The true problem here is that I heard this song when I was a little little kid, and it just seemed so weird. The video didn’t help my understanding either, it also seemed sooo weird, too. But now that I am older, I can now see how Gary Numan was way ahead of his time in both this song’s sound and the video as well.
What gets stuck in my head is the way Numan sings the words, “In cars…” That little inflection he does is hard to mimic, so his cadence gets stuck on replay in my brain.
I was running errands in the neighborhood this morning, and I was on the corner of an intersection which I frequently cross often if not a couple time a day, and where there was a coffee cart. As I was waiting for the light to change, the woman in the coffee cart leaned out the window and yelled at me, “Where’s your dog? Is she okay?”
It took me a second to register that she was talking to me, and that her questions weren’t the ravings of a lunatic. When it hit me that these were meant as friendly questions, I responded that the dogs at home.
“I don’t see her anymore. I was wondering if she’s okay.”
“She’s fine,” I said, “we just changed the time we take her for a walk in the morning, is all.”
“Okay, she’s a cute dog. Very funny.”
The light changed, so I thanked the lady, and wished her a good day as I crossed the street.
She wished me and my dog a good day as well.
You know, I never really feel like I have a day off. Today, President’s Day, is a day off for the kid. She slept in, video chatted with friends, did homework, read a little from her new book, and generally has been a really good kid. I don’t think she’s brushed her teeth yet, hence why I am holding back and giving her a “generally good” rating.
Me? I had to get all the normal Dad stuff accomplished. The feeding of everybody, and doing laundry, and making sure this home runs smoothly. Not that I am complaining, but it’s not till 4pm that I get a chance to sit down and do this; put a blog up.
But something that has become painfully clear to me know is that I am running short on days that she will sit around the apartment with me. I can’t stop her from getting older, and more than I can stop myself from getting older. Soon, on days like this, she’ll be off to her friend’s place to hang out. I wouldn’t call this a melancholic thought; more like a dark realty of the world that is barreling toward me whether I’m ready or not.
The solid truth that I hold to is that as my kid gets older, that this is the most enjoyable age to be with her. Like the baby phase was great, and who doesn’t love a snuggly cute baby! But, the kid now has opinions, and can make jokes, and likes to show me stuff that’s she learned, and it is infectious to be around a person who’s view of the world is still optimistic and exciting. I like this age. And in another year when she’s a teenager, that will be the best time! and so on and so on.
This might just be the fastest eighteen years of my life.
(Cryin’ never did nobody no good…)
So, I’ve had this cold for almost a week now, but it’s not a normal cold. Stuffy nose, post-nasal drip, coughing, but I don’t feel run down like I normally do when I have a cold. Also, this cold only seems to come alive for the first two hours of my day, and then all night when I try to sleep. Other than that, I feel rather normal. But the damn thing won’t go away. It won’t get worse, and it won’t get better. It just exists in a perpetual state of being… Neither gaining nor losing energy.
I am sitting and writing in a blazer today. No real reason to be this formal, other than I want to sit on the couch, my computer on my lap, trying to think up three jokes to write about, with a blazer on. It’s not cold in the house, and I have no one to impress, just felt like something I should do. Like, how I should put jazz on, get a glass of wine, and catch up on some reading. Hell, here’s a picture to prove that this is really happening.
So, Thomas Frank got sacked as manager for Tottenham Hotspur this week. I think it was a mistake, yet I also freely admit that things can and will get worse for this team. They just can’t get out of their own way, and with the injuries piling up, there seems like little chance of hope. Relegation is a very real possibility. I won’t blame Frank for this, as it seems like he just has had the worst luck for a first-year manager. I put the blame for this situation on Daniel Levy and Peter Charrington. Levy created an untenable situation where the expectation is that managers are interchangeable. Honestly, the team hasn’t been the same since Mauricio Pochettino was at the helm, and he was fired for a stupid reason like not being successful enough. Sure, do wish we could go back to those days when we were in the Champions League Final and at the top of the table in the Premier League. Honestly, I don’t put it past West Ham to get enough of their act together and make a run to get out of the bottom three, and kick either Nottingham Forest or Spurs down the ladder. I don’t want to see Tottenham in the Championship, but if that’s what it will take for the owners to get their heads out of their respective asses, then so be it.
(The flash fiction story “What Kira Packed” by Heather Bell Adams was first presented by Milk Candy Review on December 11th, 2025.)
(Image from Milk Candy Review)
You know what “writing advice” I hate getting more than anything? “Less is more.” And the hair’s breadth of a runner up to that infuriating maxim is, “Show don’t tell.” These two bits of advice are the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of the writing world, who get marched out by lazy editors and inept writing instructors when they need to say something enigmatic yet mildly profound, which can be interpretation in any way, other than with a coherent explanation. Those two phrases have been used so often, that the words have been rendered meaningless.
But then Heather Bell Adams writes “What Kira Packed,” and finally, there is an articulate, rational, and svelte work of flash that says in a clear voice – this is how you write less without telling.
This piece is under three hundred words, using a structure devise of what Kira packed going to and then back from “camp.” It is heartbreaking in its simplicity, knowing the “change” Kira endured at “camp” and how what she’ll be coming home with what may include trauma, repression, self-loathing, and depression. This is a gut-punch of a piece, a brutalist’s honesty here, but Heather Bell Adams also leaves just enough vague, forcing us to use our imaginations to fill in what is left undefined. This creates a unique and individual horror for each of us as to what “really” happened at this camp.
This is how you do it, and do it impactfully, with intent to get to the marrow of a story.
Bravo.
