OK. So I am going to start calling myself a writer and thinker. Will. I. Am, of the Black Eyed Peas, calls himself an artist and thinker. I like the idea that people think - and that thinking is something to be proud of. So ...  

That I'm thinking about thinking may reflect all the thinking I've done in the year since I was axed by The Tampa Tribune.

I ran across the Will. I. Am "thinker" reference in the December 2007 issue of Vanity Fair. I'm a little behind on my reading since I've been doing all this thinking.
 
There's plenty to think about these days: the presidential race, the great depression of 2008, the skyrocketing cost of gas, milk and George W. Bush.

Bush is the most costly item. But Jan. 2009 is coming.

That's one of the things I've been thinking about. No, not Bush. I try very hard to ignore him. But whether I should reveal in a public venue my disdain for Bush.

Should I reveal anything in public at all any more?

It's been a year since my life as a columnist ended. Obviously, since my blog entries have been so sporadic, I'm not even sure I want to take the time to write anything any more.
 
There is life away from the computer. Kids, grandkids, volunteering, Chico's. So why am I at all drawn to expressing myself in public?

I'm not sure.

Ego maybe?

Stories that I'd love to share?

Maybe that too.

In any case, it's April 19, 2008. Baxter is still around; the cats are too. The Little Prince is driving. Even borrowing my car. The rest of the clan is thriving. Claire, the youngest, just turned 3. 

I'm working part-time at Chico's - and it's costing me a fortune even though I get a discount.

The Chico's in BayWalk in downtown St. Petersburg is full of stuff I want to buy - and stories I'd love to share.

I bumped into Eli Weisel, the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, in Chico's. Yes, it's true.

He sat in the guy chair while is elegant wife shopped.

I met Roger Penske's wife in Chico's during the Grand Prix weekend.

Both women were gracious, friendly, warm considerate.

Unlike a few of the other women I've met.
 
They were pigs. Imperious, snide, bossy and so uncouth they left piles of clothes in their wake. Apparently they were born in barns - or thought themselves just too important to pick stuff up off the dressing room floor where they'd dumped it and hang it back on the hangar.
 
I've held my tongue.

So far.

Stay tuned.