Clinton, South Carolina, Friday, May 17, 2019, 10:42 a.m.

Realistically, there’s not much else I really want to do. At this point, a bucket list is kind of silly. It would have been worthwhile when I was young. Maybe if I’d decided back then I wanted to go to Venice – or the Knoxville Nationals – or Scandinavia – I would have.

But the coast of Oregon was nice. I really would like to go back there. It’s possible. One factor that militates against it is that I have no desire to fly. I’m not afraid of flying. I just think it’s a colossal pain in the ass that got more painful every year I was flying back and forth across the country to write about NASCAR. For 20 years, I probably averaged, oh, 60,000 air miles a year. Since 2012, I’ve flown to Cleveland once. I miss Cleveland much more than the airlines.

I’d love to take my time and drive diagonally across the mainland, but it’s unlikely, and I’m busy, and no matter where I go, as things now stand, I’d have to set up my laptop and see who died or got arrested in Laurens County.

For the time being, my road trips will be to places like Greenville, Asheville, Charlotte, or maybe some place really radical like Kentucky, or the various and sundry places where Blue Hose, Crusaders, Paladins, Raiders or Red Devils might presumably play. The most appealing aspect of most of my current road trips is the potential for a unique place to eat before the ballgame. I’m starting to collect off-the-beaten-path burger joints in Seneca just like I used to on Seneca Lake (near Watkins Glen, N.Y.).

I had a doctor’s appointment in Greenville on Wednesday, and, man, I enjoyed the pregame (uh, pre-examination) meal. Then I discovered I’d lost 10 pounds and knew they were legit. Probably would have been 12 without that “heaping helping of [their] hospitality.”

Hills, that is. Swimming pools. Movie stars. Fortunately, by and large, the people who don’t understand the above phrasing don’t read me anymore. I’ve lost the young … unless I took a picture of them.

A shame. I like the young. I want to be like them. Old is old, and young is young, and our twain no longer meets.

I love what I do. I enjoy covering the SCISA state girls’ basketball finals as much as I used to enjoy the Daytona 500. It’s still what ABC’s Wide World of Sports called “the human drama of athletic competition.” I like sports better than news because it’s my field of expertise, not to mention my body of work. It’s what looks good on my resume. I wonder if I still have a resume. If so, it won’t require much updating and it’s unlikely to be requested.

Most people don’t know I wrote about NASCAR for 20 years. They don’t know about the eight novels, or the writing awards that are probably in boxes in the utility building. They just know me as an old fat guy who takes pictures and scribbles on tiny notepads. It’s not all bad. I’ve always hated getting my ass kissed. I don’t get much of that anymore.

I hate to schmooze and hobnob and chitchat. I may be a bit forward. I tend to say what I think, and that’s often counterproductive in a setting where folks mostly want conversations to be predictable.

Things that are important to me aren’t important to others. For instance, if I’m writing a story and taking photos, it’s important for me to have a place to sit while I’m taking notes. I tend to have difficulty reading my own writing when it’s written without a table upon which to bear down.

Last night I staked out a nice, unobtrusive spot in the back of the room by placing my camera on the table there. When I returned and started to sit down, a man told me that Wynonna (not her real name) had staked out the place with her camera and a bottle of water. I told him that was odd, since I owned a camera just like that one with which I had staked out such a place.

Later on, I won a door prize that was a gift certificate at Chick-Fil-A (its real name), and I gave it to the one prominent citizen there who had briefly allowed me to sit down.

No respect. No respect at all. Saw my kid with the milkman. Asked him where he was going. He said to a father-and-son dinner.

Anyone can write. It’s pretty obvious. An old fat man like me can write … or fancies that he can. If I was any good, I’d be younger and make more money. That’s the way capitalism works.

So what do I do? I prove them wrong by writing a blog, but in their minds, it only proves them right.

 

If you become a patron of mine, you’re supporting writing like this as well as my mostly NASCAR blogs at montedutton.com. If you’ve got a few bucks a month to spare, click here.

Another way I cobble out a living is with my books, a wide variety of which is available for sale here.

 

The new novel, my eighth, is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.