It’s Such a Sad, Sad Day for Liars!

  Liar! Too strong? Are fibber, embellisher, or senior-moment mishap better tags?  I’m no fan of Bill O’Reilly, but please Lord, don’t let someone dial-up on me something I said thirty years ago. However, I must admit, I fell (not just felt) mesmerized by Mr. O’Reilly’s stern facial expression, name calling, and staunch rebuttal of the corrective accounts, made. Watching it had me shaking in my boots for that Mother Jones reporter.  Ooh, Lordy, I thought, O’Reilly’s gonna kick his butt!

It’s something to be said for that tactic. And let’s face it; we’ve seen others do it. To deny in such a vile and affirmative way until the listener almost forgets the subject matter at-hand, and surmises that the accusation must, most definitely, carry no merit. It had to have been a booboo—c ase closed (and on to fresher headlines). And that’s how I felt after hearing Mr. O’Reilly’s rebuttal—until I read the story that started out with —

NEW YORK (AP) – CBS News on Monday released video from four stories it aired about the Falklands War in 1982, all part of a dispute involving Fox News Channel host Bill O’Reilly and his subsequent statements about covering the war.

None of the stories mentions O’Reilly, then a young CBS reporter, or makes any specific reference to a CBS crew member being hurt.

I watched a video report, too. That’s it/That’s all. Because, afraid for myself, I’ll just let the above Associated Press story hang in the air. I ain’t throwing no stones.

Well folks, here’s Lesson 1a: To the big wigs, who may feel so important and/or so far-up-the-ladder that nothing can touch them—they need to respect this digital era we’re living in. So, too, the little guys and gals like me. Guess what Lesson 1 is.

As for me, I loved being a journalist, wearing what I wrote, reported on [using a tape recorder], and that (i.e., my work) which made its way to print like grateful badges of honor. I counted what I did as a privilege. (And, no, that didn’t make me flawless. It caused me to be careful.) Now, I love being a novelist, letting my creative license compose me as imaginative and literary, not as a liar. Still, I know I need to be careful and respectful, period. Any accounted booboos made during my life journey (a journey, ongoing) have only accounted me (thus far) as human, not hurting or disrespectful. If that’s someone’s account, I apologize.

I remember once, shortly after I had read the Terry McMillan novel, titled, Disappearing Acts, I found myself gabbing with a group of girlfriends about love relationships. (I’m lying. I’ve never had a group of girlfriends.) And I said (something like), “Yeah, I know this girl who had a boyfriend who did…” Neck-rolling deep into the responses of Ahh-huhs, What’s-that-you-say, and the I-wish-some %$@^# would try that mess on me, I realized that I did not know some girl who had a boyfriend who did… It was actually a scenario happening to the very lifelike characters inside McMillan’s book that I was recalling. Dern it!

“Oh Lordy!” my innards screamed in the midst (that’s right, my innards screamed) as I could figure out no face-saving no way to exit the story. Because after all, I’m sure I must have been making a valid point (Hot and Crankin’)—about something.

Sadly folks, my memory recalls-not, how I handled my dilemma. But I’m almost positive that I did not ‘fess up. Also, I’m sure I could dial up some worse lie-scenarios in my life. Examples like—“Are you going to the cookout?” My response: “Oh Yeah,” which was my code for, “Hell no.” And—“How does this dress look on me?” My response: “Fine. It looks just fine,” when I was spineless or, perhaps, didn’t care, and I didn’t say, “It’s too tight.” Someone did that to me, one time. And when I partook of the after-pics, in which, I looked hideous, I was devastated. Although, I’m sure I would not have listened to the truth in real-time, that person and I are no longer friends. (I’m lying. We’re still friends.)

Okay, now that we’ve established how, I can’t be trusted (though on the big scheme of things, I’m striving to be), I’m prayerful about it because truth is an ongoing soapbox to climb. And that’s the soapbox, upon which we want to stand. Stripped down, we’re still clothed by our reputations, built.

One last question: How accomplished in life does one have to be, not to feel as though he or she has to uptick and/or manufacture more? I don’t know the answer to that, either.Dream Seeker, Literary



Honoring The Fallen, And The Forgotten Fallen on This Memorial Day


Cherish, Honor and Live Your Dreams, positive

Your time on earth is precious: Love and respect to the best of your ability — And Life — go for it!

….Cherish the precious time spent with family and friends. 

Honor the Fallen, who sacrificed the ultimate in the name of America and hope of Freedom, 

And vow to never forget those history has forgotten.

     My beloved uncle, U.S. Marine Warren Tomlin received a Purple Heart for saving the lives of women and children hiding in a tiny village under attack. He came home from Vietnam, wounded, and the walking dead. He came home — minus fanfare — to a country he loved, but (amid the doom of racism) did not love or respect him. 

     Upon my grandfather’s death, Warren Tomlin was charged to carry on the family name. He was a handsome, towering, thick, muscle-cut teddy bear who was playful and cuddly to us; but could easily make you fear for your life, if he thought that anyone of us (especially his mother, sisters or nieces) were in danger. However, Warren Tomlin struggled to become a productive citizen — until he took his life and our family name to his grave. His name, and the names of countless others, should be etched on The Wall

     I loved my family’s time of being a military family, active duty. My husband is retired Navy. My son is a U.S. Marine, who served in the Middle East and met some challenges. Because of that, there are eerie similarities between my uncle and my son (for us, it’s the elephant in the room). He is safe and in Maryland, and I never end a conversation with him without saying, “I love you,” something I felt, but failed to say the last time I saw my uncle alive. And I fervently pray, every day, that I never have to write a story with the above ending about him. 

Blessings to you all on this Memorial Day,


Ode to Icon Sting, My Daughter, and NO Shame in the Game



Sting in the Midst!

   Okay, so because of the wonderful high school that my daughter, Rachel, attends –the Duke Ellington School of the Arts—she gets this once-in-a-lifetime experience (which evidently is the norm at Duke Ellington) to grace the same stage, feet away from Sting!!!! Well, it’s not the norm for me, so I’ve been ecstatic for a minute.

     But, I was not too ecstatic to fail to let a certain notion drop into my head. Immediately, I began badgering my daughter about slipping one of my bookmarks into Sting’s hand, in his shoe, on his person. Stuff it in his shirt pocket—why don’t you–pleazzzzze!

     I mean, look, Mick Jagger’s doing a movie on James Brown, whose music I loved so much, my kids once said, “Hey Mom, why don’t you put a James Brown tattoo on your butt or somethin’.” Disgusted, I deleted that notion. Right now, I’m kinda sorry for sharing. 

     But why can’t Sting, and Paul Simon, who was a part of last Wednesday night’s concert at the Strathmore, take a liking to one of my literary offerings? I reasoned and propositioned with the last of my litter-loins, who failed to even feign interest in what I proposed. “It’s about me, Mom, remember?”  If she says that to me—one more time…*#@()&^#!!!!!! 

     I mean, doesn’t she know how old I am, that my stomach’s literary clock is wound tight with tension? Doesn’t she realize that I let her, and her siblings, satisfy my baby clock, years ago. And even though, I’m now rethinking the sacrifice of motherhood (because shouldn’t I have picked a best-seller-hood clock, instead?), can’t she repay me by risking expulsion, and sticking a measly bookmark (or book discussion invite) in Sting’s pocket? Can’t she do that little thing for me???? 

     How Selfish!!!!

     I mean if Sting became aware, my writing would do the rest. It’s not like Fifty Shades of Grey, blessed by the marketing and promotions, and horny gods, with an author who admits that she can’t write [cited in a Los Angeles Times story, dated April, 2012]. (Okay, I sauced the sentiment, but she said it, first. I didn’t.) 

     I just know that if Sting knew it, he’d wanna read and produce on stage/film God in Wingtip Shoes, or Jubi Stone: Saved by the Vine (dedicated to domestic violence awareness), or better yet, The Prison Plumb Line—because—It is Easier to go to Jail than You Think! He could play the Prison Chaplain!!! Shoot, he just needs to know that that’s what he really wants to do. I can back up my writing!!!!

     The Seventh Annual Performance Series of Legends, a benefit concert for the Duke Ellington School of the Arts; well, it was magical! The packed crowd partied—up on its feet long before he sang Every Breathe You Take! Sting gyrated on two occasions, and the gleeful crowd lost it both times. When he left the stage for the last time, a woman leaned over to my husband and asked, “Is this intermission?” Nobody wanted it to end. 

     My daughter: I lost it when I spotted Rachel on stage. I forgot all about Sting (momentarily) and crouched over stranger-knees and toes to a restricted area, desperate to snag a picture.

     The trouble with me is; I never know when I’m going to do something embarrassing. In the midst of motherhood glee, I suddenly realized that I was in view of EVERYBODY in the concert, except Sting and Paul Simon because they were busy performing. My knees buckled. Thank God, I got outta there before two ushers mysteriously materialized to haul my behind out of the area.    

     Sting shared a heartfelt story about how in his twenties, he and his bandmates came to America, rented a station wagon, crowed it with themselves and their equipment, and drove here-and-there performing at half-filled dives. The relatable story stilled my heart. Then my eyeball welled up when I thought of how I’m well-beyond my twenties. (If only I could catch some more gyrating to make me feel better.)

     Alas, at home, Rachel got so giddy; she could not get to sleep. I became giddy because I’m her mother and she’s my Baby-girl. And I don’t have to hope in the Will Call line or hock my soul for a ticket to hug her, tell her I’m proud, and kiss her cheek. 

     Oh, and for the record, I still felt giddy, even when after she had gone to bed, and I walked by her open purse (in slow motion), and accidentally spied my bookmark bent and twisted, adorning a pile of her pocketbook crap. Motherhood. Passion. — Ain’t NO Shame in Either Game!   

     Check out the story that landed in the newspaper: 


Ode to Ash Wednesday, 2014 — Creating Open Doors and Options…


Ode to Ash Wednesday, 2014 -- Creating Open Doors and Options...

“God, Make room for my gift. Bring it before great men and women privy to push the mentoring further.” [And Help Us Provide!] Scripture reference: Proverbs 18:16.
The Life Journeys Writers Club, Inc. Empowering positive self-expression, passion and healing through the Literary Arts. Promoting Diversity and Access.
Thank you!