I’m a stocky, hairy, Scots-Irish American.
I like books. Good books. Cigars, not always good ones,
and looking at walls. Not all walls have secrets, or are the same,
but most have something to say, if you listen, or see.
I guess walls are a bit like us. I like us. I cherish all
cultures. I want to know what makes a Scot a Scot, or
an Indian an Indian. I want to learn. I want to cheers
a Russian with a glass of mother’s vodka, and smoke a smoke
with an Iranian. If that’s something they like. I don’t know.
I don’t want to hide what makes us, us. I want to celebrate
these differences and decorate them as an alliance.
My wife took a few photos of me and made it a GIF.
This was just before we moved and I’m as out of shape
as I can be, but that’s OK. I’m vulnerable and comfortable
with looking not my best. I like things to be what they are,
facades never mean anything anyway.
ps, If you ever have a drink with me. Good luck lol
My last name is Taggart. And once was McTaggart. From what I understand
my heritage goes back to the highlands of Scotland. Hope to go there.
Good morning, evening, or day! Depending on where you’re currently sitting.
I’m having a great morning and wanted to spread the feeling to anyone who stumbles upon this post.
And just in case you might need a bit of a pick-me-up, here’s this:
- You kick ass as you.
- You don’t need permission.
- You are loved.
- You are strong.
- You’re one step away from the next.
- Look up, the sky sees you, you are never alone.
- Close your eyes. See it. Get it.
When writing don’t forget to live. -M. Taggart
I hadn’t seen a pebble beach until this afternoon. Up Maine.
Yea. That’s a beer. And a Dino in the lower left. Cheers everyone!
There was a tick hanging on the outside of my window while driving today. Yes, we were in the woods. But, I didn’t expect to see a traveling tick. Now as we drive, there was this tick. Stuck. On my window. I reached 55 MPH on the dirt road and the tick hung on. The wind didn’t budge it. The damn thing adjusted itself and traversed a few inches while I increased my speed. I tried to ignore the tick. I rolled the window down and immediately rolled it back up. That tick was obnoxiously righteous with its ability to be stuck to my window. The window was mine, but not to the tick.
I pulled over. Jumped out of my truck and the tick was gone. Was it on me now? Was this even fair? How has this tick out done my instincts to stop the vehicle and remove its nonsense from our afternoon? Only to remove itself completely from the side of the truck and play this game even further? Was it on my hat? Did it somehow get into the truck? Was it near Megan, crawling along the fabric of the seats, longing for blood of the unaware?
It was none of that. I found the tick near the door handle and I flicked it off.
Cheers! Have a kick ass day everyone!
I lost my sense of smell and taste. This is the first time I’ve experienced this. I have a hellacious sinus infection. Instead of getting antibiotics, I’ve been drinking beer.
The problem is Tiger Woods. He’s the reason I started playing golf. I remember well the swelling crowds filled with gushing emotions and admiration as they followed him. I had never seen anything like it; his effortless swing and ability with confidence while wearing a brilliant smile. Tiger was just 21 when he won his first Masters tournament. And just a bit older than me.
I don’t want to miss anything Tiger does while on the course. His ability seems to be creeping back into his game, and mind. I can’t possibly go to the Doctor and be put on medication while Tiger is on the hunt. He’s only one shot back, and today is moving day. If I start to take medication, I won’t be able to drink beer. That’s not an option. For many years I was single and the Masters tournament was my occasion to kick of Spring. I would literally take off work just to grab a twelve pack and a lime to rush home and watch Tiger. Yes, I enjoy the Masters, but it’s Tiger I can’t miss.
While having lost my sense of smell and taste, I’m not willing to break my tradition. It’s time for the Masters. It’s time for a few Spring beers. No matter where you are in the world, I hope you have an absolutely kick ass day.
Thanks for hanging out with me!
I enjoy reading books at pubs.
I enjoy the atmosphere, the noise,
the celebration of life via
conversations over drinks.
I’m comfortable hearing the
constant commotion while filing
through the lines of whatever
book that is in my hand.
I love the smell of the different
foods being prepared in the kitchen,
and the visual of the steam following
the order to the table where it’ll
be enjoyed. I can squint my eyes
and barely see the words I’m reading,
or I can leave them wide open and
take in the moments my peripheral will
provide. Either way is fine with me,
though sometimes it depends on the book.
As though they demand somehow an
existential variation concerning a costume
they wish me to wear, and though I shake it
off, at times it drapes and I do don it for
a small while to satisfy their needs.
I like life. I had beers while moving all of the storage unit items from the garage to the basement and bonus room above the garage. I’ve never had a garage. Not one of my own. It’s going to snow tomorrow and I think my truck wants to be inside. I’m not positive because the truck doesn’t actually speak, or think, but I do think it’s possible it would rather be inside.
I enjoyed standing in our garage while listening to the plow truck last night. I think he was drinking beer too. Now though, this very moment, I’m sitting in my office looking out of the window at a very grey-dusty looking morning sky. The storm has yet to start. I still don’t know what the plow truck was plowing.
My coffee is hot and smells exactly how I had hoped it would. All I will do now is finish typing these last few words and settle into the rest of something.
I hope your day treats you well,
Howdy! I’m awful at finding time to comment on your blog. Pretty much for all of you. I suck. I know that I do, so at least there is that.
A few days ago I was shoveling our driveway. The storm was an ice/sleet/snow mix. It was eight degrees outside and I needed to get the driveway cleared before it was too late. For my snowy friends out there, you know what happens when it’s too late. Having a driveway of solid ice isn’t exactly what I want. However, I stopped to read a blog post written by a writer who was wondering why more people weren’t commented on their posts.
I really wanted to comment, but I was literally outside shoveling. It was terribly cold and windy. Yet, I did read your post. And you write well and Please don’t think that you don’t. I wonder if it’s like this for a lot of us. I have so little time to comment, that I find I don’t. I won’t sit here and make a profound statement proclaiming to become a frequent comment creator, because that would be a lie. I like honesty. I’ll do the best I can. I read as many posts as I can. Even in snow storms while my nose is dripping and my hands are shaking. I like to read. Hence my little saying, Read on. It’s good for the brain.
I’m thankful I didn’t write, “Comment on. It’s good for the brain.” My brain would have shriveled and turned off.
For those of you who are gifted at commented, I cherish you. I have seen many of you. I don’t have that gift.
I believe some minutes are longer than others.
If you don’t believe me, set your timer for one minute,
and write as much as you possibly can without editing.
Then read what you’ve written. I’ve done this and
completely lost myself in the imagery of the words.
Later in the day, have a beer, and talk with a friend.
Start a stop watch and let it go without
looking at it. Time flows and ebbs how it wishes
and we intolerable humans try to mash it into a clock.
I seem to have this ongoing internal debate with time
and how it functions. I suppose I’m a bit deliberate with
my flaws and I’m unsure if my argument will deliver
a fruitful resolution, or simply help provide you with
having spent another minute on a few words about nothing.