On the Richard Record

8:27 to 9:32, Scrambled Jerry with a pelican took a mannequin that's not putting off a whole lot of odor. Standing out there with his life jacket on, it took like all of one day, and destroyed the side of his garage.  By the end of the day, Brian's gonna resign for all of us.  Yup, good idea. We don't care anymore. I think I'd try to get the shirt off a few lesbians lately. It'll take six years after you mail it. Something along those lines.  Take notes for me, I'm going to jump in it--millions and millions and millions of dollars. No, no, no, this can't fucking be real life.  Excuse me, the fish guy, you haven't offered it in five years. Oh yeah, choose two. A hotel or Hispanic special. Not in any way, shape, or form do you want my feedback. Bless you black blazer. That's how the Indian's say it.  We used to party in the marina until your life jacket touched Arizona pantry room shore.  I screwed up Nevada. In all seriousness, I'd personally ...

  Some Words From A Northland College Classroom Here are some writings from an unedited Creative Writing notebook, all crafted in Wheeler Hall at Northland College. Creative Writing was one of my favorite classes, and getting the "creative juices" flowing during class was often attributed to opening my blue notebook not creating masterpieces, but creating enjoyment and a feeling so free it was simply just seeing what happens.  Immaculate Infinity                You walk down the sidewalk with your hands in your pocket, palms sweating. Your head is high, but you look down, still able to see the stop lights go from green to yellow to red. Leashed pets walk by you, their owners paying no attention. Horns honk and tires screech, but you don’t look. Your shoe came untied three blocks ago, but you continue walking. It doesn’t matter. You need to get where you’re going.             The...

  “…and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won, but exact their dues of work and self-denial, anxiety and discouragement.”             Somewhere out there is a roll of film and some prints from an early stage in my growing passion for photography. Among those frames is a less than bush league photograph of my favorite waterfowl species, the Wood Duck. I remember snapping that photograph like it was from an outing this morning. Not far from where I shot my first duck, which was also a Wood Duck, this drake flushed from a tree near a spot on the river I would frequent with anyone who wanted to join. For those who don’t know, Wood Ducks are often classified as “tree ducks.” Tree ducks nest in tree cavities and are often found perched in them as well; somewhat of an oddity among all the waterfowl species. Nonetheless, I’d never seen one fly out of a tree before this moment, and even the ones ...

  Before Firsts Become Lasts I used to only be old enough to understand a dog with gray hair. An old dog that’s now buried under a seedling of a birch tree that continually sprouts her soul, reaching into the warm air summer after summer. That tree, though it could very well live beyond even my lifetime, represents her youth—when firsts were closer than lasts. A time that was just a bit too far out of reach for a little boy to remember. There’s an old picture of that boy wearing a camo rainsuit and a Boston Red Sox cap, bumping smoothly along in the hull of an aluminum boat beneath overcast skies, holding onto the dog he eventually became wise enough to know he never wanted to let go of. The picture is old enough to show little of her gray hair, only starting to poke out into the cool canopy over Canada. But that’s as old a memory as I can recall. The rest, I guess, is brought back only by photographs that are seemingly as old as time itself.   … Ten years later, I sat...