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Life, actually…

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TICS AND POLITICS AND STEAMROLLERS

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I know I have a nervous tic but I can’t prove it.

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Looking in the mirror I appear normal, if you consider normal to be an octogenarian who has grown disenchanted with looking in mirrors.

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No, the nervous tic must exist in the form of a bouncy ball of neurotic notions careening about inside my head. I know it is there because our artificially induced environment has taken hold and won’t let go.

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Get thee behind me, AI. I need a flesh-and-blood friend who has feelings and hopes and dreams galore.

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I sort of understand how this artificial insurrection has managed to take hold of everybody in sight.

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As a member of this last-species-standing group of humans, I pretty much mimic those around me:

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I seek comfort and answers from people who seem reliable. As it turns out, the label Reliable might include a confusing mixture of saints and sinners and do-gooders and hucksters and naivetemongers and salespeople and grifters and charlatans. This messy stew of humans all know what they want but aren’t always aware that everybody else does, too. Only problem is, each and every one of us has a different idea of what should appear on the APPROVED WANTS list.

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Such a Babel of bonkers ideas.

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The solution of course is to turn to politics. Politicians all truly believe they have the right and just and true answer, if only we would hear them out.

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Nothing like a roomful of righteous folks who know the truth and wish they could make us believe in said truth.

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Politicians like to spread their tics and bend us to their way of nonthinking.

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Hold on—lots of politicians have good ideas. But when they unleash themselves into the crowded fields of the misguided and the malevolent they tend to look like the enemy…using the same ads and dogmatic speeches and bullyhorns. We the meek have trouble distinguishing morons from messiahs.

.

Just saying.

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As for me, I duck and dodge each new rant that presents itself in political guise. When I take time to examine and explore what is behind each rant, I often find agreement…and I often smell something funny.

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I’ll keep feinting and ducking and checking things out prior to making up my mind. I hope you will, too. Somebody out here has got to keep their head, keep their eyes on the prize

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/I9Mp5CaoCKk

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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HIGHFALUTIN OR LOWFALUTIN? THAT IS THE QUESTION

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 “At times nothing is better than something.”

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Is this a highfalutin statement uttered by a patrician overlord? Or is it something that just popped out the mouth of a regular citizen experiencing a sudden thoughty moment?

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What about this one: “Scratching an itch is just something to do to pass time.”

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If you are a degreed philosopher holding forth at a scholarly function, this seems high and haughty. If you are a barkeep at this catered affair, it may be described by a wastrel as the grumpy utterance of a societal underling.

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Snooty or snotty are the interchangeable attitudes that frequently bounce between us. They don’t make much sense. But that does not prevent us from saying snarky things when we think the person being snarked is out of hearing.

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What in the world is wrong with us?

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Is this “Oh, he’s just a doomscroller.” the same as “He’s such a prodigy, constantly manipulating the internet to gain wisdom and knowledge.” ?

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Look at it this way. Consider an old sight gag—two tuxedoed dudes at a mansion party are drunkenly spraying one another with champagne and laughing their heads off. Meanwhile, at the biker bar two body-shirted dudes are drunkenly spraying one another with beer and laughing their heads off.

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Is one situation funnier than the other? Maybe you have to be inebriated yourself to appreciate the humor.

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These are mysterious questions with shifting answers. Time and distance constantly alter perception.

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Is that too froo-froo a thought?

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People-observing is a lifelong habit with me. It is fun and awesome and frightening and provocative in positive and negative ways. I guess it is my thing. I enjoy watching at a distance as folks live their lives. I learn so much about my own strengths and foibles, my need to improve and streamline myself, my impulse to edit and correct my behavior.

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Don’t try to find logic or meaning or criticism. It’s just the way I behave. You may learn from watching me. And I may vice versa you. So it goes.

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What is most enjoyable is each time I can sit with you and we together observe the world’s passing parade, commenting out of love and fascination, not finding flaw and fault. Just appreciating.

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One more thing about highfalutin and lowfalutin.

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When you watch someone gazing intensely at a small hand-held screen, jot down what you see. It’s one thing when said gazer is lost in virtuality. It is another thing entirely when said gazer delicately raises one eyebrow as if to convince himself that what he is doing is meaningful and intelligent.

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Small things can produce big tells

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/jko6-wwOz_M

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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DANGLING

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“Who’s in charge here?”

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As I enter this big-city hospital waiting room I want to shout, “Who’s in charge here?” as in “Who is really in charge?”

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The computer-suffused room is all about somebody’s idea of efficiency and professionalism. Or at least somebody’s idea of how to look efficient and professional.

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Perception wins the day. Everything looks hunky-dory, so everything must actually be hunky-dory.

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Other people are waiting ahead of me. Some even glance up from doom-scrolling to see what kind of creature is invading their attention span. I appear harmless so all curiosity falters within mere moments.

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Are all dawdlers herein asleep at the wheel? I wonder in silence.

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“Good morning,” I smile broadly at the half-visible-behind-computer-screen person at the barrier desk.

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She reluctantly averts my gaze and mechanically asks for my date of birth.

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I dream of a day when my Good Morning will be reciprocated. So, feeling jerky but still polite and grinning I repeat, “Good morning!” She appears confused for a jiffy. How do I reply to this unexpected burst of goodwill, she must be thinking.

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She gruffly stares at her side of the monitor and mumbles a good morning. “What is your date of birth?” she asks as if trying to be heard by this doddering old fool.

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“Nine six forty-one,” I reply. Pause, then add with humor, “A.D.” This often engenders a laugh and helps break tension. In this case, no response. Humor-dead she may be. Or maybe this doddering old fool is losing his timing.

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I am reduced to taking orders. I sit and stare at my surroundings. I always seem to be curious about everything, so my note-taking resumes.

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Time does fly.

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Months later, I come across a brown leather textured notebook filled with astute–or stupid–observations that I constantly inscribe. The good-morning-clerk entry page includes things like, “Is there such a thing as a perfectly-appointed waiting room where all fear and loathing is replaced by lovely plastic flowers and mass wall art and pastel floor tiles?”

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Another note, “Have I become accustomed to assembly-line healers and menders and mercenary medical accountants? Should I learn to live with personnel who stand in the white-light doorway and shout my last name? Am I supposed to be so used to the system that I know this shout means I should dutifully make my way to a staff member who silently about-faces and heads into the bowels of examination-room row?”

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Do I dutifully stand at attention awaiting further instruction? Am I supposed to follow her? I decide to wait.

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She resignedly returns to me and says, “This way.”

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I get the impression, as silly as it seems, that each staff member is wondering whether mine is a life worth saving. Or do staff members pick and choose as needed?

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Useless notes abound in my notebooks. I learned early on that it is important to write down all the junk, all the seemingly unimportant life-bits, because in the long run a shard of wisdom or a passage of importance or a poetic phrase will show up and provide fodder for useful and entertaining stories.

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Stay tuned. An entire book of waiting-room notes hovers in my future. I’ll do my best to include only the entertaining ones.

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Please await further instructions

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

.Hear Jim’s 5-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/Q6xMcHAl2z4

or read his ponderings below…

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Life, actually…

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MALFUNCTION SUNRISE

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The world around me is scientifically designed, engineered to perfection. I am totally dependent upon twenty-first-century inventions meant to serve my needs.

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These inventions and concoctions exist to fill a void. They are often rebellious.

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Gimmicky problem-solving doodads are all unimportant in the scheme of things. If this is so, why do they seem incredibly significant for only a jiffy or two at a time?

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Insignificant but attention-grasping, here is an example of the least of these creations.

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Early morning task-driven Me: I bound down the sunrise steps of home, swing open the white-picket gate between yard and street. Electronically armed for action, I click a keychain button that lowers the drawbridge to yon dusty Subaru.

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I swivel my bod into the driver’s seat, nestling buttocks into a secure position.

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I search for the steering wheel lock and clockwise the car into a rumble. Damping the seatbelt warning light with clicking belt buckle, I check my whereabouts. Mileage spins to zero with a flick. NPR rises in volume to depress me with newsy news and mellow voices.

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I squint through the windshield, run the washer to clear the sediment only to discover the inside of the window is not squirtable, is indeed cloudy. Hmm. No washee for the passenger side.

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I check the LED clock to gauge my ETA and find that it is invisible, unreadable. The bright sunlight overwhelms the wimpy glow of numbers. I also cannot read the exterior temperature thingy.

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So much for all that technology and planning.

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I back up a bit to leave room for exiting the parking space. The rear camera helps me stay legal and safe. But there is no front camera to guide me, so I guess I am only half-safe, semi-legal.

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I check the rearview mirror to compensate for what I can’t see on TV, only to be reminded that there are enormous blind spots on each side, spots giving me the impression that all traffic is absent. This of course turns out not to be true. I thank my moment of good luck at not running into either of the advancing vehicles.

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Cruising along, the car beeps and flashes indecipherable icons on the speedometer as street litter and passing trucks pass by.

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Potholes bring excitement and visceral energy to the journey.

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Non-functioning traffic lights confuse everybody.

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Four-way stop signs work fine in a world where everybody learns and obeys the rules that we are all supposed to know. We don’t have equal ideas about the guidelines, thus some drivers barrel through two at a time, some stop uncommonly long just in case, others pause till somebody honks them forward.

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I scan the horizons to find glimpses of peace. A collarless dog darts down the sidewalk, late for a mysterious date. Ear-podded workers stand atop motorized scooters and whiz by. Three strolling students laugh and chat and seem on their way to nowhere in particular. Maybe they will meet up with the dog.

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Meanwhile inventions and gadgets attempt to gain my confidence. My flip phone is as silent as a lamb. Ahhh…peace in the Valley of Jones.

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NPR radio repeats a please-stand-by message to fill silent airtime while awaiting a button-pusher who will resuscitate the satellite feed. Switching to another NPR affiliate produces soothing music and much long-distance static.

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I turn the radio off and listen to the quiet.

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A siren announces the looming presence of an emergency crew. It zooms by and I resume the long morning’s journey into asphalt flight.

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An unhoused pedestrian crossing the street before me carries bedding and belongings bulkier than herself. No gadgets on or about her person. I slow down and try to respect the moment.

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I wonder what new-fangled gadgets are being prepared for me right now, gadgets that will be designed to make life more comfy. Gadgets that will malfunction at key moments in my rattled lifespan. Gadgets I’ll pay for anyhow, in case they decide to work now and then

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s thoughts: https://youtu.be/-v-kKmL_6q0

or read his words below…

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Life, actually…

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INHALE EXHALE INHALE EXHALE AND SO ON

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My brown leather book satchel is fraying at the handle. I lug it along with me on the way to grammar school, this now-remembered morning.

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The brown leather frayed book satchel contains a broken pocket knife still serviceable should saber-toothed beasts approach, a beat-up textbook stamped approved by unseen boards of education, a number two yellow pencil in case of sudden learning, an overripe apple to nibble during recess, one Big Little Book about the Phantom should I have a chance to advance the illustrated adventure…

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What else snuggles within the cracking leather?

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Oh, a black-and-white snapshot of me and my sweet dog Brownie, a child-sized Aspergum tablet, a paper-wrapped tooth that ejected itself yesterday, and a yellow crayon that nobody loves. 

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I am young and innocent and self-contained at this moment in time. I wend my own way across the abandoned military encampment, a once-vital encampment that played its part in the recent war. Post-war grounds are now my playground, my beaten path to school, my nobody’s-land space between home and the rest of the world.

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On the rusty orange ground at my feet, something glitters and beckons. I stop and stoop and peer. It is a severed expansion-band ownerless wristwatch.

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I pick it up. I’ve never owned a real watch–only a frozen-time play watch that tells time twice a day.

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The face of this timepiece is also frozen. But just in case, I wind the stem and feel the satisfying notching that activates the inner workings.

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The watch still works, still tells me the correct Central Standard time, makes me aware of the minute-to-minute seconds that escort me through the day, still hides in my loose-change pants pocket. My first watch!

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I stand a little straighter, gaze smartly at the nearby abandoned red-brick-buildings, and continue my trek to school. I am now assured that now I can consider myself an important member of the tribe of men and women who keep up with time and make things happen.

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My initiation within the tribe will be complete once I own an unbroken expansion band that will allow the broken watch to join society on the wrist of a scrawny kid.

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A scrawny kid who just wants to get through the day in one piece, in order to get back to the Phantom and his righteous quest for truth and justice

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 © 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s podcast here: https://youtu.be/7pGw_wTQftY

or read his entry below…

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Life, actually…

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THE SPOILS OF PEACE

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There will always be peace and rumors of peace.

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This is what I keep telling myself.

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Peace does have a habit of breaking out once in a while. Before you know it, somebody somewhere slips up and discovers that there are quiet hiatuses to be enjoyed between wars.

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Just a thought. Maybe this thought arises as a symptom of stress and confusion. There are fifty ways to leave your peace of mind behind, when venturing into the streets each day.

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Wars overlapping wars, conflicts bumping into one another, intolerances busily compounding themselves, grisly thoughts arising from media-driven gossips who creatively puppet-master those who forget to close their eyes or stop up their ears.

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Even the most happily optimistic among us get blind-sided now and then by a plethora of hand-wringing and gnashing…news of the day becomes gloomy doom-saying mantras that are hard to ignore.

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Try to recall the goodwill we experience between the wars. Memories seem elusive after brutal times extend themselves. But memory and artifacts need tending to. Constant reminders do help us scrounge around for hope.

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Not nourishing my good memories is like drinking powdered milk from an anemic cow.

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While despots and self-involved bullies pretend to rule the world, we the people of hope continue to ply our trade. Our job is to fan the embers of good memory, good hope, goodwill, loving gestures. Our task is to embrace the idea that there will always be goodness and mercy. Even if we don’t envision it clearly, we know it is there. It is there because we imagine it. It is safely secured in our hearts and minds.

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Those anti-peacemongers can’t take it away from us because we preserve it out of sight disguised as invisible ideas and dreams

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s latest Red Clay Diary true story:https://youtu.be/XhdB16otMUc

or read it below…

.

Life, actually…

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JACK IN THE BOX

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A brief glimpse into my little corner of Paradise…

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In the middle of the shop in the middle of the morning I’m in the middle of a 90%-sided conversation with a caller who wants to know which books I will purchase unseen from her simply by her phone descriptions…when a streetman walks in and hovers before me hoping to deflect my attention from the phone-in book lady.

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All the while, other customers ebb and flow among the stacks.

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Since the phone lady is first in queue, I’m asking the streetman to cruise around and browse until I’m finished—until the phone lady is finished, that is.

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Got to be nice to everybody all at once, in the tradition of good old-fashioned over-the-countering.

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The streetman’s body-shifting tells me he’s not here to buy anything, so after a while, I politely place the phone lady on hold to find out what’s up.

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“I need some meat on the table…I got this jack-in-the-box that’s old.”

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Oh, he wishes to sell me something.

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“Are you wanting to sell it?” I ask. “Yes,” he says.

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I notice that he isn’t carrying anything with him. “Do you have it here?” I ask. “No, but I can go get it,” he replies. “OK,” I say.

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I continue listening to the caller as she names the names of books, most of which I can’t purchase because 1) they are not titles that my regular customers wish to purchase 2) I already have multiple copies on hand 3) they’re in bad shape 4) and so on and et cetera.

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But I keep listening, because about every fifteenth title is indeed something I might consider buying once I examine it. She continues the litany, I continue checking on my other customers to see whether they’re finding what they need.

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The streetman re-enters the store with a shaggy canvas bag, so I motion that I’ll be with him in a mo’. He is sweating from the asphalt heat.

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By now, the phone lady has mentioned perhaps a boxful of books that I would consider purchasing should she bring them in…but she’s not through. I realize what I have suspected all along: despite my imagined super powers I simply cannot properly handle a dozen transactions at once.

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“Could you call back in an hour so we can continue this?” I ask, since I need to deal with the customers and the streetman. She agrees, I hang up and go around the counter to see what’s in the bag. My insatiable curiosity is what drives me and my business.

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 He pulls forth a metal-and-plastic cube from the early 1980’s, and I immediately begin turning the handle to see whether the mechanism works. The tune is unrecognizable, so my next hope is that the pop-up figure will work, allowing me to at least give the streetman something for his trouble and his table meat.

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A clown pops up on cue and looks rather cute, as beat-up music box clowns go, so I press him back into the box to see once more whether it’s a fluke or something an overgrown child might love to fool with once it goes onto a counter at the shop.

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The music doesn’t work this time, and the streetman is getting apprehensive. At this point, I’m ready to pay him something just to be a good Samaritan—uh, good Down-Souther—but he tries once again to make the box work, holding his mouth just right.

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It does work this time, which is enough for me. I offer him five dollars and he is grateful and leaves the shop gracefully, leaving me stuck back here in the best of all possible worlds—at an ancient bookstore where broken toys and busted memories co-exist and, on some days, make a rather nice home for themselves

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/lOVfuPhJDr8

or read his new true story below…

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Life, actually…

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THE Y’ALL-COME BOOK LOVERS OF THIRD AVENUE NORTH

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“Air conditioning!” Rhondrae enters the bookshop, smiling full speed ahead, and inhales deeply. “Do y’all know how lucky you are to have air conditioning?”

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Rhondrae freezes in place for a moment, experiencing the breeze. Her Goodyear Shoe Hospital is just across the street from Reed Books. It is more than a century old. Her youthfulness keeps it going.

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Rhondrae is one of many visitors today, each of whom arrives with tailor-made light and spasmodic energy. There are two New Yorkers enjoying the Bama vibe. There is a tattooed black-tee-shirted couple on their way to needle and ink sessions next door. There is a wee bit of a four-year-old who is excited about Dr. Seuss books and books about steam shovels.

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The sunshine these browsers gift to the shop produces an ambient glow that is hard to describe. You have to be here.

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Meanwhile, Rhondrae produces a bag of nibbles and sweets to share with us. She’s always feeding us with her energy and her goodies. Another customer bounces in and is ooing and ahhing at the plethora of books and goofy collectibles on display. She has found her bliss.

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I am grinning ear to ear. I am pleasured by the good feelings that pop up each time the door clangs open. Who will be next?

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A young man from DC arrives to roam the aisles and let us know what is happening in Xanadu these days. A family from the Panhandle is chuckling over a joke book, a nearby loft dweller pops in to add Agatha Christie to her hefty collection.

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I suppose this could be called Mr. Reed’s Neighborhood. At least it feels that way at times.

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Civil rights students and Louis L’Amour fans mingle with Nietzsche seekers and Lewis Grizzard lovers. Studiers seek Calvin and Hobbes and E.O. Wilson and King James Bibles and Mad Magazine. You just never know what people will ask for.

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I’m happily grinning again. I guess this is the kind of day I love recalling later on, when I’m home resting up for the next day’s onslaught of random goodwill and well-lit souls

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

 

Hear Jim’s 4-minute true-story podcast:  https://youtu.be/e9VUrU7rLyg

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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FROM SMUGLY TO SNUGGLY IN ONE LIFETIME

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“It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into.”

–Jonathan Swift

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I suppose that this Jonathan Swift quote I just came across is just as true today as it seemed way back when.

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During my extended journey from dolt-age to dotage I have been reasoned and de-reasoned in and out of temporary truths…again and again.

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During my misspent youth I believed in, then dis-believed in, flying saucers and grisly things that go BOO in the night. Can’t say that I am smarter now, it is just that I don’t believe in them anymore. More accurately, they don’t occupy space in my imagination anymore.

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Other things that were seemingly true and real for a jiffy don’t weigh on my mind as they once did. I’ve had failed flings with a dozen isms, a modicum of romances, a taste for all things chocolate, an obsession with trading cards, a belief in this braggart or that braggart. All have arisen, all have become jaded and faded.

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What replaced all these mini obsessions? What if anything occupies my better spirits? Is all seduce-ability gone bye-bye?

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Every time I’m ready to build my wings and flail about in some far-off cause or far-flung fantasy, I tend to blink. Blinking pulls me back to the land of earthlings and face-to-face realities.

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Blinking clears the vision, simplifies the circuitous ramblings of pundits and philosophers and politicians and wise guys. Blinking grounds me, astounds me, with its simplicity.

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Simplicity is so complicated. Once embraced, I can see what’s before me, I can allow focus to resume. I can clap my hands in pleasure. I can re-examine what is real and concrete, what is unique and blatantly important.

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What seems corny in our times of snarky-ness, in our days of cynicism and shaming…what seems corny is that CORNY is the new reality, the forever reality.

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Corny means not only loving the good in people, corny means acting out this love, actually saying kind and comforting things, actually taking time to listen and respond and give back. Actually being a good example for others to emulate. How is that for ultimate corniness?

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Also, corny can replace those emotionally-charged but infinitely useless minutes that can make you doubt hope and abandon good deeds. Corniness can cause you to become useful, make you matter, fill you with hope and possibility.

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If you decide to follow the path of emotional maturity you may see that you are acting out the person you always were. Maybe that person was timid for a while. But boldness in the cause of spreading goodness and mercy is not such a bad thing.

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

–Mark Twain

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Join the convoy and see where it takes you. You just may become a spreader of random acts of surprisingly fun times

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/JZwVCVRNs_g

or read today’s story below…

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Life, actually…

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DOWN-SOUTH NOTES ON HOW TO NOTICE BOOKS AND BOOKIES

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As curious booklookers stream into my bookshop each day, things happen. You know, Things Happen.

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Browsers want to know stuff.

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“Have you read all these books?” That’s like asking a shoestore manager, “Have you worn all these shoes?”

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“Where’s your oldest book? I just want to see your oldest book.” Like going into a convenience store and asking, “Where is the oldest expire-date candy bar section?”

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“I just read history. Got any?” I want to ask, “History of snails, history of street repair, history of grumpy old men?” What is the customer’s idea of “history” books?

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I like helping browsers find something worthy of adoption. But first I must de-layer and decipher exactly what the potential customer is asking for.

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For some, “history” just means books about the Civil War. Down South, this usually means only books about the Down South idea of what the conflict was all about. History is in the heart of the beholder.

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There are two ways to answer the “Have you read all these books?” question. If lightheartedness seems appropriate I’ll reply, “Yep. I’ve read them all.” Depending on whether the asker gets the joke, I’ll add, “Except this book–the one right here. Haven’t finished it yet.”

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Of course the gag is obvious to most, but for some it seems like a reasonable answer. If you haven’t been raised in a reading environment, or if you’ve seldom read anything voluntarily, you just might believe someone could read a few hundred thousand books in a bookstore.

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I don’t judge, I just bemuse and observe.

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As to the matter of examining a centuries-old book, I enjoy getting to know the customer’s motivation better before bringing out an ancient volume.

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If the customer is simply gawking, with no intention of learning or reading beyond sightseeing, I might hesitate, perhaps only complying when there are no other customers awaiting assistance. But it is fun, showing off a 500-year-old book.

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Helping all customers properly is pretty much impossible. It pleasures me to hand someone the exact edition of the precise book being requested. It disappoints me to announce that a book is not available today—just sold my last copy yesterday.

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So in a bookstore, things happen. Books are cherished, adopted, recited aloud, hugged, occasionally chewed on (toddlers run loose sometimes), ordered, read within the shop, placed on hold, even put on layaway as we say in this part of the nation.

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The secret of running a joyful book emporium is to observe and assist, not criticize. The secret of running a bookstore is to see a favorite book through the eyes of an avid collector, not wonder why anyone would waste time reading this particular author. The secret of running a cathedral of books is to swim among the titles and find the secret behind every page. There’s always a secret to be found, even hiding behind the most inconspicuous-looking covers.

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You can dive into a bookstore and hone in or home in on what you want today. Or you can declare today a holiday and just wander the aisles, stop on a dime, close your eyes, reach for an unknown and unknowing author. Then, undercover of night and blanket, flashlight at the ready, surprise yourself by getting to know the words of a stranger…a stranger who spent years dreaming up and constructing the story you now hold open undercover

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed