If I were Blackie Sherrod, the long-, long-time columnist for the Dallas Morning News –the man, the myth, the legend – I'd have to start this post by saying: Scattershooting while watching The Magnificent Seven.

Blackie writes these occasional pieces we in the profession call ``notes columns.'' There's a very specific reason we do. It's written by a columnist and it's all a collection of notes, separated by a ellipsis, which we refer to as ``three dots.'' And that's because an ellipsis is … three dots.

And they said writer's block was a difficult thing to conquer.

In my case, it's been more of a topic block. Blog block. Part of the problem has been the news – too much of what I see and read just plain makes me angry, and I promised myself that I wouldn't get into current affairs on this blog. I have another blog that I can resurrect when I'm ready to do that, and I'll announce it here when I do.

First note – the chapter that I posted below is not from a mystery novel, as one person thought upon reading it. This one was written during my growth phase, and it's about one man's search for something he wasn't aware he was missing, or searching, for. In a real sense, it was my attempt to put some explanation to what I found on Maui – a greater sense of who we are, and what the world is about. It's vague, and it's touchy-feely. And I think maybe I started to feel self-conscious about it the more I got into it.

Second note – I had a very cute story in today's edition of the paper I write for. I'd attach the link, but the story loses a great deal without the pictures by Holly Pickett, one of our staff photographers. The story was about a program that teaches soccer skills to kids from18 months to 10 years. There's something about watching three-year-old running around, kicking soccer balls and balloons that just makes you smile – sort of like watching a litter of puppies playing.

Third note – I've always known that you can make a mighty fine living playing a worn-out cliché, but I think Tom Selleck has abused that privilege.

I watched the new movie Selleck produced for TNT last night – a production starring Tom Selleck, of course. This time out, Selleck plays Monte Walsh, a hero from a book by the same name by Jack Schaeffer. For those of you who missed it, Selleck plays his now hackneyed western character. You saw it in Crossfire Trail. If you missed that, he played him in Last Stand at Saber River. Hell, you saw him for years on television as Magnum, P.I., only without the writers. John Wayne played virtually the same character in every western he ever did, but at least he had the minimal acting chops it takes to at least make each character interesting.

Selleck succeeds only in making an homage to the days when a gun and a horse were a man's best friends – in keeping with his standing as a spokesman for the National Rifle Association.

Washington Post critic Tom Shales panned Selleck for Crossfire Trail, but the criticism still applies – especially considering that Selleck has neither changed characters, or changed wardrobe from that film to this:

``From the foggy, groggy way Selleck plays the hero, it's surprising he can understand which end of a gun the bullets come from. In real life, of course, Selleck is a friend to guns and all them that shoots 'em. He made a famous spectacle of himself on "The Rosie O'Donnell Show" in 1999 when he trembled under O'Donnell's criticisms of the National Rifle Association, for which he is a spokesman.

``After the show, the Magnum Man baby-whined to the press that Rosie had been mean to him, big bully that she is. Memory of that incident, pale though it may be, rather tends to impair Selleck's credibility when he attempts to play a big, tough hombre, as he does in this film.''

It's easy to go for the cliché when doing a western. Perhaps that's why the genre died as a major moneymaker for studios. And that also makes the occasional western that DOES try to go beyond the cliché that much more interesting. Two that immediately come to mind are Tom Horn, starring an aging Steve McQueen, and another TNT effort – The Good Old Boys, starring Tommy Lee Jones and Sissy Spacek. Monte Walsh also pales to the Sam Elliott versions of several Louis L'Amour novels, including Conagher (with his wife, Katharine Ross) and The Quick and the Dead (with Kate Capshaw and Tom Conte).

It's ironic that Selleck was introduced to Louis L'Amour by doing The Sacketts and The Shadow Riders, both movie versions of L'Amour novels – starring with Sam Elliott as brothers.

More soon.

I've had a couple book projects run into a brickwall somewhere along the line. Mostly for reasons I have never fully understood. Either the ideas just weren't working, or I lost interest. Personally, I think it was just an okay idea that never really came together. I wrote it about six years ago and just walked away from it. I think the idea is worth resurrecting. But I decided to post it after giving it a quick edit, instead of just ripping it up and startign from scratch. Or not. I'm hoping that some feedback will help.

So, herewith, is the first chapter of a book I started, with a working title of The Cycle of Rocks. Let me know what you think. Good or bad.

Chapter One

They’re circling me like buzzards over carrion, I thought to myself.

Two thugs in the early morning glow – one with a long, thin knife that, in my rapidly sobering state, looked like a samurai sword; the other with a sneer that looked more like constipation than menace.

And then it struck me: they’re not circling me. None of us are moving. My head's spinning.

In my mind, when the thought of facing an armed criminal, I'd take the knife away and kick their collective ass. Trouble was, I was suddenly feeling rubbery in the knees from too much free scotch

“Why don’t you two gentlemen come back a little later and we can discuss it,” I said.

“Why don’t you give us the money before we kick your ass,” the tall one said

The night had been going so well. I’d covered the lunacy that had been the Tyson-Holyfield rematch at the MGM Grand, rattling off 3,500 words for Box Seat magazine, my employer of the moment, and had retired to the blackjack table to forget about my problems. I’d been playing with a very nice, very pretty redhead named Marcia, who spoke with a definite Oklahoma drawl.

For the first and only time in my life, the cards ran hot in my favor. I won. On the last hand I’d ended up with more money than I could count riding on the turn of a card.

And there they were.

Face up on the green-felt table in front of me sat a pair of aces. Both were the Ace of Hearts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before, Mr. Rockwell,” Marcia-from-Oklahoma had said. “Wow. I know it can happen – this is a seven-deck shoe. But with only the two of us playing . . .”

“Split ‘em and double down,” I’d said, careful not to slur the words. “And stop calling me Mr. Rockwell, will you? The name’s Tucker.”

Marcia heeded my request – all except for the name part. After four hours of being called Mr. Rockwell I was beginning to feel like a sixth-grade teacher just before morning recess. She had a pretty smile and a smooth way with the cards that showed a little style, a little flourish. She extracted two cards: the Jack of Spades and the 10 of Diamonds.

Double blackjack.

Marcia-from-Oklahoma had the nine of clubs and eight of spades showing and, by house rules, had to stand.

Funny. Now I was having trouble doing the same.

I took a deep breath to gather myself and walked with as much dignity as I could for the nearest seat at the bar. Not a bad trick for a dinosaur.

I’m an old-styled sportswriter for a weekly magazine – Box Seat – in an era when ESPN, CNN, Fox, MSNBC, CNBC and enough other letters to fill a king-sized box of Alpha-Bits saturate the sports enthusiasts with an immediate flood of sights and sounds. Each passing year, fewer and fewer people give a shit about what I have to say four or five days after a big event.

Before I’ve even written my 3,500 words the masses have seen the circus. Yeah, I'm old – old news. It used to be that the news magazine was the last word. Now we’re just last.


Marcia-from-Oklahoma’d given me a broad smile and stacked my winnings in front of each hand, the colored chips making a beautiful montage.

“Well, Marcia-from-Oklahoma, I think I’ll call it a morning,” I’d said. “If you would be so kind as to take care of cashing my winnings for me, I would be ever-so-grateful.”

I handed her a $100 chip, making mental note to include that as part of my expense account. “You’ve been a wonderful playing companion.''

She’d scooped my chips into a handy little caddy and given me a wink. “Glad to, Mr. Rockwell,” she’d said. Then she’d looked over her shoulder, making certain the pit boss was out of ear shot. “It’s been fun, Tucker,” she’d said in a whisper.

Being a VIP does have its advantages, and this was one of the few times I have availed myself of them. This morning, good old Tucker Rockwell was a Vegas VIP.

For the past week I have been trotted out for advertisers. I've been asked who'll win the big fight more times this week than I could possibly count. It’s as if I'm supposed to have prescient knowledge of the outcome. Instead, to all who ask, I answer unequivocally: “Don King.”

“Can I get you something?”

My eyes slowly focused first on a pair of high heels and worked their way up two shapely legs. They stopped at cleavage, which, like the Grand Canyon, was deep and wide. It also was bent over the table to place a coaster in front of me.

“Coffee with cream,” I said to the breasts, immediately feeling guilty. This plastic surgeon had absolutely no sense of proportion.

Anyway, feeling guilty had been my specialty this morning. I was gambling to keep from being in the same room with my ex-wife-wannabe's proposed settlement agreement.

I was being divorced, and she’d decided that, along with covering a Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, we should finalize the division of our respective properties. Compared to me, Holyfield got off lightly. He'd only had a bite taken out of his ear. Hiding the damned proposal in my suitcase was a little like Mrs. Armstrong asking Neil to balance the family checkbook while he was on the way to and from the moon.

A coffee cup had appeared in front of me, accompanied by the breasts., who were demonstrating a different kind of self-assertiveness.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Rockwell?” they’d asked. The breasts obviously were clued in on my VIP status. Perhaps that made me a Very Impressed Pervert, I thought.

“I keep asking you people to stop calling me that,” I’d said, disappointed at not hearing an echo. “Mr. Rockwell was my old man. I’m just Tucker. Better yet, call me Rock.”

“Okay, Rock,” she’d said, dropping a pretty face into my field of view. “I’m Vonnie. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Where are you from Vonnie?” I’d asked.

“Right here in Vegas.”

“Well, Vonnie-from-Vegas, do you know a good divorce attorney?”

She’d smiled a knowing smile and patted the back of my hand.

“I know a divorce attorney, but he’s not a good one. If he’d been any good I wouldn’t be working here. He’s as big an asshole as my ex.”

“Tell me about it,” I’d said, shaking my head out of empathy or sympathy – or maybe just for the exercise, I couldn’t remember.

“Maybe later,” she’d said winking.

“Your winnings, Mr. Rockwell,” the suited gentleman said, handing me an envelope.

I took the money and decided to give up correcting people about my name. And for the umpteenth time that night I’d thought about that old adage: Unlucky at love, lucky at cards. At least, I think that was how the old saw went.

I drank the coffee and got another sample of Vonnie’s breasts during a refill. I wondered if she listed them as dependants on her taxes.

I took a deep breath and sighed. Maybe a walk in the desert air would help clear my head, I’d thought.

And so here I was, with two ugly assholes.

“Don't fuck with us.”

I was filled with rheumy-yet-macho thoughts once again. I would do to them what I’d expected Holyfield to do to that ear-biting freak a few blocks over at the MGM Grand. My legs felt steady enough standing still, but standing still was going to get me killed. Feeling macho, or may be just feeling the scotch, I aimed a kick at the nearest crotch, but my balance and aim were a wicked combination. As the kid sidestepped my kick, I fell backward.

The sun was coming up; I was going down.

For what seemed like an eternity, I floated there in mid-air. I noticed the sun coming up over the mountains as I fell back. I saw a United Airlines jumbo jet taking off from McCarran Airport. I saw the morning sky and counted a half-dozen clouds.

And that was when I got my ass kicked.

Thus endeth chapter one.

More soon.

The People's Choice Awards have come and gone. The $34,000 gift baskets have been passed out to the presenters and the Osbornes have had their mouths washed out with industrial-strength soap. Television execs have taken note of the winners, so allow me to introduce you to the new fall lineup coming to a network near you:

CSI: Dubuque. In the pilot episode the crime scene investigators look into a case involving tainted lutefisk. The problem is – with lutefisk, how do you know it's tainted? Keeping with the theme of resurrecting actors who bailed on a successful series after one year, the new head tech for this CSI is Farrah Fawcett.

10 Simple Rules for Dating My Accountant Boyfriend. Joyce DeWitt returns to network television as a divorced mother of two precocious teenagers who's dating an executive from H&R Block.

The Boones. Pat Robertson's cable empire leaps into the world of reality programming by bringing a weekly hour with Pat Boone and his raucous family. The highlight of the first episode is when Pat is forced to say `Oh, Fudge' when the jack slips and the family sedan falls on his foot.

Survivor. The good folks who have brought us tropical islands, Australia and Africa have taken a tip from Emiril Legasse and `kicked it up a notch.' This time, the crew moves on to New York, where 12 carefully chosen people tackle the return counter at Macy's on December 26. The Las Vegas line on the winner points to – surprise – no survivors.

Friends. The show gets a makeover when NBC moves the Osborne's in next door to the cheeky half-dozen. The new season gets a kick-start when Sharon lifts her skirt and flashes Ross, who remains speechless for the remainder of the series. Kelly gives the show a culture clash when she beats the snot out of Rachel, and Joey finally finds his calling, acting as an interpreter for Ozzy. Monica, meanwhile, has a standing order for special brownies.

Everybody Loves Frodo. CBS capitalizes on the Lord of the Rings' popularity with this series about a put-upon, mama's-boy hobbit. Gandalf, who lives across the street, imposes himself on Frodo's relationship with his wife, played by the ever-cheeky Jane Krakowski. Samwise, who lives with Gandalf and a few, assorted elves, drops by regularly for comic relief.

My Big Fat Greek Business. Taking a page from the award-winning movie, Telly Savalas is resurrected to head the cast on this new sitcom – where the words `Never Leave Our Customer's Behind' takes on a whole new meaning.

And finally – The Bachelorette Gazillionaire. In this new twist, the producers have found a Detroit prostitute who makes just $12,000 a year after paying for her own bail and giving her pimp his cut. They dress her up in Versace originals, put her in a mansion in the Hamptons and watch the Viagra-infused, geriatric millionaires beat a path to her door. Ana Nicole turned down the role during pre-production. ``Been there, done that,'' she slurred.

As you can see, the Apocalypse is definitely upon us.

More soon.

Why do we write?

What is it about some of us that drives us to put our thoughts down so that we can share them with others. What is it that makes us, allows us, to peer into those dark corners of our psyche and write – when it would take sodium pentothal to get any of us to speak of what we see.

I've had conversations with two extraordinary writers lately, and that got me thinking about why some of us write, even when we believe that no one could possibly be interested in what we have to say.

The first writer I'll call Joy, since that's her name (and she's not innocent, so I see no reason to change her name).

Joy is one of the most interesting and unique people I have had the pleasure of meeting, and she's had one of the most intriguing journeys through life. She's survived cancer. She's survived a divorce. She survived putting a child up for adoption and, wonder of wonders, found her again as an adult. She's survived teaching children for God knows how many years. And she's survived being a Liberal in the Conservative South. Go figure.

Want to know a secret? Sit down with a literary agent and tell them that information, in a nutshell, and they'd go bat-shit over you. I've seen them go bat-shit over so much less. Show them that you can string a set of words together in a coherent manner and they'll beat a path to your door, anoint you with oil and hand feed you dates and figs.

If all she wrote was some tripe called ``10 Things I Learned Beating Cancer and Not Beating Your Kids,'' she'd be on bestseller lists. Oprah would have her on instead of Dr. Phil. She'd have Katie Couric in tears, sharing survivor stories over coffee. And, joy of joys for Joy, Graham Norton might want to visit HER instead of Dollywood!

The only one who doesn't see that is Joy.

I'm going to let the cat out of the bag here – in case it was ever in the bag: Joy is writing a screenplay based loosely on her life. Well, part of her life. I think she's leaving out the part about her roof leaking today. Those of you who haven't found my site through hers, and there may be one of you, please email her encouragement on a regular basis. Tell her to get her ass in gear and finish that screenplay – bless her heart. Oprah is waiting.

The other writer is Julia.

Julia has a literary voice that cuts through convention, cuts through the crap and cuts right to your heart and/or funny bone. She's insightful. She's witty. She's one of those women who can say `fuck' and not make it sound like she's using a four-letter bailout because she can't think of a better word.

Now, the hint for Julia should have come the other day, when a lame-brained, L.A. screenwriter-wannabe emailed her and confessed that he stole a couple of her posts and put them in a script. No matter what else this guy may have done, he shows good taste – he's stealing from one of the very best.

Julia's writing cries out for a bigger audience. It cries out for Reece Witherspoon, or Renee Zellwhatever – someone to say her words on the stage or screen. There are asses out there just dying to be laughed off at what she has to say. And I don't mean the asses who keep putting Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire on television. Well, actually, they're waiting, too.

If you've read her site, you'll understand when I say: Julia!!!!! Capitalize!!! Please!!!!!

And I don't mean using the shift key.

Both of you have something important to say. Both of you have a deep-seeded need to share – a need that was put there for a reason. And both of you have a wonderful gift for communicating with the rest of us. Please, please do.

More soon.

There's one good reason to watch Saturday Night Live these days.

Tina Fey.

Not that the glasses are all that sexy. It's that whole package. Intelligence. Wit. Timing. Especially wit. Wit can be very sexy. Intelligent wit even more so. You know that the conversation is never going to be dull, and if there's a lull, you'll find a way to fill it. You can have all the Pam Andersons. (By the way, if you like intelligent wit in large doses, check out Tequila Mockingbird. Julia is a major gem, although she's about as willing to capitalize as k.d. lang. Or e.e. cummings.).

That got me thinking about movie moments that I've found surprisingly hot.

Patricia Richardson vamping with Tim Allen on Home Improvement. I could tell that my life was making a major shift when I started finding TV moms hot and ingénues annoying. Interesting thing – I saw her in Ulee's Gold. No reaction. Just goes to show – heat is a result of chemistry.

Amy Madigan debating book burning with the school board in Field of Dreams. Is it just me, or did Kevin Costner's character hit the jackpot when he married her? I've always liked her work, and it makes me feel good to know that she and Ed Harris are still married and still together.

Ellen Burstyn in Same Time, Next Year. I've always loved her work – I think she's one of our finest American Actresses, witnessed by the fact that she's one of the Governors of the New School, home of Inside the Actor's Studio. And in this film she is so incredibly sexy over an entire lifetime that you have no doubt that Alan Alda will be back year after year.

Diana Rigg in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. It was the one and only James Bond movie with George Lazenby, and, for my money, the one movie that captured the Bond from the books. And this was before Diana Rigg made the big splash as everyone's heartthrob, Emma Peel on The Avengers. She played a Countess, Tracy. And it's the one and only time you will see James Bond act toward a woman from his heart and not with his 007.

Annette O'Toole in Cross My Heart. I have a weakness for redheads, ever since I used to follow Debbie around the halls of my junior high school – three years worth (cute sidebar: I wound up sitting next to her on a flight from Spokane to Seattle and didn't recognizer her until she smiled at someone on her way out the door. I never had a chance to say hello, but I could never talk to her in junior high, either). Annette O'Toole was sexy even though she was acting with Martin Short. Now THAT's sexiness.

Kathleen Quinlan in that TV series where she had her own law firm – with Dixie Carter. There was a scene in one of the first episodes, after her husband dumps her and takes all the client files with him, where she just explodes. Winds up dancing around in lingerie, stockings and gargers. It was powerful, and it was sexy as hell.

There's a great French film that I found sweet and erotic and a treat – The Hairdresser's Husband. Anna Galiena and Jean Rochefort star. Check it out. Rent the version with English subtitles – the language only adds another layer to the film's erotic appeal.

Katherine Ross – in a movie that's run every once in a while on TV these days called The Empty Copper Sea. It was an attempt to make a movie out of Travis McGee, the terrific character John D. MacDonald created. Amy Madigan was in it, too, by the way. Sam Elliot starred as Travis McGee and did a good job – I have always liked him as an actor. But the scenes between Sam and Katherine were wonderful. No wonder they've been married happily forever and continue to act together whenever possible. You will note that married actors don't always have that on-screen chemistry. Witness Warren Beatty and Annette Bening in Love Affair.

It's not a surprise, but every scene with Diane Lane in Unfaithful was incredibly intense and powerful – sexy and tragic all at the same time. She's my favorite to win an Oscar for Best Actress. And if anyone wonders where that performance came from, just rent a little movie called A Walk on the Moon.

Oh, and the thing that motivates me to continue writing my novel and, following that, the screenplay? That moment where that guy from Life is Beautiful, Roberto Benigni, won an Academy Award, climbed over several rows of seats, ran up the stairs and buried his face in Sophia Loren's cleavage. Now THAT's motivation.

More soon.