For Years I Wrote In My Basement.

All These People That You Meet Or I Meet, There's Not A Prayer In Hell That They're Ever Going To Run For Office Or Major Office Because If They're That Smart, They're Also Smart Enough To Know They Don't Want To Take Everything That They've Built Up And Have It Torn Apart By A Sensationalized Media That's So Hungry For Any Kind Of Salacious Detail That They'll Make That The Emphasis Of The Person's Life. And Then All Of Sudden, 50, 60 Years Of Hard Work And Accomplishment Go Out The Window.

But Then She Did. She Died. No More Visits, No More Phone Calls. And Without Even Realizing It, I Began To Drift, As If My Roots Had Been Pulled, As If I Were Floating Down Some Side Branch Of A River.

This Is A Story About A Man Named Eddie And It Begins At The End, With Eddie Dying In The Sun.

Time," The Captain Said, "is Not What You Think." He Sat Down Next To Eddie. "dying? Not The End Of Everything. We Think It Is. But What Happens On Earth Is Only The Beginning.

I Hate To Be Like Everyone Else, But I'm Rooting For San Antonio Because I Like Teams That Were Built The Old-fashioned Way.