The musings of a madman...

       When I was little, I was always stoked to spend time with my granddad… At surface-level, he would come home from work in the mornings and during the summer we would be at the house already while mom was at work. Before sleeping his day off, we would go with him to play tennis on the courts at the high school around the corner from his house. We would go to the park across the street and hit golf balls. On Sunday mornings, he would take us to this little greasy spoon diner for breakfast.      During all of these excursions, he would talk to my brother and I. We would learn whether the words coming were from a positive or a corrective place depending solely on whether he started with “son” or “boy,” respectively. One time when we were about twelve we were at the diner having breakfast almost as soon as he came home from work, as in he didn’t even bother with changing clothes, when he looked over his coffee cup and says “y’all make sure, more...

I HATE talking on the phone. If you ever so feel inclined to call me on the phone, contain everything you need to say into 180 or fewer seconds, and try to make it include an arrangement to meet in person and have a conversation if one needs to be had.  Otherwise, text me.                 I really don’t answer my phone except for from a very few people, and even those people will try not to try and call me unless just necessary. I knew the day the call came from a private number that I was setting myself up for some bullshit… *Phone rings* Me: “Hello?” Caller: “Evans!” Me: “Who is this?” Agent: “You didn’t save the number last time?” Me: “Private number, I don’t know your voice…  Identify yourself.” Agent: “Master control calling, we have a big proje--…” Me: “Wait, the same motherfuckers that dispatched me to Vietnam?” Agent: “Can I please at least explain why it is that ...