Sunday, December 25, 2011

Fucking Santa

Okay, there's a good reason I opted to have the adults only warning upon entering this blog.  Case in point is the title of my latest story at David Barber's Flash Fiction Offensive.  I guess it is safe to tell you the name of my story is Fucking in somebody actually fucking...Santa.

I know you were probably thinking, nay...hoping that the title was indicative of an expression of anger.  As in, "I didn't get a pony for Christmas?  Fucking Santa!"

But no, as you will find out when you read it; Fucking Santa is about, well, fucking Santa.  Go ahead and enjoy.  You have a whole year to get your name back on the "nice" list.

Thursday, December 22, 2011



He's making a list, he's checking it twice, and if you've been naughty your Christmas won't be so nice.  According to ancient German folklore, while St. Nicholas was visiting the homes of good little girls and boys to reward them with toys and sweets, Krampus visited the bad children to mete out their punishment.

Sometimes Krampus would leave coal and switches in a naughty child's boots for their parents to swat them with.  Those were the kids that got off easy.

Krampus carried switches to punish you with himself if you were bad enough.  Imagine waking to a hoofed and horned demon with red eyes and a forked tongue, pulling you out of bed to lash your hide.

Worse yet, sometimes Krampus would bring a wash tub to drown you in, or a sack to carry you off to a cave where he would eat you.  The very worst boys and girls would be dragged out of their beds and carried to Hell.

Christmastime had something for everyone to look forward to.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

THUG OF THE DAY: Erzsébet  "BLOOD QUEEN" Báthory  

Ladies, the next time you hear someone whining about the cruel animal testing your favorite cosmetic company performs just so you can hold on to your youthful visage, throw this one in their face.

The nefarious "Blood Countess" of Hungary was willing to go the extra evil mile to preserve her beauty.  Erzsébet Báthory (1560-1614) bathed in the blood of her victims in an effort to turn the clock back on aging.

The Blood Countess was rumored to have tortured and killed over 650 young women along with four of her friends who all happened to be fans of the occult.

While the body count and the blood baths may have been inflated to bolster her evil image, the countess was found guilty of only 80 murders.  But since she didn't show up for the trial, she was never convicted.

Bloody Liz may have escaped the fate of her collaborators, who were all put to death immediately, but Hungary's Finest caught up with her at home eventually.  Her aristocratic status saved her from immediate death, but it didn't save her from being imprisoned for the rest of her life in a room in her own castle.

King Matthias sent the royal masons to brick her up, leaving a couple of small slits to pass food through.  The bitch lived for four years after that.

In the height of her gruesome activities, the countess mutilated the hands, faces and genitalia of her victims.  She tortured them with fire, blades, and needles.  Sometimes she would bite the flesh off from their faces and arms or perform bizarre surgeries on them while they were alive.

She appeared to turn it over to the Lord in her final days, and was reportedly heard singing religious hymns and praying to God before her death.

But after she died a paper was found that she had written a prayer to the devil on, imploring the prince of darkness to send 99 cats to kill King Matthias and the people who had brought her to justice.  Crazy kid.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

In Hopes That St. Nicholas...

Yes, boys and girls, it's that most wonderful time of the year....ho,ho,ho, and mistletoe...pine trees and dancing lights, candy canes and warm cookies.  And don't forget old Santa Claus.  That jolly old elf comes down the chimney to bring presents and happiness and double fisted vigilante justice to good little kiddies all over the world.

My present to you is my latest story at David Barber's The Flash Fiction Offensive.  READ IT OR ELSE!!!  And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

THUG OF THE DAY:                              JIMMY "THE GENT" BURKE
You probably think of a slicked back Robert DeNiro in a sharkskin suit in the film, "Goodfellas" when you hear him mentioned.  But
The real Jimmy Burke (called Jimmy Conway in the movie) was not given his nickname because of the way he dressed, but for his habit of tipping the truck drivers whose cargo he hijacked.

He did take their driver's licenses so that they knew that he knew where they lived, but they got $50 to forget his face.

Jimmy was an associate of the Lucchese crime family and the alleged mastermind behind the infamous Lufthansa heist in 1978.  Jimmy and his crew stole approximately $6 million in currency and jewels from a cargo building at JFK International Airport.

It is likely that Jimmy was responsible for the murders of nine people following the heist to tie up loose ends and avoid being implicated in the crime and to keep more of the loot for himself.  Over the course of his career, Burke was rumored to be involved in over 50 murders, though he was only ever convicted of one.

Famous Mob turncoat, Henry Hill testified against his old friend and said that Burke had "whacked out" a drug dealer and con man by the name of Richard Eaton.

Sentenced to life in prison in 1985, Jimmy The Gent served over ten years at Wende Correctional Facility in Alden, NY.  He died in 1996 while being treated for lung cancer at Roswell Medical Center in Buffalo, NY.

Friday, December 2, 2011



 No need to check your eyes dear reader, the thug of the day is a beautiful female.  I searched far and wide for a bad girl worthy of the thug label, and I believe the late Miss Hill fits the criteria.

Virginia Hill (1916-1966) a.k.a. The Flamingo, was a classic gangster moll who was associated with Al Capone, Frank Nitti, and Bugsy Siegel; who she met when she left Chicago to chase her dream of being a Hollywood movie star.

She never made it to the silver screen, but she did make it to the wedding alter and got hitched to Bugsy in a quickie Mexican ceremony.

Virginia was extremely jealous and had a quick temper; two things that didn't mix well with Bugsy's philandering ways.  At one time she nearly dislocated actress Wendy Barrie's jaw when she found out Bugsy was messing around with her.

After Bugsy was murdered in a mob hit in the former home of Rudolph Valentino, Virginia stayed active in the underworld as a mob courier.

She was a star witness in the Kefauver Commission hearings.  When asked why she was so trusted by the mob, Virginia shocked the courtroom by replying, "that it was because of her unmatched talent for performing oral sex."

In 1961 she was out of money and in fear of both the Mob and the IRS, so she swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and laid down in a deep snowbank and took her final sleep. 


Sunday, November 27, 2011



One of the most prolific killers in the history of the Gambino crime family had to have been Roy DeMeo (1942-1983).  The FBI suspected Roy and his crew of at least 70 murders, but according to other several associates Roy DeMeo was responsible for hundreds of murders in his life time.

If you were invited to go for drinks at the Gemini Lounge where the DeMeo crew hung out, it may have been for your last cocktail.

Victims of the crew would be lured through a side door into an apartment in the back of the lounge that was dubbed "the Horror Hotel."

By the time the unfortunate guest realized they were standing on a sheet of plastic, it was too late.  Roy would come up behind them dressed only in his underpants and shoot them in the back of the head with a silenced pistol.  Then he would quickly wrap a towel around the victim's head like a turban to soak up the blood.

Immediately one of Roy's crew would come forth and stab the victim in the heart to stop it from pumping blood.  Then the body would be carried into the bathroom to bleed out in the tub.

Sometimes while they were waiting for the body to bleed out, the crew would order out for a pizza because dismembering a human like a pig in a butcher shop obviously works up a hearty appetite.

The bodies were cut up into manageable pieces that were wrapped up and disposed of in random garbage dumpsters around Brooklyn.

This factory like method of ridding the world of the Mafia's enemies was most preferred by DeMeo's bosses until they realized that their boy Roy was going off his nut and killing for the pure pleasure.

When it became clear to his superiors that Roy was an unpredictable psychopath whose reputation and blood soaked activities were drawing a lot of attention, it was decided that he had to go.

While it is unclear which of his "friends" actually did the deed (Richard "The Iceman" Kuklinski claimed to have killed DeMeo himself while associates have attributed the killing to Roy's boss Anthony Gaggi), DeMeo was found dead in the trunk of his own car with multiple bullet wounds in his head and one in his hand.

According to DeMeo's son, Albert, Roy knew that his number was up and had left his wallet and jewelry at home before he went missing.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


The above picture is, of course, of actor Daniel Day-Lewis in a loosely fact based portrayal of the real Bill The Butcher.  I could not find a picture of the actual William Poole (1821-1855),  Bowery Boy, butcher, bare-knuckle boxer, and brutal leader of the "Know-nothing" political movement.

So far, Bill the Butcher would win the toughest THUG OF THE DAY title.  After being shot in the leg, the heart and the abdomen at close range, Bill screamed at his assailant, ex-cop Lewis Baker, that he would tear his heart from his living flesh.  Then he went on to live for fourteen days after the shooting, much to the astonishment of his physicians, dying with the famous parting words:  "Good-bye boys; I die a true American."

The "true American" Nativist and his gang was known for starting violent riots and stealing ballot boxes to further their political agenda against Irish -Catholic immigrants known as the Tammanyites. 

At more than 6 feet tall and over 200 pounds, The Butcher was an intimidating boxer and street thug.  According to a New York Times report of October 23, 1851:

A Brutal Outrage in Broadway. We learn that at an early hour yesterday morning, two noted pugilists entered Florence's Hotel, corner of Broadway and Howard street, and without any provocation seized the bar-keeper and beat his face to a jelly. It appears that Thomas Hyer, William Poole, and several others entered the above hotel, and while one of the party held Charles Owens (the bar-keeper) by the hair of his head, another of the gang beat him in the face to such an extent that his left eye was completely ruined and the flesh of his cheek mangled in the most shocking manner. After thus accomplishing the heartless act, all of them made an effort to find Mr. John Florence, the proprietor of the hotel, with a view of serving him in the same manner, but not succeeding in their latter design, they found the hat of Mr. Florence and wantonly cut it into strips, and trampled it under their feet. The desperadoes then left the house, and in the meantime Mr. Owens was placed under medical attendance, and in the course of a short time he proceeded to the Jefferson Market Police, in company with Mr. Florence, where they made their affidavits respecting the inhuman outrage, upon which Justice Blakeley issued his warrants for Hyer, Poole, and such of the others who were concerned in the affair, and the same were placed in the hands of officer Baldwin for service. Since the above was written we have been reliably informed that the affray originated from the fact of the barkeeper having refused them drinks, after they had been furnished with them twice in succession.
In other words, you didn't want to deny the Butcher his third pint of stout!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


If you were a target of Richard Kuklinski and he happened to take you out with a bullet or a squirt of cyanide to the face or even a bomb attached to a remote controlled toy car, you were one of the lucky ones.  You were just another casualty in an activity that he came to think of as sport.

He said:
"By now you know what I liked most was the hunt, the challenge of what the thing was. The killing for me was secondary. I got no rise as such out of it… for the most part. But the figuring it out, the challenge -- the stalking and doing it right, successfully -- that excited me a lot. The greater the odds against me, the more juice I got out of it."

Some of Richard's unlucky victims were done away with in a more painful fashion by way of icepick, arrow, or chainsaw.  If he really had it in for you, or if he was ordered to make you suffer by one of the psychotic mob bosses he worked for, the Iceman would feed you to the rats.

Yes, Kuklinski would actually drag some of his victims out into the woods and tie them to a tree near a cave that he knew rats lived in.  Then he would sit back with a video camera and wait for the creatures to come out and devour the victims alive.

He was a remorseless serial killer who turned his sick hobby into a profitable business by going to work for the Gambino family and the other Five Families of the New York mafia as a freelance hitman.

Kuklinski, aka The Polack, aka Big Guy, aka The Iceman, was 6'5" tall and weighed around 300 pounds.  He was tagged with the nickname, "Iceman," because he would sometimes store his victims in a freezer chest for long periods of time and then thaw them out long afterward and dispose of the body to confuse the forensic police as to the time of death.

Richard did most of his killing in NYC and lived a dual life as a husband and father in Dumont, NJ until his arrest and incarceration in 1986.  He claimed to have killed over 250 men from as far back as 1948, committing his first murder when he was just 14 years old.

As a non-Italian outsider, the Iceman was able to kill for all five of the New York mafia families; but he did most of his work for the Gambino family under capo Roy Demeo, a demented psycho thug in his own right.

Kuklinski died in prison at the age of 70, just weeks before he was to testify against former Gambino family underboss, Sammy "The Bull" Gravano in the collaborated murder of NYPD detective Peter Calabro.

Kuklinski believed that he was being poisoned and his death was investigated, but coroners concluded that he died of natural causes.

Sunday, November 20, 2011


Today I am starting a section of my blog called THUG OF THE DAY where I will give a brief bio of famous (or infamous) thugs throughout history.  I am not creating this rogue's gallery to glorify these bad boys (and girls), but merely to inform.

We start off with a notorious thug from Cleveland, Ohio by the name of Danny Greene (1933-1977) who was affectionately referred to as "The Irishman."

Greene was bred from a working class family and worked himself as a longshoreman in the 1960's before rising up the union ranks to become president of his local.  He had his office painted green, wore lots of green clothes and thought of himself as a Celtic warrior.

He was viewed by some as a local hero who fought for the rights or the working man.  But in truth, Greene was an embezzler who intimidated workers into doing his bidding with violence and threats.  He forced new members to turn their paychecks over to him for an initial period of time and told them the funds were going to build a new union hall, when the money in fact went into his own personal bank account.

Greene was ejected from the union and was convicted of embezzlement and ordered to pay a $10,000 fine.

 After a friendly meeting, Jimmy Hoffa once told an associate, "Stay away from (Greene).  There's something wrong with him."

After being exiled from the dockworker's union, Greene went to work as a professional thug.  Mobster Alex "Shondor" Birns took Danny on as an enforcer for his numbers racket.

The mobsters that brought Greene into their organization would later regret doing so.  Danny was as smooth and conspicuous a criminal as a bull in a china shop.

In 1968 he nearly cut his criminal career short with a botched assassination attempt on a black numbers runner who was holding out on his boss Birns.  The Cleveland boys were famous for blowing each other up with bombs just like they did in Chicago.

Danny detonated the car bomb he was setting as he was getting out of the numbers runner's car.  The explosion threw him 20 feet and permanently damaged the hearing in his right ear.

Several attempts were made on Danny's life over the years.  Most probably from a $75,000 loan he took from the Gambino family through Shondor Birns, and refused to pay back.  The money was actually nabbed by police during a narcotics bust in which the courier was arrested.

Danny felt that since he never received the cash, he wasn't obliged to pay it back.  The Gambinos believed otherwise.

In a famous television interview, Greene demonstrated his brazen disregard for the men who put a target on his back by saying:

"The luck of the Irish is with me and I have a message for those yellow maggots (the Cleveland mafia). That includes the payers and the doers.  The doers are the people who carried out the bombing.  They have to be eliminated because the people who paid them can afford to have them remain alive.  And the payers are going to feel heat from the FBI and the local authorities. And let me clear something else up...I didn't run away from the explosion.  Someone said they saw me running away.  I walked away."
In another interview Danny Greene said,

"I have no axe to grind, but if these maggots in this so-called mafia want to come after me, I'm over here by the Celtic club.  I'm not hard to find." 
 Unfortunately for Greene his bold challenge was met, though not outside the Celtic Club.  On October 6, 1977 Danny left a dental appointment and got in his car.  The vehicle parked next to him was wired with the bomb that went off and took his life instantly.

Friday, October 21, 2011

My new story, "Bait," is up at David Barber's excellent site, The Flash Fiction Offensive.  Please check it out NOW!

Friday, October 7, 2011

IT'S VIOLENT!  IT'S SENSATIONAL!  IT'S SEXY!'s not very sexy, but it is up at A Twist of Noir, and it's my new story, Writer's Cell Block.  Go there now for thrills and chills, and remember boys and girls, there are no happy endings in noir.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The economy sucks!  Work is scarce.  Do you give up?  Not if you are a Hardworking Man!

Check out my latest at David Barber's fantastic The Flash Fiction Offensive.

Friday, July 15, 2011

A New Story and a new story

There are two new tales in the column to the right; The Sitter and The Run.  I am quite fond of both of these stories, and they were both written when I was visiting in NJ.  The Sitter came about after pondering just who in the world I would actually trust to watch my two year old daughter, Rose, if my wife were to start working full time again.  The answer is...NO'll understand why after you read the story.

The Run came out of thin air.  I wanted to write something that had the suggestion of violence without giving all of the graphic details.  Sometimes it is best to leave things to the imagination of the reader. 
Unfortunately, right after I wrote this one, there was an actual campus shooting on the I had to let it cool for a little bit before putting it out there.  Hope you enjoy them both.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

New Story

Please check out my latest story, Mother's Milk in Cindy Rosmus' excellent zine, Yellow Mama, by clicking on the title in the Stories column on the right.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Little Miss Smartypants

My amazing two year old daughter Rose, who at this moment is tossing and turning and crying in her sleep, continues to surprise me on a daily basis.  Yesterday she took the paper Burger King crown that she had been wearing for several hours off of her head and placed it on me.  I said, "Oh, I'm a princess," in a probably disturbing falsetto.  She furled her brow and said, "No Daddy, you're not a princess, you're a king."  I said, "So you're the princess?"  And she replied, "I'm not a princess, I'm Rose."  With a look of compassion for my apparent stupidity.  None the less, she IS my princess.

A couple of days earlier, Rose came into the bathroom while I was shaving and told me that she wanted to ask me a question.  To be clear about what she had just said, I turned the water off and knelt down and asked her to repeat herself.  She said, "I want to ask you a question."

I said, "OK, ask me your question."

Rose proceeded to pull up her little pink bathroom stool and sat down on it.  With her favorite dolly tucked under her arm and a very serious look on her face she said, "Your name is Daddy?"

"Is that your question?"  I asked.


"Well, you call me Daddy and Bubba and Emily call me Daddy because I am your father.  But Mommy calls me Dana because that is my name too.  So I have two names, Daddy..and Dana."

"'re Daddy?"

"Yes Rose, I'm Daddy."

"Oh, okay."

"Does that answer you question?"

"Yes," she said and got up from her stool and walked out of the room.

Sometimes I'm afraid that this kid is so smart that she'll make the old man here look like a blithering idiot.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Amazon review of Top Suspense

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars A Page Turner of Top Writers, March 20, 2011
This review is from: Top Suspense: 13 Classic Stories by 12 Masters of the Genre (Kindle Edition)
The stories in this collection are fast-paced and raw. It's like listening to your favorite band's garage album. Any of these stories alone would be well worth the price tag, but all of them for less than three bucks is a steal.
Max Allan Collins, creator of my favorite hit man, Quarry, leads off the collection with one of his other popular series characters, detective Nathan Heller.
Other highlights include The Canary by Dave Zeltserman, author of the critically acclaimed novel The Caretaker of Lorne Field and recently released Blood Crimes. The Canary is a tight crime story with a twist. Ed Gorman delivers a disturbing look at the future of genetic engineering in The Baby Store. And Harry Shannon surprises with a fresh take on the hit man story in A Handful of Dust.
The whole collection is rounded up with a collaboration by all of the contributors in The Chase, which is about a bad bitch, a bag of money, and a handful of greedy bad guys. It's a great read and I had fun trying to guess who wrote which parts. There is a link at the end of the story to find out who wrote what.
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Sunday, February 27, 2011

A Scarry Night contest

The Eye of the Beholder
by Dana C. Kabel

    Gloria Stevens stepped out of the black stretch limo and onto the red carpet to the cheers of her adoring fans.  She was thin.  Beautiful.  Glamorous.  Cameras flashed at her every move.
    She smiled and blew a kiss.  The fans roared.
    "Miss Stevens!"
    "I love you!"
    Her lithe fingers tickled the air in a half hearted wave.
    "I LOVE YOU!"
    She walked like high born royalty in the procession of elite that had been invited to the award show of the year.  Her breathing was as easy as her unfocused gaze.  Valium and vodka in the back of the limo helped.
    "Gloria...I LOVE YOU!"  The voice was ugly.  Grating.  And louder than all others.
    The crowd used to frighten her so badly that she could barely get out of the car.  The ugly voice would have sent her running for cover.  That was before she found the right combination of drugs and alcohol to give her courage.
    "I LOVE YOU!"
    Christ, she was going to need another drink just as soon as she got in her seat.  And she had better fucking well get the treatment she deserved.  Last year she had to remind the help that Gloria Stevens is an  Award Winning Actress.  She didn't buy her fucking ticket on eBay.
    Gloria stepped a little faster to get the hell away from that voice.  Suddenly she was confronted by its startling source as he appeared at the front of the crowd.  He was  hideous beyond belief and the only thing between them was a red velvet rope.
    Disfigured was an understatement.  He looked like someone had cut his face apart and set the pieces on fire and then sewed them back together again.
    Gloria Stevens, Award Winning Actress, vomited in her mouth.
    "Get that...fucking thing away from me," she whispered harshly to her bodyguard, who looked like he wanted to slap her.
    One thing that was not damaged on the disfigured man was his hearing.  He cringed from her words and dropped his head in shame.
    Gloria fought back the strong urge to spit on him.
    The man turned and pushed through the crowd to get away from the woman that he tried to profess his love to moments ago.
    Gloria managed to pace herself with the booze until the best actress award came up.  She didn't want to watch herself on the news the next day, stumbling up to the podium and slurring the words of her acceptance speech.
    When they opened the envelope and announced the winner, Gloria tried to stand up until her manager, Paul put a firm hand on her arm and pulled her back into her seat.
    "Sorry darling.  You can't win them all."
    "Fucking hell," she said.  Reality dawned.  "Vivian Hadley?"
    "Vivian is seventy-eight and has never won before.  You are twenty-eight and already have three gold statues on your mantle.  Look at it from the academy's point of view."
    "They're fucking imbeciles."
    The stops were pulled from her drinking.
    After the fifth glass of Stoli she went to the bathroom.  The bodyguard followed.  She tried her best to walk a straight line until she got past the cameras.
    Then she lost her balance trying to open the bathroom door and fell backwards.  The bodyguard caught her and steadied her on her feet.
    Gloria jerked her arm away.
    "Get your filthy hands off from me!  Do you know who the fuck I am?" 
    Having had his fill of Gloria and the rest of Hollywood, he yanked his earpiece out and threw it on the floor.
    "Fuck you, bitch," he said.
    She tried to slap him and missed.  The bodyguard walked away.  Gloria spit at his back and went into the bathroom.
    When she came out, a new bodyguard was there putting the earpiece in place.
    "I hope you're better than the last shit-head."  Gloria breathed into her open palm and sniffed it.
    The new bodyguard turned around and smiled.  The grin did nothing to improve his burned and lacerated face.
    Gloria gasped and cringed.
    He clamped a scaly hand over her perfect mouth and pushed her back into the bathroom.  She tried to scream, but the rough mitt muffled her cries.
    His other hand locked the door.  Then he took her to the ground.
    Gloria's struggles were useless.  He fell on top of her, pinning her arms down with his big legs.
    Tears streamed down her cheeks as she struggled.
    Gloria was certain that she was going to be raped by the repulsive creature, but she was suddenly faced with a new terror when she saw the glint of the razor blade.
    Cold steel.  So close that it made her eyes cross.  A sharp prick on her cheek made her wince.
    He let his paw up just a little so he could hear her beg.
    "Please...not my face."
    He bent and brushed her soft skin with his scabbed cheek.  His tongue flicked in and out of her ear like a serpent's tongue.
    "Don't worry about your face.  I really don't mind the scars," he whispered as the blade dug deeper into her flesh.


Monday, February 14, 2011

Valentine's Day

  My wife, Lisa has been asking me to write something romantic for her for a long time.  Anyone familiar with my work knows that there is little romance in it.  If you have the stomach for violence you can click on any of the stories on this site and see for yourself.
  I tried writing a love story for her once...something about a fireman saving some kittens for a damsel in distress.  I gave her the first part of that story some two or three years ago and now and then she inquires about the status of its completion.  Unfortunately my imagination just isn't geared for it.  In the unwritten conclusion, the fireman went out on a binge and those poor kittens burned to toast and the damsel put a couple of .45 slugs in the fireman's gut for revenge.
  It finally occurred to me that the only way I could write something romantic for my wife would be to recount the story of how we met.  We have often been told that our story is somewhat of a fairy tale romance and I am grateful every day that our lives have brought us to where we are today.

  Some people don't believe in love at first sight.  The thought of knowing that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone the minute you lay eyes on them does seem pretty preposterous when you think about it.  I probably wouldn't believe it myself if it didn't happen to me.
  I was seventeen years old and an awkward, scared college freshman trying to fit in with the new crowd I had been thrown into.  It was one of the first weekends of the semester and all of the cool kids were going to frat parties that they had been invited to.  My social calendar was pitifully bare.
  My group of misfit friends and I ventured out to see what kind of trouble we could find.  After being turned away from half a dozen frat parties we took a stroll down sorority row and tried making conversation with several different young ladies who were too cool to give us the time of day.
  Somebody in our group had heard of a house party being thrown by someone in the drama department.  We weren't about to climb to the top of the social ladder at a drama party, but we figured there would be beer and we really had nowhere else to go.
   I don't remember a whole lot about the party.  It seems that we entered the picture as things were winding down.  But I do remember the girl with the long dark hair and the deep brown eyes.  I remember the way she smiled at me and that I lost myself in her gaze.  And I remember feeling so strongly drawn to her that I felt like I had known her all my life.  The sound of her voice struck a chord in my soul and I stayed up half the night talking with her.
  That was twenty-four years ago.  We dated for a long time in college, and then we went our separate ways.  We were apart for about fourteen years and my love for her never died.  I knew that somehow, someday our paths would cross again and they did.
  A lot has happened in between the lines.  But the most important part is that we are together today.  My wife is my best friend and the love of my life.  I can still get lost in her gaze and I know that not only have I known her all my life, I would gladly spend several lifetimes by her side.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Coming Soon:  

Why living in the South means being immobilized by less than an inch of snow


Naming your Blog; Why "The Non-stop Bullet" beat out "Fist Deep in Blood."  Or "Don't let your wife look over your shoulder while trying to design your website."