I write, and I'm alive.


“I want to do the mustard,” Renzo said.

“No,” Emilia said. “You can watch.”

Of course, if you tell everyone you’re going to go talk to a rock, some folks will say things like, “But rocks don’t talk!” or “Are you feeling okay?” or “Rocks are only good for eating!” Don’t worry. They’re wrong. Rocks can talk.


Is there a hobo in your attic?

Is your 401(k) plan worth less than it was five minutes ago?

Are any of your friends mocking you right now?

Game night with the guys turns ugly when the cop shows up.


Congress has promised over $1 trillion from our hands to “rescue” gargantuan businesses. When corporations demand the largest free ride in our history, it’s time to rethink economies of scale. Socialism is a silly solution — there, everything becomes one gargantuan business. We need a real solution: distributism.

They don't change fundamentally -- they don't sprout mouths and stomachs. But every year, even a twisted old crone of an apple tree suddenly decks herself in fresh pink blossoms, like a grandmother dressed for a wedding.

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Home office + four children = headphones. Lately, I've favored fiddle music. Fiddles sing with strange energy. When you first hear fairy tales about the hero banishing goblins with a reel, you scoff. Then you hear real fiddles.

In my last post, "The Curse of Is", I roused myself to hunt verbs, instead of relying on "is" all the time. The blight of "is" lays heavy on my writing. But I didn't get far into that post before I realized that even my domain name hasn't escaped the curse.

"Bill Powell Is Alive"!

What should I have called it instead? "Bill Powell Lives"?

First off, this would feature three small l's in a row.