J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

Recently I've come to wonder something: What is it to "know" a person? How do we connect, and why? While there are underlying reasons as to why, I don't believe that there is any one correct answer to those questions. In my case, well, you'll see....  ______________________             What does it mean to know a person? Think about it. A person’s name comes up in conversation and you may say “I know him” or “I know her,” but do you? What do you mean when you utter those words? Do you know his favorite color? Do you know that she has a deep seated fear of spiders? Did you know that when he was five he tripped over a snow tire in his parent’s garage and sliced his forehead open? And did you know that she loves to listen to Mozart while sipping tea on a cool summer morning? Probably not. Then again, do you really have to know all of the intimate details of a person’s life to know that person?    ...

Apparently mysterious women are the current hot topic is this psychotic... er, um, overactive imagination of mine lately. I blame the heat. Or my traumatic, childhood experience with clowns. Wait, I blame the rest of my psychosis on that... Ok, so we'll stick with the heat and leave it at that. In any event, here's another new premise that popped into my head today. Let's see where it goes. ___________             All he wanted to do was sit there, alone, and drink. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or company. Most of the time, no one bothered him except for the bartender. Even then, the exchange was simple: The bartender would ask “you want another?” and he would reply “sure, but stop me at two.” And he always did stop after the second pint. There was something about just sitting there and holding the glass in his hand that soothed him. He had never left the place with a blood alcohol level even coming close to the...

Ok, ok, ok... I know it's been a while. (I've been busy with that whole "job" thing, so cut me some slack....) As a result I haven't had a lot of creativity lately. This morning, however, my mind drifted back to my law school days in South Royalton, Vermont, as it typically does this time of year. Remembering fondly the summers I spent there with my small group of friends (you know who you are, but I will not use your names in order to protect the innocent... and not so innocent), images of the small town in which the school was located filled my mind. You know me though, I can't just write a happy go lucky tale. I tried once, and I ended up killing off the main character anyway. As usual, something dark and twisted crept its way into my mental imagery and the following was born.   This story takes its name from the bar in town where we used to gather, and the setting is accurate to the actual town in which I spent a good three years of my life. So with t...