I’m writing this with a blue Wallace Firefly pencil, and in a graveyard.

I love pencils and graveyards. This pencil was part of a pack I got off Ebay. It’s 1960s era. That’s right: I buy my pencils off Ebay, and I have thousands. There’s only one company, in Tennessee, left making pencils in the United States. There used to be hundreds. Thoreau’s family were pencil-makers. Today, even Dixon Ticonderogas are made in Mexico.

Because all the pencils I own are vintage, the erasers have hardened and no longer work. I have separate erasers for erasing, but the only time I use them is when I’m doing crosswords. When I’m writing text, I just scratch out mistakes and move on. No time to erase, baby.

By the way, I’ve heard people brag about doing crosswords in pen and I am not impressed. I don’t do ANYTHING in pen, so there.

I can’t believe there’s a picnic table in this graveyard. What a strange place to eat noodle salad: among the dead. There’s only this one picnic table and no fire grate, so you can’t really have a family reunion here. Wouldn’t it be something if you could, though?

“Party at Grandma’s grave! Memorial Day weekend! Beer & brats!”

I don’t know. Maybe I’m a ghoul, but I’ve always loved hanging out in graveyards. Ninety percent of my first book was written in Rose Hill Cemetery, in fact. I plan to be stashed there in a massive, gaudy tomb when I leave this world. The close-up picture of brambles on the book’s cover was even taken there.

You won’t be reading this till later. It’s the middle of the afternoon and beautiful out. Later, I’m going to bingo at the VFW. Normally, I bingo at TREA (support your local TREA!). It kind of feels like I’m committing veteran’s organization adultery, but sometimes doing something wrong can feel oh so right.

I’m a dirty, dirty boy.