Something strange has happened since I put my ears in. I’m listening more. Not just hearing. Listening. And believe me, there’s a difference.
Before, I caught pieces. Now I listen for the whole thing. The rhythm of it. The hesitation before someone answers. The way a sentence, even the topic, suddenly changes direction halfway through. The things people almost say, then don’t.
Writers have always been eavesdroppers. It’s part of the job whether we admit it or not.
Hemingway sat in cafés and bars, listening. Not for plot, not for big dramatic moments, just for how people actually spoke. Raymond Carver built entire stories out of the way ordinary people circle around what they really mean. David Mamet made a career out of capturing the music of conversation. The interruptions. The overlaps. The power plays.
Nobody pulls this out of the ozone. You have to listen. You file it away. And later, when you need it, it shows up.
I used to think dialogue was something you painfully shaped on the page. Now I’m starting to think it’s something you recognize.
While in Santa Barbara, I was sitting a few tables away from a couple having what, at first, sounded like a perfectly normal conversation.
“I just think it’s interesting that you suddenly like Old Fashioneds.”
“I’ve always liked Old Fashioneds.”
“No, you’ve never ordered them before.”
“I enjoy them.”
“What’s in one?”
“Bourbon.”
“What else?”
There was a pause. Not a big one. Just enough. He didn’t answer right away. Took a sip of his drink. Looked out toward State Street like the answer might be out there somewhere.
“They sound sophisticated,” he said.
And there it was. Not about the Old Fashioned. Not even close.
That space is where the story lives.
I don’t think I would have caught all of that a few weeks ago. Or maybe I would have, but I would have missed the important part.
So now I sit a little longer. I pay a little more attention. Not in a creepy way. Just enough to catch the edges of things. Turns out, the world is talking all the time.
You just have to have your ears in.

"That's all that I am at liberty to say." Biff

I lost another friend this year to cancer.
His name was Robert. He was a friend, a fellow actor, my director, a mentor, a teacher—and a damn fine kite flyer.
I first met Bob when we did Godspell in 1974. He played John the Baptist. I played Jesus. Which, in hindsight, feels like the beginning of a joke someone never quite finished.
Later, when I was doing summer stock with the Portland State Players in 1979, Bob showed up at the beach with two kites and a case of beer. What followed was an afternoon of wind, laughter, and—eventually—a shared case of heat stroke. After that, we went our separate ways, and I don’t think I ever saw him again.
But in the last few years, we reconnected over social media. Turns out, politically, we hadn’t changed all that much. I always looked forward to his take on whatever madness was unfolding.
I’d like to think he’s somewhere now where the wind is just right. Not sure about the beer—but I’m pretty confident they’ve got kites.
Rest in peace, Robert Allen.
Okay… now if I can just manage to dry my eyes.

God, I wish I could tell you what’s going on right now. As much as I want to, I just can’t. Nothing legally binding is stopping me from spilling the news—but still, discretion being the better part of valor, I simply can’t. For my sake, for your sake, for the good of the entire industry—no, the country—I cannot, in good conscience, tell you what’s happening.
Okay… you talked me into it.

I have new hearing aids.
Now, before you get too excited, let me frame it properly. I couldn’t hear anything. So I got my ears tested, and now I can hear like Superman. Really—I can hear the pitter-patter of children’s feet from a block away.
Seriously. Pretty amazing, huh? I thought you’d be impressed.
And just for the record, ladies love the quiet sophistication of a man wearing industrial-strength hearing aids. As Walter Brennan used to say on The Guns of Will Sonnett, “No brag, just fact.”
​
I also wear glasses, so every time I adjust them, it sounds like I’m rummaging through an empty paper bag.
But still… the ladies—they love paper sacks.
So that’s the news from where I sit. Not much—but at least I can hear myself think.

​Somebody recently forwarded me a review of one of my earlier books. It was one of the first times I was able to read a definite “meh” review and not feel my blood pressure rising to the point of cardiac failure.
My reaction was completely dispassionate—and that got me wondering why.
So let’s examine this, shall we?
First, if you’re interested, the book is Son of Ravage—a pulp pastiche that is part satire, part travelogue, and all me. The idea had been floating around in my head since college and finally made it onto the page. It was released less than ten years ago, sold a few copies, garnered a few positive reviews, and that, as they say, was that.
Now, on the reviewer’s side: a man I have never met. From what I can tell, he’s a true fan of the genre. I believe his screen name even includes the word “fan.” He clearly read the book, as he described it in detail. He even went so far as to say he would read a sequel if one were ever written.
The humor and satire simply weren’t for him.
Hey, I get it.
So what if he got a few of the details wrong? He called a Weight Watchers meeting an AA meeting—but hey, he still obviously meant what he said.
Now for the payoff.
What did I write in response in the comment section?
I simply replied: “Thank you. Next time I will try harder.”
Brief, probably. Truthful definitely. And hopefully, I responded in kind. As with him, there was no anger on my part—because there was none on his.
Maybe he’s seen the comment. Maybe he hasn’t. I think he meant what he said. And so did I.
Hey—and for the record… I really am trying harder.