An Insomniac’s Nightly Responsibility

Most nights it’s all the same; dinner, tv show, ruminations of working out or not working out, bargaining about working out in the morning, settling on writing instead which almost never results in novel revisions and always results in blogging.  I’m convinced that blogging is worse than a speed addict with Mini Thins.

You typically spend your days binging on information, entertainment, and psuedo meaningful content so that you can purge it into the blogosphere.  Before you know it you’re running around like a junky trying to find the next posting fix.  Let’s not forget to add the tags and send the trackbacks so that Google, your portal dealer, can be at your beck andcall to  feed your addiction.

Then what happens after you press ‘publish’ on WordPress?   It’s over, start again, a vicious cycle of addiction.  You’ll update when you should be sleeping, on the bus to work on your Smartphone, while in the bathroom, at lunch, at work, out with friends, anytime and anywhere you can.  You become the coke fiend at the bar with the revolving bathroom door except you’re a blogger in front of too many screens!

Note to self: get some Ambien.

Note to kids: do not try Ambien at home, or for that matter at school, on a school bus, while reading this blog..just don’t even learn how to pronounce the word…and if you do just leave me out of it, kapeesh!


Family versus Family


About eight years ago I moved to New York from my native land, Oklahoma.  I had spent a good twenty-three years surrounded by my family and their incessant wonderment of my future.


“Got any boyfriends,” Uncle Thed would badger me.




“Well, got any girlfriends then,” He just wanted an answer.


“I got nothing.”


“You going to use your college degree or be a hippie forever,” Aunt Glenda joined.


“If it all works out, both,” I knew this wasn’t the end of it.


“Do you really think that little band of yours will amount to anything,” My grandmother worried.


“Yep, otherwise I wouldn’t be going to New York, Granny.”


Within minutes the conversation jumped into the latest gossip about some poor soul in our two-hundred folk town.  I know most people long to be known like the theme song to Cheers, “Where everybody knows your name,” but all I wanted to was to be somewhere that not one single soul knew my damn name.  I needed to breathe for a minute and figure out who I was without everyone else projecting it onto me or reminding me where I came from. 


Fast-forward eight years and in taking on a new last name, I also inherited an additional family that is ten times larger than my own immediate family.  Theoretically, my wife and I could have plans every single day of the week if each one of her siblings decided to have a dinner.  The only difference between this is that the back-catalogue of my greatest hits and the infinite collection of tear-in-my-beer songs aren’t carried in the in-law format so excuses like “I have to write because an agent wants my manuscript” are just irrelevant eight-track excuses. 


I could write books-upon-books (pun intended) on Alisa Ben, but Alisa Olander really is the forever hippie weaving in and out of responsibilities that amount to a whole lot.

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