Writing seems so easy at times. Just put your experiences on paper, maybe change a few things to make it more interesting and, boom, you have a novel.

Simple, right?

Well, it seems to be for someone like Charles Bukowski, author of the 1971 novel “Post Office,” which I recently finished. The book follows the travails of Henry Chinaski, a man who enjoys his drinks, difficult women and trips to the race track and only seems to work at the post office to fund those pursuits. From all accounts, Bukowski pretty much based the character on his own experiences.

Bukowski already had accomplished a lot as a writer before he wrote this book so I’m interested now to go read some of this others works. I love the story that the owner of the publishing company “offered Bukowski 100 dollars per month for life on condition that Bukowski would quit working for the post office and write full time. He agreed and ‘Post Office’ was written within a month.”

Like I said, it’s always that easy, right?

Jokes about the process aside, the quick process shows through in a positive way because the simple and profane writing style pulls you right into Cinaski’s world. I imagined myself sitting a few barstools away from the protagonist as he told his stories to a friend. You cannot believe some of what he says, but he also doesn’t seem like he’s embellishing because of the honesty and conviction in his voice.

The more you listen, you wish you could live his life for a couple of days, but simultaneously pity him for not breaking free from a cycle of destructive behavior. The writing may seem easy, but the life he had to live to entertain us certainly wasn’t. Bukowski manages to entertain the reader without making his fictional alter-ego completely unsympathetic. You want to buy the guy a beer … but only one because he doesn’t need more than that.

On a separate note, I read this book on my Kindle and something strange happened. The percentage meter didn’t really seem to match the pace of the story. As I approached 50 percent, I wondered how Bukowski could sustain the narrative for much longer. Turns out I was right – the file actually contained two copies of the book so I reached the ending when the meter hit 50 percent.

We were kid-free on this particular weekend so I really appreciated the idea. A Saturday evening in Dillsburg with Maria’s best friend from college sounded perfect.

A day or so after learning of the short trip, I inquired about the menu. I did so innocently because we were visiting a church campground where her friend has a cottage. The kitchen options are somewhat limited so the meals are pretty simple.

My first clue that something was amiss came when Maria laughed at my question. Then she got a very serious look on her face. I started to see my enjoyable Saturday evening slipping out of my grasp.

Hamloaf. We were having hamloaf for dinner.

Times like this make me wonder if my wife has decided to slowly push me out of the picture. She is quite aware of my feelings on the subject of hamloaf. Not only did she plan a hamloaf dinner for me, but she withheld the information willingly.

When she asked a couple of days later, I had to admit that I did honestly get mad when I heard the news. Then I realized I could just suck it up and deal with things. Plus, I needed a column idea for this week, and hamloaf worked perfectly.

So where does this hamloaf hatred come from? I had actually never eaten the food before the recent dinner. The two words just don’t sound right together. The cook at my fraternity in college made it once, but pretty much everyone skipped the meal on principle because they, like me, fundamentally believe you should not loaf a ham.

That feeling has stuck with me ever since. I had strength in numbers. My pre-conceived notions about hamloaf had to ring true.

But this particular variety of hamloaf, my wife and her friend pointed out, is made by sweet church ladies. It has brown sugar on top. Everyone who eats it loves it.

Like the droning chants of a cult, I heard those sayings in my head as we sat down to eat. Thankfully, my wife brought along mac and cheese so something appealing appeared on the table. I cut off a small slice – OK, half a slice – of the “meat” and said a quick prayer.

No great revelation happened. I didn’t spit out the food in disgust either. I merely confirmed that hamloaf might sound like a great idea to some people, but I have no use for such an idea. Make me a ham sandwich. Cut me off a piece of baked ham. But let’s leave the loafing to meat.

In the end, I’m glad I gave it a try because I can better justify my righteous indignation. Plus, our friend suggested we go out for drinks after dinner, which pretty much makes any meal turn into a good idea in my book. Even one with hamloaf.

As usual, I had gone far too long without a haircut. This happens to me all the time so I don’t know why I felt this way.

When I procrastinate on a haircut, things get out of control. My hair does not get longer. It just gets bigger.

Because of that, I have a lot of problems keeping it under control. I do my best, but sometimes I just have to throw my hands up and accept that I will look a little like Doc Brown I “Back to the Future.”

That’s how I felt as I looked in the mirror that morning. I has mostly tamed the top part, but just could not get the sides to cooperate. At the worst stages, it looks like I have a pair of rams’ horns. Yes, it’s as attractive as it sounds.

Then something in the medicine cabinet caught my eye. Once in a while, I help with my daughter’s hair. I know that in order to prevent frizzing, I use a small dollop from one of the tubes in the cabinet.

I honestly had to stop and think for a second. Did I really want to cross this threshold? Had I found the price of my own vanity? Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?

For as long as I can remember, I have completely eschewed hair products. I can’t really put my finger on how or when my disdain began. I just know I go for the natural look.

When I was a little kid, my Mom would have me use some sort of gel to keep my cowlick down, but I hated how my hair felt all crunchy.

As I navigated the 1980s, I even managed to avoid ever using mousse in my hair. Part of me thought I couldn’t pull it off. The rest of me knew I couldn’t pull it off.

Like a lot of guys, I desperately wanted to grow long hair. I don’t think I wanted a ponytail or anything – I do have my limits – but I saw how girls reacted to guys with hair to their shoulders. My tangled bird’s nest did not get the same reaction.

Of course, now that I am married and older, women tell me how much they love my curls. Where were they in 1988?

Anyway, those curls had gone beyond manageable, so I took drastic action after mulling over those three questions. I grabbed a tube of the the stuff Maria and Bridget used, put a drop on my finger and smoothed out the sides of my hair.

It actually looked good. And my hair did not get that crunchy feeling throughout the day. Had I figured out a way to properly use hair product?

Of course not, I just found a way to make it through the day without looking too silly. I got my hair cut nice and short a few days later. But at least I know I can procrastinate even longer now before the next trim.

The bad news is that all of them may only get orders of 15 episodes or less and that “Cougar Town” might move from ABC to TBS. But is any of that really bad news?

When I hear people complain about these kinds of shows and react to one less-than-stellar episode as if it ruins every good episode prior to it, I try to point out how difficult it is to put together close to nine hours (that’s what 24 22-minute shows represents) of comedy with defined story lines while servicing every character and all the confines of television production and still make fans happy all the time.

So maybe shortened orders for these less than typical comedies might make sense. Maybe they need to tighten the structure to eliminate the lulls in the season. However, the networks need to do their part too – no stunt casting, fewer breaks in the schedule for new episodes and a commitment to embracing the weirdness of the shows. That might work for the first three since NBC needs all the stability it can get, but I think the ship may have sailed for “Cougar Town” on ABC.

I would welcome a move to TBS because the expectations are much lower on a cable network and the rumored two-season order (15 episodes each) clearly indicates this is a move for long-term viability in syndication, something that bodes well for a show with a smaller, fanatical fan base. The change could let Kevin Biegel, who I assume will step in as showrunner if Bill Lawrence’s Fox Pilot “Like Father” gets a pickup, have freedom to tailor the show to the people who already love it.

A place on TBS’ lineup could also mean more consistency and possibly even greater flexibility as cast members – like Josh Hopkins and Dan Byrd who are in pilots for shows that might be picked up – plan for their post-wine-drinking days on screen. Don’t fret though, “Cougar Town” has first position on both actors so they wouldn’t leave if their new gigs made the fall schedule. The only bad part is that Byrd is in the Louis CK pilot, and I would love to see Louis make fun of his hair.

But I would give that up for another two seasons of Penny Can as well as the return of the Greendale 7, the debut of City Councilwoman Leslie Knope and a final season on the set of TGS.

I saw a brief mention of this news on Twitter or Facebook, but just went about my business. A few days later, I started to realize I should have paid more attention.

One hundred days until I can pretty much fill 24 hours with sports, both popular and obscure. Of course, I can kind of pull that off now with all the cable channels and online options available, but that’s not as much fun as the Olympics.

I think I fall into that age bracket which really has a special connection to the Olympics. I was 11 when the U.S. hockey team pulled off the Miracle on Ice in the winter of 1980. The Lake Placid Games also had Eric Heiden’s speedskating domination.

Back then, we didn’t care if the events took place during the day and ran on TV in the evening. Complaints about “spoilers” didn’t rank up there with systematic torture of innocent people in our culture for some people. Sure, some people knew we beat the Russians before ABC showed the game, but no one knew any better.

Then, right as we came off that high, we found out the U.S. would boycott the Summer Olympics in Moscow. For a kid who would turn 12 that summer, it just made no sense. I could have totally walked away from the Olympics, but a fortuitous event happened.

The Summer Olympics came to Los Angeles in 1984, and I got to go. Two of my brothers and I went out there for about a week. We initially bought tickets for wrestling, but also got a chance to see baseball, field hockey and soccer.

Those Olympics also suffered from a boycott by the Soviet bloc, but this didn’t matter to my teenage self because the U.S. had the chance to win all kinds of medals, some of them in person. I was hooked.

I don’t get into the Winter Olympics as much as I do the Summer Games (well, except for my quadrennial fascination with curling) so I only get to feel this excitement every four years.

Along with the 100-day milestone, I also found out that every event would stream live on the Internet, something which excited me way too much.

I watch the Olympics for the sports, not the feature stories. I understand why broadcasters like NBC spend enormous amounts of time creating a narrative and delaying coverage to maximize viewers. I just want them to present the games the way I want to see them.

That’s why I was one of the few people who really loved the “Triple Play” pay-per-view channels offered in 1992. Others can see the story of how some athlete grew up in a rough neighborhood. I want to see every wrestling match, the preliminaries of the archery competition and random team handball matches when I’m getting ready for work.

Less than 100 days to go. I can’t wait.

Anyway, I have received much sympathy for my plight. I have to admit, however, that I have never had hamloaf. My whole disdain for the food comes from a natural reaction to thw rod hamloaf and a traumatic event I experienced in college.

My fraternity had its own cook. We lived in this house, which was far too nice for a bunch of college guys. Anyway, we had a full kitchen at our disposal and were served lunch Monday through Friday and dinner Sunday through Thursday.

One night during my junior year, I came home with a bunch of other guys from lacrosse practice and we went right into the kitchen. Ernie, our cook, told us he had made hamloaf for dinner.

We went right back into Ross’ Bronco II and headed for Burger King. After eating, I changed and headed right up to the library because I had a paper due or a test the next morning.

I studied until probably 10 or 11 before coming back to the house. The place was deserted, which was unusual. This was a Tuesday night or something so people were generally around.

We had about 40 guys living in the house (and another dozen in their own houses or apartments) and only a half-dozen were to be found. It was weird.

Well, at some point, the phone rang and I answered. It was one of the seniors, and I could tell he was in a bar. He told me to immediately come down to Two’s Company, a place we went to ocassionally. Everybody was there, he said. We had taken over the place and I had to get down there.

Oh, I also needed to bring a blank check from the fraternity.

Apparently, everyone else had the same reaction to the thought of hamloaf for dinner that my group did. But the rest of the guys all ended up at Two’s, which didn’t card anyone that night. It was something insane like nickel wing night so they all ate and drank a lot. Someone got the idea of starting a tab and one thing led to another.

I never made it down there as academic responsibility – and the realization that I had missed the real fun – set in. And I don’t remember how they settled up the tab.

But like all great historical moments, you don’t need the facts to appreciate The Great Hamloaf Rebellion. It’s the thought that counts.

By the way, Ernie never made hamloaf again. Thank God.

Then I go see a movie like “21 Jump Street” and have my faith restored in the decision makers (something I know I will regret soon enough).

My wife and I went to see the film a few weeks ago, and I can’t believe I waited this long to share my thoughts. I had heard good things before we saw the movie and managed to not raise the expectations above what the movie could deliver.

Two things contributed to my enjoyment – a good cast and the ability to poke fun at the entire concept of making a movie based on a TV show which barely hit 100 episodes. These two factors combine in an early scene when Nick Offerman, aka Ron F—ing Swanson from “Parks and Recreation,” assigns starts Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum to the Jump Street assignment. He talks about the task force being something forced by his superiors because they couldn’t come up with any new ideas.

From there we go on a ride that shows us how Tatum can pull off some masterful comic scenes, how Ice Cube and Rob Riggle can still scare the crap out of anyone, how Dave Franco was born to play a d-bag and how Hill can tidy everything up. He co-authored the script and did a strong job both in putting together the story and playing his role as the geek who gets a second chance at high school success, by accident of course. Hallucinogenics can really help push the plot further when nothing else will work.

And then when you think you have watched a good movie, they throw in a little surprise at the end. I’m usually not one to honor spoiler issues when something has been out for a month, but I’ll make an exception here. I loved it.

It’s fair to say that “21 Jump Street” has taken the lead in the race for The Brians and not just because the only other movie I have seen this year is “The Lorax,” which I also have to review at some point.

But sometimes sports can be much more complicated because of the emotions involved. Today, I find myself arguing on both sides of the emotional spectrum.

On one hand, there is the recent picture of Washington Wizards basketball player John Wall. He appeared at a party in Miami wearing a New York Red Bulls jersey. The Red Bulls are the rivals of D.C. United, something which has irked some Washington sports fans.

And this irking has irked some people. While discussing this with some friends, they pointed out that no one shouuld care who John Wall supports. Which, in a way is true. It doesn’t really matter.

Well, not to me, but it does matter to some other people. And those people are consumers of John Wall’s employer (and people who sponsor the team and pay Wall for endorsements). He could come off as someone not totally sold on Washington – or, even worse, antagonistic to the city. That could result in people not going to Wizards games or not buying certain things.

That doesn’t make totally sense to most people, but it’s the reality of sports. Wall hasn’t totally succeeded since coming to Washington as the number one pick two seasons ago so his brand (an unfortunate, but realistic thought in this day and age of sports) doesn’t need to take any more hits. And since some people take these things seriously, he should too which means maybe he would be better served by throwing on a D.C. United jersey.

The only thing I can think of is that he’s sponsored by Red Bull. Unless the point was to antagonize fans. But that’s not always a good idea since many sports fans don’t always have a sense of humor about things.

Which brings me to the second issue, where I fall on the side of sports being all about fun. The Washington Capitals and Boston Bruins face off in the decisive seventh game of their playoff series tonight. The folks at the Caps blog BrooksLaichyear (OK, full disclosure: they are my nephews) came up with an idea for Caps fans to show their solidarity – boycott all Boston-related products for the game.

As you would expect in this day and age, some people had a problem with this. I really don’t know why. The post obviously brims with sarcasm. It’s not angry or vindictive. This is how fans come together – taking on a common enemy even if it is something as silly as giving up Dunkin’ Donuts and Sam Adams beer for a couple of days.

So what do these situations have to do with one another? People need to let everyone handle rivalry their own way. If some people get really mad at John Wall for wearing a Red Bulls jersey, that’s OK. I think it’s kind of silly, but they experience sports in their own way so I shouldn’t make fun of them for having a different point of view. Same goes for the people who think it’s juvenile boycott Boston products before the Caps game. Why do they have to try and stop something harmless which is getting other fans excited about the game?

The bottom line is that being a fan is not a contest. Just because someone gets enjoyment from the games differently than you do, they’re not doing it wrong. Unless they are actually hurting people. Or they are Yankee fans. That’s just unacceptable.

Lying on the couch in the early morning as I am wont to do, I noticed something funny on the television set. I had made my way downstairs at some point in the night so ESPN could help solve my insomnia.

As I started to stir, I noticed something funny about the screen. The highlights from the previous night’s basketball and hockey games had given way to a few squiggly green lines.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to stave off the inevitable panic. Once I got my bearings, I managed to confirm my worst fears. The cable box had died.

Normally, this would only send me into a small-scale tizzy, but a couple of things lined up against an easy solution.

First off, the cable company has closed its Hanover office, which means I would have to run to Gettysburg or York to get a replacement. Secondly, this happened over the weekend with a busy week ahead, making plans for the trip pretty difficult.

The development got my mind thinking about a phenomenon called “cord cutting.” This is what people so when they get rid of their cable or satellite package and find their entertainment from other sources.

At first, the thought of not having cable television gives me the heebie jeebies. But, last year, I purchased a Roku box which allows me to access tons of online sources right through my TV. With just a few subscriptions, I can get all of our TV shows and still save a bit of money.

Only two obstacles exist. I would lose access to a ton of sports if I cut the cord. Plus, we would have to wait until the day after the shows aired to watch them. That might not sound like a big deal, but routine plays a huge role in my enjoyment of my favorite TV shows.

I have had a ton of evening commitments the past few weeks so have had to get creative in order to keep up on my shows. But when I don’t have anything to do, I really want to watch those episodes as they air.

Few things make me happier than sitting on the couch or sliding under the covers to watch TV. I love seeing the creativity and comedy of my shows as it happens. I’m not one of those people who gets all up in arms if I hear “spoilers” before I see a show. I just like to be in on the joke first.

After a whole day of worrying, I came home from an event and started to think about how I would fit getting a replacement cable box into my week. I could bring the one from the basement to the living room for a temporary fix, but had to hit the road eventually.

But before I did that, I grabbed the remote, said a silent prayer and hit the power button. Apparently, the box just needed a day to rest. And I didn’t have to make any big decisions.

So I try and take it easy the next morning with a nagging pain in my gut. Getting old stinks.

The good thing is that I know it will go away. I know I can modify my habits. I know I will feel better soon. I wish I could say the same for my mental faculties.

I haven’t become more forgetful or started to deal with bouts of confusion. I still make it home safely at the end of the day. The problem is that, once I make it home, my daughter may want to play a game. That’s the part which makes me start to feel really bad about myself.

Usually she just wants to play “Sorry!” This is a family favorite which has spawned some epic battles over the years, but no real bad blood. Sometimes she chooses “Life” or “Battleship,” both of which pass the time and really just come down to luck.

But lately she has started to choose an older game which has really made me question my worth as a father, a husband and a contributing member of the community.

Bridget likes to challenge me to games of “Connect Four.”

On the face of things, this should not sound like a big deal. The game has a simple premise which should play right into the hands of a college graduate taking on a sixth-grader.

We all know the old adage of the best-laid plans, however. Every time I thought I had a handle on strategy, I would get distracted by something and lose a game in short order.

The game had a great commercial back in the 1980s where a brother and sister played the game together. He won the first game easily before she exacted revenge by using a diagonal to win the next game. That elicited the memorable catch phrase, “Pretty sneaky, sis.”

Our games go exactly like that commercial except I lose both easy and trick games, and I want to saying something a lot stronger than “Pretty sneaky, sis.”

Now I don’t want people to think I didn’t win my share of games. I just managed to lose games in ways that made me wonder whether someone had spiked my drink.

Beyond the problem of losing simple games in less than 10 moves (since she only needs four pieces to win, you can see why this upsets me), something more serious has me concerned.

Bridget knows how much this bugs me so she keeps picking Connect Four. She’s smart enough to beat me and savvy enough to push my buttons. I just can’t win.

I want to try and convince her that we should play Candy Land, but she won’t fall for it. That’s the best chance I have at winning consistently because I used to have to cheat so she could win when she was little to make her happy.

Maybe she’ll take pity on me and throw a few games of Connect Four to make things even. Somehow, I don’t see that happening.