Roses are red,
But not as red as mine.
Mine are the reddest ever. The best. Better than you can imagine. Much redder than anything you’ve seen before. Very, very red.
~ Trump

Roses are red,
But they’ll soon be black and dead and gone forever, FOREVER I tell you! They’re doomed. All the plants are doomed. Everything is doomed. DOOMED!
~ Trump Haters


The Best Medicine

Laughter during sex is a good thing.  It’s the pointing I could do without.

The Interview I Want to Give When I’m a Rich and Famous Author

Reporter: We’re here today with Steven T. Chapman, author of…

Me: That’s Ste-van.

Reporter: I’m sorry?

Me: My name.  It’s pronounced Ste-van.

Reporter: We spoke to your mother in preparation for this piece, and she pronounced it Steven.

Me: She’s mistaken.

Reporter: The woman who gave birth to you is mistaken on how to pronounce the name she gave you?

Me: If she is my mother. One can never be certain of such things.

Reporter. What’s the T stand for?

Me: Terribly annoyed.

Reporter: Could I call you Mr. Chapman?

Me: You seem quite capable of such an action.

Reporter:  Mr. Chapman, how would you describe your style of writing?

Me: Cat herder.

Reporter: Cat herder?

Me: Yes.  I start off chasing one idea, but inevitably three or four others emerge.  Then I spend all of my time attempting to push them in the same direction.

Reporter: But you eventually get them organized, do you not?

Me:  No, I simply become exhausted and quit.

Reporter: Are you saying your books are incomplete?

Me: Oh, quite.  Any author who says they truly complete a book is a liar.

Reporter: All authors are liars?

Me: And thieves.

Reporter: I don’t understand.

Me: There hasn’t been an original work since the first cave scribblings, and I believe even those were derivative.  Authors are prolific thieves.

Reporter: Why do you write if not to express original ideas and concepts?

Me: Groupies.

Reporter: Sir?

Me: Groupies.  You know, the screaming hordes of libidinous women desperate to become naked and perform outrageous acts of carnality solely to be in my presence.

Reporter: Mr. Chapman, I think you’re speaking about rock-n-roll stars.  Singers are the artists who have groupies.

Me: What do writers get?

Reporter: Book clubs?

Me: That sounds dreadful.  Are you positive?

Reporter: Pretty sure.

Me: You mean those groups where women sit around getting drunk on cheap wine while attempting to convince one another they actually read and understood the assigned book?

Reporter: Yes.

Me: Who wants that?

Reporter: Apparently, authors.

Me: Where does the sex come in?

Reporter: Again, I think you’re referring to musicians and their fans.

Me: So, no screaming hordes of half-naked females?

Reporter: Correct.

Me: No casual sex with anonymous women?

Reporter: Not that any writer has ever discussed.

Me: Now I understand why Hemingway killed himself.  The media should do a better job of reporting such things.  No wonder your profession isn’t trusted.

Reporter: Let’s discuss your latest book.

Me: Screw the book.  I’m taking my royalty check and signing up for guitar lessons.  Later.






Have you ever eavesdropped on a nonstop talker and their victim? And observed the ‘listening’ party become voluntarily comatose, eyes glazed over and body completely still?

I like to think the listener has drifted to memories of a beach and are basking in the sun of their mind while an annoying mosquito buzzes in the background.

Or perhaps they’re just pondering how to get away with murder.

Relax. It’s Just Life.

That we are in a time of great change should not be denied.

This is nothing new. Every generation or two, major upheaval occurs. It is the way of life, of nature, of the world.

Change frightens because it involves differences and challenges the status quo. As social creatures, humans are inherently uncomfortable with difference. Yet, it is necessary and unavoidable no matter how loudly we protest.

Will this movement be positive, negative, neutral? No one is bright enough to know for certain. We can only guess through the context of our filters and biases and prejudices. And we might just be wrong. So remain humble. Just because those around you think and look and talk and act as you do doesn’t make you right. It makes you part of a group.

Control what is within your power, observe and adjust to what is not, and remember that, ultimately, we all share one tiny little place as it hurtles through the stars.

When the hurricanes hit, no one cares about politics or religion or gender or sexuality or race. No one asks who you voted for when they’re drowning.

Practice a bit of safe drowning every day. Before you blast another with words or thoughts or actions, ask yourself if, regardless of their beliefs, you would reject their hand in a time of life or death.

If the answer is ‘no,’ then be human, be gentle, seek common ground and practice respect. If the answer is ‘yes,’ you are already dead. Your body just hasn’t caught up.

And don’t forget the little joys that are the real reason we exist–smiling at a stranger, laughter, the wind in your face, coffee, a strong hug, music, books, long walks, making love, climbing trees, coloring, and talking with friends (that thing we did before everyone started posting comments).

It’s just life, children. This too shall pass.


My family is quite large but includes very few relatives.  And…that…is…okay.

Who Am I?

I wish this was mine, but I’m stealing it anyway.

When people ask me who I am, I tell the truth:  I’m mostly peace, love, and light. And a little bit ‘go fuck yourself.’

Customer Service, Part 2

The universe must be punking me.  After my ‘you’ve got to be joking’ experience with the bank customer service, this from ‘rhymes with Schmerizon’ about my DEAD phone.

REP:  We need to send you a 16 digit code to verify it’s actually your phone.

ME: My phone is dead.

REP:  Yes, sir. We need to confirm that.

ME:  So when you send and I can’t reply you’ll know it’s not working.

REP:  No, sir. We need you to repeat the 16 digit code so we can confirm the phone is in your possession.

ME:  The phone is dead. Not working. No longer living.

REP:  That makes things difficult.

ME:  I could send you a photo of the corpse.

REP:  Sir?


Alcohol lies with the aplomb of any great con artist.  “Drink more.  I promise that you’ll become rich, good-looking, bullet-proof, funny, and invisible.”

Customer Service

I so wish this conversation were fiction.

BANK REP:  Welcome to (oh, let’s call them…Running Around Bank).  My name is (insert). How can I be of assistance?

ME:  I’m having trouble setting up a new payee for my online bills.  The system doesn’t recognize my entry.

BANK REP:  So, you’re having trouble setting something up online?

ME:  Yes, a new payee for online bill payment.  The system isn’t taking my entry.

BANK REP:  Have you tried hitting ‘add payee’?

ME:  Yes.  That’s how I know there is a problem.

BANK REP:  So, what is it you’re trying to do?

ME:  :::sigh:::  Set.  Up.  A.  New.  Payee.

BANK REP:  So you’re trying to set up a new payee?

ME:  Yes

BANK REP:  What seems to be the problem?

ME:  I was kinda hoping you could tell me.  When I enter the required information, the online system says it doesn’t recognize the payee

BANK REP:   So you’re saying it isn’t working

ME:  Actually, it’s working fine.  I just missed your voice.

BANK REP:  I’m sorry?

ME:  I’m joking.  Just wanted to see if you’re paying attention or texting.  Yes, my entry isn’t working.


ME:  I know I’m hearing English from you. Do we need a translator?

BANK REP: You need a translator?

ME:  No, I need to set up a new payee for my online banking.  The system won’t let me.  Who should I speak with?

BANK REP:  I’m happy to help you with that sir.

ME:  Today?

BANK REP:  I don’t understand, sir.

ME:  That’s very obvious. (insert string of colorful words and phrases)