I'm sitting on the deck writing this on the laptop. The day is warm, the air is still, the flowers are in riotious bloom and clouds are gathering on the western horizon. Birds sing, a squirrel runs up the knobby old pine tree to my left while another skips through the highest branches on my right.
There's a 5,000-acre forest preserve that borders my wooded backyard and the trees and underbrush are a lush green. If I walked several dozen yards straight ahead, I would come to my back fence, beyond which lies a much-used deer trail. An eagle sanctuary is located within the forest preserve and I can often sit here and watch, in awe, as bald eagles soar majestically overhead.
Life is good. Very good.
And what am I thinking? Well, I'm expecting it to rain any second now and destroy my new Dell laptop with the cool, opaque blue cover. Because those gathering clouds over there to the west look rather ominous. Not really severe storm ominous. Just it's going to rain ominous.
What I'm trying to say is, I'm a cynic. I know. Shocking, isn't it?
Now this cynical nature of mine could be a sign of some serious mental illness. Or, and listen carefully to me here, it could be justified. People who have known me for a long time will tell you that I am the world's luckiest person. And, the world's unluckiest.
I could totally see myself winning the lottery today, and then losing the winning ticket tomorrow. For reals.
I used think all those years in journalism made me the cynic I am today. But today, I honestly believe that cynical people are drawn to journalism much like tornadoes are drawn to mobile home parks. It's a chicken and egg thing, and I now believe the egg came first.
Many years ago, I stumbled across a quote that has long been a favorite of mine. It's by the celebrated journalist (go figure) H.L. Mencken and it goes like this: A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.
So, I'm a cynic. Or not. Either way ... shit. I gotta go. It's starting to rain.
There's a 5,000-acre forest preserve that borders my wooded backyard and the trees and underbrush are a lush green. If I walked several dozen yards straight ahead, I would come to my back fence, beyond which lies a much-used deer trail. An eagle sanctuary is located within the forest preserve and I can often sit here and watch, in awe, as bald eagles soar majestically overhead.
Life is good. Very good.
And what am I thinking? Well, I'm expecting it to rain any second now and destroy my new Dell laptop with the cool, opaque blue cover. Because those gathering clouds over there to the west look rather ominous. Not really severe storm ominous. Just it's going to rain ominous.
What I'm trying to say is, I'm a cynic. I know. Shocking, isn't it?
Now this cynical nature of mine could be a sign of some serious mental illness. Or, and listen carefully to me here, it could be justified. People who have known me for a long time will tell you that I am the world's luckiest person. And, the world's unluckiest.
I could totally see myself winning the lottery today, and then losing the winning ticket tomorrow. For reals.
I used think all those years in journalism made me the cynic I am today. But today, I honestly believe that cynical people are drawn to journalism much like tornadoes are drawn to mobile home parks. It's a chicken and egg thing, and I now believe the egg came first.
Many years ago, I stumbled across a quote that has long been a favorite of mine. It's by the celebrated journalist (go figure) H.L. Mencken and it goes like this: A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.
So, I'm a cynic. Or not. Either way ... shit. I gotta go. It's starting to rain.
