Jon Paul Goggin Posts

Mike the Senior Manager shook his head. “Sorry, Phil. The CEO has made up his mind. The economy’s bad. We have to let you go.”

The older man stood up and placed his hand on Phil’s shoulder in solidarity, then went downstairs for coffee.  Phil sat motionless and stared at the wall. The rattle of distant laughter drifted in from the breakroom. He gritted his teeth.


He’d worked for the company for five years, slaved for them. He’d stayed late when Mike needed him.  Worked weekends even. He put his time in.  These guys couldn’t just put him out on the street.  They owed him more than that.  I mean, who the fuck does that?

When Phil’s coworker Monica walked in, she found him hammering on his keyboard, cussing.

“What’s going on Phil?”

“Those fuckers!” Phil exploded from his chair and threw the desk phone across the room. It slammed into the wall and crackled to the floor. “I can’t believe they did this to me!”

Monica smiled. “What are you talking about?”

“My job. They fucking fired me!”

Monica started to make a wise-crack when she caught sight of the computer screen. A blue bar ticked up in one percent increments toward one-hundred percent.

Open-mouthed, she glowered at Phil. “What the hell are you doing?”

Phil grinned in the corner. “I’m crashing the servers. All of them. Every fucking one of them.”

Monica grabbed him by the sleeve. “You know it was a joke, right?!”


“You know it was a joke? April Fool’s Day?”

One last note before the day fails.  The path to writing has taken me far from my original course.  Not too long ago, I felt like a lighthouse keeper in a fog, caught out in a storm.

That’s changed.  I can’t remember the turns, the places where I might have paused to reflect, the dead-ends and the jaunts and the switchbacks.  But it seems like this spot is a pretty nice one.

I think I’ll stay awhile.

I only just now walked home from a viewing of “Amelia,” the new flick about Amelia Earhart starring Hilary Swank. 

Movie Link Here

For me, the film was very take it or leave it.  The script suffered from a lack of character development, a typical flaw of recent historical dramas and a phenomena I see cropping up more and more in recent Hollywood films.   

Though the acting generated some heat and the directing was acceptable, “Amelia” needed a heartbeat–a longing or desire or life’s dream (beyond the generic and formless “I really want to fly!”)–to make the story go.  Unfortunately, the writers (Ron Bass and Anna Hamilton Phelan) didn’t install one.

The truth is they don’t make ’em like they used to.  Anymore, we never see characters like George Bailey or Rose Sayer that walk, talk and sweat character.  Even our old friend William Wallace of “Braveheart” fame showed more promise than Amelia, trying to wing her way around the world.

So I grade the film average.  Worth a viewing if you have nothing else going.  That, class, concludes our movie review for today.  And I won’t give away the ending.  Promise.

OK, well I didn’t really go to bed early last night, but I did rise early this morning.  I bagged some time working on the short story: “The Last Word”–and that’s a working title.

I did spend a few hours last night fiddling with this blog, getting the pistons moving, working layout and template.  I am happy with it so far.  I was looking at it again now and I think my landing photo is too large.  Outsized, say I.  Enormous.  But that’s an easy fix.

I also banged out two posts (which you will see below) and that made me happy.  I like.  In the immortal words of that guy from the A-Team whose name at this moment escapes me: “I love it when a plan comes together.”

So the warm blanket of sleep and the overcoat of dreams (like that?) were thrown off promptly at 7:30 this morning–a full two hours before my butt needed to be at work.  Blood flowed on the short walk to the grab-n-go to get coffee, then, were you to drift into my CHU under the crack in the door around the eight o’clock hour, you would have found me tap tap tapping away at my laptop, snug as a bug in a rug.

The writing comes.  That’s the important bit.  Slowly at first, haltingly, like a car with an old motor chuggin’ the steep hill of literary progress.  What’s at the top, waiting?  I wonder.