This is a treasure trove of many things Zach Hively. Happy exploring.
So I am not a mechanic, but let me tell you this: my pickup truck won’t start, the engine block is covered in coffee grounds, and I cannot be certain these two truths are related.
I felt accomplished upon leaving the dry cleaner. On top of things. Soon to be well-attired. Then I felt rear-ended. This is largely because I was, in fact, rear-ended.
Few delights compare to building something tangible with my own two hands. Barring that, very little compares to getting my dad to build things for me. With me! I mean WITH me.
After a long day of international plane travel, all one wants is to lay one’s head on another person’s used pillow and fall asleep so fast that one cannot wonder for long about how foreign head lice differ from domestic ones. Such was our wish.
Desert Apocrypha just received an incredible honor, bestowed by readers & booksellers.
I have decided to embrace who I really am, which is a man deeply averse to exercise.
Inside the tissue paper was Papaw’s Zippo lighter with his name etched on the side. Perfect for setting flame to all my worst work—and sealing rope ends, and lighting pipes, and lighting scented candles, and maybe some incense too.
I did my due diligence by spending about 12.4 seconds with the dog before deciding for certain to make a lifelong commitment to him. I did not think at the time he was a puppy. I thought he was merely a youthful seventy pounds.
Let me tell you, making a hat was no easy feat—not with the shape of my head.
I have never shopped the black market before, but I understand the experience, now that I keep bees.
If you are blessed enough by the gods and stars above never to have hurt your back, then you cannot truly imagine how it has to hurt at least as much as birthing triplets.
Welp, it finally happened. After fifteen months, I finally had to put on pants. I am lucky that I could still close my pants with some corsage-intensity tightening, and that they stretched throughout the evening to accommodate my legs. Most of all, we are all fortunate that the fasteners held, because I had to choose between tucking my shirt in and wearing underwear.
I received an email, my first from—and I say this without disparaging trolls in general—a troll that sounded like the inside of my shower drain. He felt personally attacked because my writing referenced “some old white dude” as shorthand for “the dominant, prevailing worldview in our Western culture, which would benefit from an infusion of valuing other perspectives.” Of course, understanding that subtext would require critical reading skills, or any reading skills at all.
A friend recently shared her summary of the writings of some old white dude with some old white-dude name. He posits, in a totally old-white-dude way, that animals cannot have thoughts because they do not have words to think them. I posit, respectfully, that he is an idiot. As evidence to support my claim, I point to Legos.
