Truth Being Stranger Than Fiction

It seems to me that writers who don't like meeting new people, who are shy, and who when in public put their noses in a book (however good it may be), are missing out on a land parcel of stories the size of the great plains. Stories don't exist only on the page. (Moreover, these written stories often germinate in real-world events.) There are acres of stories that live in people who don't like to write, who've never thought of writing, but who have something about the human experience that they have to share.

At my polling place yesterday, us four workers bored out of our civic-minded minds, we started telling true stories. There were wonderful tales of a hotel room being trashed by Roseanne Barr and Tom Arnold; a sailer in protected Pt. Loma waters, who was notified of his location by a submarine, which rose ominously out of the water; being taken for $75 at the border, and being tickled about it; the lengths to bridge-lovers (card game) go to get their fix.

When not dishing with my fellow workers, this is what my writer's mind observed:
*high school students are fond of adorning their skin with stickers and pen doodles.
*if a dog isn't allowed entrance somewhere, and the person enforcing the rule loves dogs, the dog will be let in.
*some people are simply in a sour mood, and no amount of polite banter will make a difference.
*voters who are registered as nonpartisan don't in fact know what this means.
*overheard: "Ever since they drafted me, I vote every time."