Fish or Cut Bait

It’s been said in many ways. Fish or cut bait. Commit or move on. And my all-time favorite, shit or get off the pot.  Or as they say in Paris: Poopoo or leave the bidet. All right, nobody says that… but we can coin the phrase anyway?

But when is it time to dig in and time to throw in the towel? (Hey, there’s another way to say it!)

Lyft’ing My Burden

A few months ago I tried something new. I ventured outside my comfort zone, kind of, and tried what’s called “Lyft shared” with Lyft. Look, I may be the last fella on the planet to use this feature, but who wants to play Russian roulette with a 45-minute airport ride?  I mean, what if you got stuck with some 6’7” Swedish dude in the back seat of a Mini Cooper?  But, my God, the fare was half the price. Now, move over Bjorn Bjorgensen, I’m trying to save a couple of bucks. 

Christmas 1999

I remember it like it was yesterday: Christmas Eve 1999. I was 29 years old, in the prime of my life, and slowly watching life as I knew it unravel.  Because this holiday season I was being processed into prison. No eggnog, no caroling, no laughter from the people I love, just thousands of angry men making sure they don’t show signs of weakness and the cold unrelenting realization that I, a small-town kid who once had a bright future, was now serving time in the Missouri Department of Corrections.

This Time of Year

Christmas is here!  Well, not here-here, but definitely “kind of” here. The time of year when budgets and practical spending and better judgement all get set aside in the spirit of pure, unadulterated indulgence. Say that 5 times really fast.

But Christmas is upon us, marked by posts of frozen lakes in the North and all your a-hole friends in Florida sitting on beaches wearing heavy coats and earmuffs. Oh, and Thanksgiving: the official kickoff to the sacred tradition of gluttony.

You are Light… with Grit

When I say “Love and Light” what’s the first image that comes to your mind? Is it some New Age dude with a hair bun?  Or some glowing, soft-spoken, white-haired lady who answers every question with another question?  You know, the kind of people with words like “atonement” and “higher vibration” running in and out of their vocabulary like a drunken sports fan being chased across a football field? (Somebody stop him!)

To fear is human, to take foolish risk is divine

What does it mean when we are scared shitless to do something?  Does it mean we are weak?  Does it mean we are flawed or less than others?  Does it mean we shouldn’t do the thing we are scared to do?  Hell no!  Being scared means you are human.  Therefore, all you people with fingernails chewed down to the nub and butt cheeks clenched with the kind of pressure that creates diamonds, don’t fret. You are in good company.

Jennifer Houston: The Badass of My Cancer Story

People always look so sympathetic when you tell them you survived stage four cancer. Most are inspired and amazed as you explain that you had no family close to lean on and how difficult the treatments were. And with me, in my head, I’m always like, “Oh yeah, that’s right, stage four cancer is a big deal.” And I start to remember the pain and the waning quality of my life as the combination of chemotherapy and daily radiation brought death into my infested body. How I couldn’t swallow or think or eat or smile as my spirit lay dormant and dying in the depths of my gut, and I entertained leaving the world as a suitable substitute to those shitty treatments. And every time I catch it, the fact that a horrifying, life-threatening episode in my life doesn’t even register, I wonder how insanely painful your life must have to be when an all-encompassing battle with stage four cancer seems to slip your mind.

“We All Make Mistakes” Can’t Be the Universal Law You Hang Your Hat On, People.

I can hear it all now: Kyle, you’re wrong. Kyle, you’re an asshole because nobody’s perfect. Kyle, you’re so ’90s. People are authentic now. People are raw and real and, by golly, we all make mistakes, you fascist bastard.

And my sharp-witted retort, that I’ve practiced in the mirror a thousand times, would be, “Leave me alone mom.  I’m trying to write a blog.”