For a work weekend, I feel like I've got a freakish amount done. Hung wit' my boy Rex Havoc and his sidekick, Josh the boy wonder (I kid, of course. Josh has to be at least 22...) debated the relative greatness of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and finished the story I've been threatening to do for a while--now titled "The Great Despiser." That and I worked all weekend.

Now I've gotten some speculation on the last post (the secret identity of the one known as JLA/JLS/JLA-S/WTF) and I promise you, until my dying day, there will not be a painfully self-aware weepy post on this blog. I might be self-involved, egomaniacal and narcissistic, but even I know not to beat a dead horse. Just to put your mind at ease. Feel better? Good.

Now, I've been mulling something over. I've taken a look at everything I've done to this point writing-wise and think there just might be enough for a compilation of some sorts. It would be a ways down the road ("All Things Right and Beautiful" is still at the top of the heap, priority-wise). I've been thinking of making it a kind of Joe-Mammy.com presents: short stories kinda thing. Thoughts? Discuss.

Here's a little creative bit of something for you guys to enjoy until next time:

The kid was kicking the back of the seat again.

"Are we there yet? I'm hot."

"Roll down your window."

"I want to be there now."

"Well, we're not."

"How much longer is it going to be?"

"A while."

"How long is that?"

"I'll tell you when we're there."

"But how looooooong..." accompanied by a couple rhythmic kicks to the back of the seat for emphasis.

I fiddled with the rear view mirror. Kids were always the worst for that. Most people would sit back and try and talk and rationalize or fish for information, but kids were just bored. There's something about scope and importance that is lost on them. Probably just as well.

"Is my mom gonna be there?"

"Maybe later."

"What about my gramma?"

"Maybe later."

"Who'll be there sooner?"

I paused for a moment. I'd had people who had wailed from grief and those who cried for joy and now I had this.

"Probably your gramma."

"Why?"

"I'm guessing."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know."

"Why would you guess gramma?"

"Because."

There gets to be a point where you really wish you had a radio or something to turn on--some way to pretend like you don't hear them. You start to lose interest in their stories after a while. When I started everything seemed so new and interesting--you met all kinds from the dirtiest sinners to the humblest saints and everyone would have thoughts and feelings and I cared about them. Now, it's just a job. I've heard it all before and what I haven't heard I usually can guess. When it all comes down to it, I don't care about their wives or their pets or their kids or what they had or what they did, I'm just trying to get from point A to point B so I can start all over again.

It's really quite silly. I don't interact or mingle or dawdle not because I want to get it all done--there will always be more, I'm just tired of doing it. Somedays I wish I could just stop and get out and not come back, but everyone has their role and their place and at the end of the day I know where I belong regardless of whether I like it.

"Are you mad at me?"

"What? No."

"You never say nothin'."

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"Grown up stuff."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Why does it have to take so long?"

"No idea."

"Charon?"

"What?"

"Is it going to be nice there?"

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Charon?"

"What?"

"How much longer?"

-Joe