Untitled

I've moved!

2006-02-25T14:27:00.001-05:00

I've moved!!

The new address for the blog is here!.

Just to be kind of annoying, unless you click stop now, you'll be automatically redirected there in about three....two....one....See you on the other side, Neo.

md

Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?

2006-02-16T01:32:00.000-05:00

All of the hoopla about Vice President Cheney's hunting accident has made me pause and ponder. Why, in an 'enlightened' society, has honor gone the way of the do-do?

Consider for a moment the lowly place that honesty and integrity holds in our culture. What were once two of the most lauded values in a person now rank somewhere beneath what brand of socks a man wears. '

Dictionary.com defines honor as follows:

High respect, as that shown for special merit; esteem: the honor shown to a Nobel laureate.
Good name; reputation.
A source or cause of credit: was an honor to the profession.
Glory or recognition; distinction.
A mark, token, or gesture of respect or distinction: the place of honor at the table.
A military decoration.
A title conferred for achievement.
High rank.
The dignity accorded to position: awed by the honor of his office.

And just what's not to like about honor? Why is it our society applauds people like DeLay and KennyBoy Lay, until they get caught? Why do voters turn a blind-eye to corruption in the ranks of government until a watchdog media group shames them into voting for someone else? It is almost as if we encourage theft. "Right on there, chap. Just don't get caught!"

I demand we return to honor...and I have a solution to make honor mean something: duels.

Not of the Yugi-Oh variety but good, old fashioned, walk twenty paces, turn and fire duels. Consider for a moment the events leading up to a duel.

Someone challenges a statement or action you have made. That person must back up their words with their very life. Likewise, you must defend your actions, words and deeds with your life. Would not someone be more careful of accusations if they might pay for those accusations with the forfeit of their life? How about you? How likely are you to lie if that lie might mean a gunshot to the chest or a blade run through your aorta?

You get my point.

When we stopped defending our "sacred honor" with the end of a sword, we lost the ability to make sure our words mean something. Where we once had "My word is like oak," we are left grovelling in a land of "Sign this contract, which will not guarantee, indemnify or warranty any provisional services agreed to by the signants."

No wonder our politicos are all going to jail. They don't have to worry about their honor. Write your legislators today and encourage them to re-establish laws governing duels. Let's codify them and maybe--just maybe--honor will again mean something.

I'm a quick enough draw and I know how to use a sword. Do you?

And I think to myself.

2006-01-24T10:25:00.000-05:00

Stop for a moment and ponder the awesome complexity of the world in which we live.

Still pondering? Good. It's complex. Really complex. Quit thinking about your own bodies for a moment and think big picture -- really big! Global. Weather patterns over the Sahara change fishing conditions in Louisiana. Fish spawning in Oregon affect whaling traffic in Norway. Now think small...smaller than you...think bees.

Ever hear of a bee's nectar dance? Pretty crazy stuff, really. Back in 1960, a crazy German named Karl von Frisch (I swear I'm not making this up!) proposed something really truly nuts: the waggle that a bee does upon return to the hive is actually a form of very complex communication with the other bees. That's right. Bees talk, according to some wacky German zoologist. Unfortunately for me, you, and the rest of the world, the wacky German zoologist wasn't so wacky. In fact, he was a Nobel laureate and as such, was saying to the world that bees talk -- and saying so through the very large microphone of Nobel statesmanship.

Everyone thought he was crazy, or at least a bit misguided. After all, couldn't that crazy dancing bee simply be spreading the scent of the flower in which he found the nectar? The other bees are then gathering around not to *watch* but to smell and thus find the nectar.

That was the generally accepted consensus of bee-obsessed zoologists for over forty years. Enter today, though, and someone thought to attach *radar* to the backs of bees.

The BBC is featuring an article on this study, which proves decisively that the bees are, in fact, using complex communications to convey the locations of nectar stashes.

I write all of this simply to point out that most major scientific achievments are at first considered cracked-pot theories of the half-insane. Imagine what kind of world we would live in today had Einstein not been taken seriously. If we listened more to crazy scientists and less to crazy politicians, we'd have cheap, universal energy sources, be traveling the stars in a starship, and zipping around the oceans talking to whales. Instead, we're coming off of the bloodiest century in the history of humanity and entering what promises to be a terrific sequel to it. (Remember the rule of sequels, my friends: the body count has to be double the original, or it sucks.)

So...the next time you're sitting in a coffee shop and two geeks are debating the veracity of a quantum computing theory, buy stock in their company and send them on their merry way. And if a politician tells you that he will vote for a research project because it is good science, remember that 'good science' in politics translates to 'powerful weapon.'

Happy Holidays. Now Piss Off.

2005-12-18T22:18:00.000-05:00

I offered to help a friend with her Christmas party this year, catering/food/bar stuff. Nothing too big, right? (BAAAAAAAAHHHHNK, sorry, that's the wrong answer.) Somewhere in my brain, the words "Christmas" and "party" simply didn't compute into the holiday season.

I generally like holidays, just not this one. Perhaps the reason I dislike Christmas is that it's the one time of year I am absolutely obligated to spend it with family. Or maybe, it's the shoppers. I enjoy shopping and supporting the economy as much as the next guy, but really. Does your father-in-law *really* need that new nose-hair trimmer enough to justify holding up the entire buggy traffic of the entire health and beauty section? Maybe, it's the entire 'happy holidays' versus 'Merry Christmas debacle that comes up every friggin year. (Just for the two of you still read my blog and are sensitive to these things, xmas comes from the Greek spelling of Christ, which begins with an X. Thus "xmas" isn't 'taking the Christ out of Christmas.)

Then there's the whole superficial aspect of it. We feel like we *have* to buy everyone we know the useless shit that Wal-Mart manages to pile on every endcap, every square centimeter of shelving, every aisle. We *demand* that we buy them 'something'. These gifts are for people that, typically, fall into two categories: those about whom we care deeply and those about whom we couldn't care less. Of course the irony of this situation is that those in the first group always lose out to those in the second.

Why is it we feel the need to purchase crap in the first place? And that's usually what we purchase: crap. Even for the really important people. Parents, siblings, wives, girlfriends, children. Usually, we're too busy worrying about everything we have to do for the people we *shouldn't* care about pleasing and thus fail to please those we do care about pleasing.

Just a few days ago, I was assisting a friend in Christmas shopping for a loved one. While standing over the case of items for sale, we began a discussion about which of the two possible items (both of which, combined, were less than the friend's self-imposed spending limit). Finally, I made the most logical suggestion.

"Get them both."

"I can't do that. That's two gifts when I really only have to buy one," she says.

"It's not like you're spending any more money," I say.

"Well, I could get one for Christmas and one for his birthday in February," she says.

I groan. This makes her upset enough to get personal. "Hey. I'm not you. I like to watch my money."

Why? Does it do tricks? Maybe I should watch your money too.

Maybe that's my fundamental breakdown with the holidays. It's all about the coin. How much did you spend on so-and-so. Did they spend more than you. What happened to genuine fellowship and caring? When did the Holiday Season morph into a season spent shopping rather than a season spent *with* those for whom you now shop? Are we really so callous as to think our girlfriends won't love us as much if we don't buy them the $20 gold earrings? (And let's pray to God that she isn't allergic to the posts -- which aren't surgical steel.)

Perhaps I'm unhappy with the holidays because I'm not one of those people who can spend the money. I have been that person before. Presents for everyone, even the Dirty Uncle Sal. But even then, I still felt all of these things. Money you can make more of. Happiness, though, is an art you have to practice to master. Practice a lot.

That's what gets me. I'm a fairly happy person and everyone around me is completely and utterly unhappy. "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" or "Happy Christmahanakwanzikas" or whatever debate you wish to have is irrelevant -- especially if all you can do is argue about what to say to one another when passing in the halls at work. Yet here we are, talking about "taking Christ out of 'xmas' (see above). I actually heard a conversation about how secular Christmas has become -- between two women fawning over a wire bin full of Santa Clauses and Penguin ornaments. "I can't believe that they say 'happy holidays' now," one of the women said with disdain. Her friend, apparently in agreement, started venting about the people in the store being pushy -- including a moment where she elbowed a twelve-year-old out of her way, adding a terse "Excuse you." Turning back to her friend, she sighed. "See what I mean?"

How about this for Christmas: let's give everyone a break? Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza. Chinese New Year? Who gives a flip! To the bitches at the bin, and everyone else in the world: Tis the season to be jolly. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Christmas Shopping, Ship Me Out.

2005-12-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

Fugitaboudit...And three other phrases not to use with crazy people.

2005-11-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

Last night, for reasons passing understanding, I had a massive panic attack about two a.m. Panic attack may not be quite the right word for it. Rather, it was a massive, sudden-onset and triggered OCD episode, brought on by the introduction of a new person into a very complex and completely unfathomable equation. Suffice it to say that something happened that had the Right Side of my brain saying "relax, it's all gonna be okay," while the Left Side of my brain was shouting the lyrics to R.E.M.'s "End of the World As We Know It."

Before I go any farther, I should probably tell you this: I really am OCD. "Borderline Obsessive-Compulsive" was the official diagnosis. I have periods of moderate Compulsive tendencies perpetuated by obsessive thoughts. In short, when I'm in the midst of an attack, I'll do everything from cleaning my bedroom and folding my laundry 'just so' to counting English Peas on the end of my fork -- to make sure that I'm not eating an odd number. (By the way, there are 36 M&M's in a standard package of the candy.) In my typical OCD states, I am able to maintain a Left-Brain/Right-Brain balance. My Left Brain maintains the sanity by telling me "It's just OCD. Relax, dude," while the Right Brain goes nuts saying "You're a freak, you're crazy. Don't step on that crack! Was that FIVE skittles just now?!"

At any rate, last night I came face to face with a new stimulus, one that, potentially in another universe, might lead to a series of unsettling and wholly undesirable outcomes -- every one of which suddenly and irrationally became absolute certainties. All the while, the most unsettling part of it was the hemispheres. When I say my left brain and right brain, I mean it in the literal, sides of my head sense...as in I'm cognizent of which side of my brain is thinking what. I said the unsettling part was the hemispheres for a reason. Typically, my Left Brian is the sane side and the Right Brain the crazy one. Last night, it was reversed. Enter a new OCD thought into the vocabulary: Perhaps this isn't my OCD...maybe it's good, sound logic!! (Which it wasn't.)

I picked up two friends, at different times (and remember, this is at 2:00 a.m.). First, Mary. She gets the first "things not to say to a crazy person" of the night, though I have to give her points for trying...and being honestly and hopelessly concerned for my general well-being. I love her like a sister, and she's one of my best friends. Her contribution to this list:

1.) "I mean, think about it..." That's the last thing I want to do. Think about the fact that my world is about to be turned upside down? Oh wait. It's not...which means I'm crazy. So think about the fact that I'm crazy. The sentiment behind that statement is "You'll be fine. This will pass -- just like the last time. All is well and right with the world." Unfortunately, the Left Brain heard "Focus on this. Dwell on it. Hash it over and over and over again until you've masticated anything resembling sane and rational thought processes into a bloody pulp of half-formed thoughts and impressions and suddenly, without warning, you black out." All the while, that same statement says to the Right Brain: Hey, fucker. Remember. You're nuts!

Later, I picked up Amber. Timestamp: 2:37 a.m. Amber's a real trooper. I tell her the same story I tell Mary. She is supportive, understanding, and non-judgemental. Her response to this crisis is to offer me a beer, which I sadly passed up. At any rate, we drive around for the better part of an hour, during which she holds my hand, blots the tears from my cheeks, and tells me it's all going to be all right. I should know this, I know. Again, left-brain/right-brain!

As we're rounding a curve, Amber says to me #2 for the list:

2.) "Dude. You just need to get a grip." She's right and it's the most constructive advice I've gotten all night. Yet I'm still in crazy person mode. So the Left Brain hears "You're out of control--see! There's a reason I'm telling you to freak the fuck out!! And AMBER sees it!" All the while, Mr. Right Brain is over there going "Dude, she's right. You're just wiggin' out. You're fucking nuts!"

This morning, when I woke up, all is well with the world. I'm only marginally OCD. No organizing the pantry by food type, label color, and alphabetical order. But just for good measure, I've avoided any foods that can be counted like the plague. (No skittles, no M&M's, no peas.) While regailing my roommate with this story, she gives me the third of my list of things not to say:

3.) "You're over-reacting. You're too rational for this." This one makes the list if only because I'm beyond the initial shock of the attack and have only very recently come out of the initial phases of panic, terror, and utter stupidity. "You're over-reacting. You're too rational for this," simply serves to remind me that I was crazy. Note the past tense. Was. Now I'm just embarrassed that I over-reacted so badly. I feel guilty about the two-a.m. emergency calls, the tears, the overwhelming urge (not satisfied, thankfully) got get blind stinking drunk.

All of these phrases are meant to encourage, to lift up, to support the crazy person sitting across from you. But they unwittingly do nothing more than remind you of how crazy you are in the first place. Is there an easy way to address these issues while not reminding the crazy person that they are, in fact, nuts? Probably not. So what's the best course of action for a friend or loved one who is trying to walk someone through the crisis du jour? Amber probably wins last night's prize: you hold their hand and let them lead the way, always maintaining just a tight enough grip to keep them from getting hurt.

The Dance.

2005-10-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

The lightbulb. That's what is different. Maybe it is a higher wattage or has a short. For whatever reason, that pool of light is just a little bit brighter, a little bit more golden than the spaces around it.

I wonder if she knows what she represents, sitting in that pool of light? Did she choose that chair because of the preferential lighting or did the lighting choose her? Did I notice her because of the light or did I notice the light because of her? That's a rather uncomfortable question to ask, sitting at a table, alone by the door. Yet ask it I have.

An answer is strangely and loudly absent.

I'm sure she's been here before, though I have never noticed her. Maybe that is my fault. Can such fault really be assigned? And what is it that I feel fault for? For not noticing a beautiful woman? It would most definitely not be the first time, so I cannot think that it would make me any less of a man if she had escaped my notice this time. She's beautiful, but not particularly so. Nor is her beauty of a singular nature. This isn't about her beauty.

It's about something far more powerful than physical blessings, the genetic flukes that came together to produce an only-ever-so-slightly above average height or sculpted cheek bones. It isn't about the red shirt straining at the collar -- from her perfectly proportioned shoulders, not her breasts, though those too draw my attention for a moment. It isn't physicality.

It's the apartness of her. That blasted light, separating her from the rest of us. She is better, she is higher, she is set apart. Would I not be enjoying the same existence apart from the groundlings in this coffee house if I had, like my first impulse, taken that table instead of one near a power outlet? (Batteries be damned!)

And yet I know that were I to have taken that seat, I would not have engendered the same emotions in my compatriots here on the ground.

And then it hits me, what it is that sets her apart in the minds of everyone here, for I am not the only one who noticed her entrance. (I'm simply the only one who is brash enough, crass enough, or brave enough to talk about it.) She deserves her pedestal...and no one here can quite put their finger on why, even though the answer is staring us in the face.

She deserves her pedestal because she is utterly and completely oblivious to the fact that we, the groundlings, placed her on it the minute she walked into the door. What a lonely existence she must lead, this girl on our pedestal with her cup of Green Tea.

The Life Telephonic, Or...Why Call Centers are the New Waiting Tables for the artistic crowd.

2005-10-10T07:20:00.000-05:00

Each morning, I awake at the buttcrack of dawn, get into my car while it is still dark, and drive ten miles to a large cinderblock building, where I enter through an unmarked door and proceed past high-technology to a small workstation in the back of the building, tucked away behind high, beige sound-dampening cubicle walls. I take my seat amidst musicians, painters, and more than a few poets, and begin my work day.

No, I don't report to some government-run artistic thinktank. I work in a call center. That's right. I'm one of those people you get on the phone when you dial any of the eight gazillion toll-free numbers (we're taught to say "toll free" rather than "800" to avoid confusion, as there are now more than six toll free area codes).

Coming in this morning, I began to wonder what it is about this work that draws artistics. Perhaps it is the challenge of learning real-world corporate lingo or the interactions we get from other artistics. Um....no. That's not it. We interact very little. Perhaps it is the inspirational hues generated by the mercury vapor lighting. Um....I don't know if you've ever seen a human face in the phosphorescent glow of Mercury, but suffice it to say that even Leonardo wouldn't have been able to find beauty here. No, the real reason the artistics come to call centers is that, like waiting tables, it is a mind-numbingly boring job that frees up the mind for all sorts of creative endeavors while providing that which a career in the arts rarely provides: a steady paycheck.

Sitting at my desk, I get to spend eight hours a day working to make the world a better place (via the installation of television viewing equipment) and let the muse descend over me, envelope me with that warm embrace of the creative, and watch the clock for that fateful hour when, spirited away from the infernal chirpchirp chirp of the phone, I return to the blank page and can spread my unique light into the world.

Unfortunately (and very much like waiting tables), by the end of the shift you are so bone-weary and wracked with carpel-tunnel, the very thought of holding your head upright is a feat of will unsurpassed since Hillary took his first steps to the summit of Everest.

Call centers attract us with the promise of easy, steady work, relatively stress free. Beckoned in by shiny new Dell workstations and our own private extension, we unwittingly bite on the hook, get addicted to that weekly delivery of a paycheck (yes, weekly. It has something to do with high turnover, I'm sure), and then five years later are stuck here.

So why do we seek this work out? Why slave away at a call center, answering fairly incipid questions about how we're better than cable? Why not spend the days in the park, completing the great American novel or in the woods penning a poem? What is it about a call center that draws the Prussian blue from our fingernails and prods us to buy a neck tie?

Aside from the fairly ubiquitous nature of call centers (They are everywhere), and the frequency with which the jobs come available (see above re: high turnover rates), it is something far more simple. For in that crowd of artistics, we are far too qualified and far too neurotic to have a job at a doctor's office or a school or in a J.C. Penney. Instead, we gravatate away and consign our days to waiting tables and answering the phone. Talking to people, be it through painting, poetry, or phone sales, is just what we do.

A New Book for a new cycle.

2005-10-06T16:59:00.000-05:00

Not sure why, but this is the time of year when my projects seem to take flight. With Bohemian Row (now known as "Anything But Ordinary") in the final revision stages, I've turned my sights to a new story.

Something about the concept of intimacy fascinates me. People have a desire to be intimate -- even the most anti-social of us seek out contact with others. By intimacy I of course do not (necessarily) mean physical intimacy. What of the intimacy of friends, close friends. Families are intimately connected. Intimacy unite and can divide us.

One of the ironies of writing, for me, is that the ideas for my stories tend to start with a picture, an idea of some sort. Usually it is a situation. Occasionally it is a place. And rarely is it a person. Only in the most extraordinary circumstances is it that I have found myself obsessed with a potential story that encompasses all three.

In this project, I have found it.

It isn't a book yet, but it will be. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that a book grows from within itself. (Perhaps for this reason, it is only recently that "Tender is the Night" is increasingly considered his masterpiece. It has spent a century growing from within itself.)

So as this project grows from within itself, I will stop, start, start again, and abandon the endeavor all together. I've been down this road four times now, and have met obstacle, pain, success and failure. But I have not found an enduring flame. Perhaps this will be the spark that lights that flame.

Wish me luck.

When the World Comes to an End.

2005-09-13T09:08:00.000-05:00

"For english, press one. Para espaniol, pruhuhumini numero dos."

One.

"Thank you for calling AppleCare Customer Support Help Line. Please speak the name of the product for which you need support."

iBook.

"Okay. I can help you with that." (New Voice) "We estimate your hold time will be approximately 1,477,826.42110 minutes."

Oh boy here goes the cell minutes.

There comes a time in every computer user's life when, shortly after pressing power and shortly before seeing a monitor flicker to life, the world quite simply puts, ends. Yesterday at 5:50 p.m. was that time for me.

I've got a major project due today. By major, I mean to say that my client is about to publish her second book and runs her own publishing company. In other words, she's about to spend a gazillion dollars (read: lots and lots) printing and marketing a book this Christmas season. That is, if we get the book to press by today's deadline.

Deadline is an interesting word. It means, frankly and bluntly, in no uncertain words, that past Point X your project is, quite simply, dead. The deadline for this project is 5:00 p.m. today. Beyond that, our reserved press time will be given to someone else, meaning the printing of this book won't start in time to get it on shelves for Christmas. We'll forfeit the five-figure deposit we've sent in, and I'm sure at some point on some rosey-future day, I'll get a little blue letter of service from the Courts telling me I've been sued by a former client.

Alas, here I sit on a borrowed machine...a winTel laptop. My Mac (and all of the software with which I run a design and marketing consultancy), is dead. A new one is on the way. But it won't be here before my deadline, now will it?

The world officially comes to an end in that moment between the POST test and when you first press power. That moment when, instead of your nice chime to inform you that the computer is working normally and all systems are go you instead get a blank screen and little wavey, flashing, strobe-like lights on your monitor.

You only hope your last backup is still good.

Mine was. Deadline is safe. See you later, as I now have no life and 12 hours of work to do before five.

A Day in the Life of a Hardened Criminal.

2005-09-02T22:15:00.000-05:00

Until today I had very little sympathy for those people who find themselves living in jail because of breaking the law. For years, I ignored a friend of mine, a former police officer, who said that he gave up law enforcement and moved to another state because, in Louisiana, he "couldn't drive to work without committing two felonies and thirteen misdemeanors." In other words: our legal system sucks.

I, your faithful blogger, ran into this system head on today. But this story, like all good stories, doesn't start with the climax. It actually starts long before, in late-2003 and early-2004, when our Monroe City Court System landed in its own legal hot water and began shuffling certain small offenses (like traffic violations) to the parish court--which operates under a different set of rules, fines, and judges.

You see, we're on the Napoleanic "Parish" system in Louisiana, meaning that city municipalities are wholly independent from the 'county' government. Sherriff's deputies can't even arrest people for crimes committed in the city limits, unless those crimes are federal and felony. So enter your tireless hero.

I'm driving home from work late one night. Blue lights go on behind me. My tags are expired, lo and behold. The police officer (not a deputy, that's important later) writes me a ticket and says "call this number for your court date." The next day, I call that number. There is no ticket in the system yet. Call back tomorrow. I call this number for about a week, until, at last, the Monroe City District Attorney's Office tells me to quit calling, there is no ticket.

I've phoned twice since then. No ticket. Yay. I'm all clear. Today, though, I had to appear in court for an unrelated legal matter pertaining to my divorce. After clearing THAT matter up, two deputies detain me. "Do you remember a traffic citation in Monroe on __ Date??" Um...Yeah. "Well, why didn't you appear in court for it?" Um...what court?

The police officer sent the ticket through the PARISH court system (which is his perrogative and in his defense, he was trying to be helpful as the fines are MUCH lower in the Parish rather than the city). I had been given the number to the *CITY* District Attorney. Needless to say, I'm under arrest.

Now, by under arrest for a traffic violation, you'd think it involves a walk to the DA's office in the fricken LOBBY of the court house. But no. Handcuffs--the belt variety--and shackles around my ankles. I'm then told to 'sort of just fall back into this minivan here' as I can't step up. And I have to ride TWELVE MILES to the Ouachita Parish Correctional Center...a PRISON.

That's right...because of a wrong phone number, a typo, I'm sent to prison.

Well, I call family. Nope, my family can't be inconvenienced with a phone call to a bail bondsman. So I call the next best thing: friends. Friends are great. They do things for you. And when your airplane crashes on the mountain, they help you eat the other passengers rather than getting eaten. Two dear friends of mine make phone calls and FINALLY, after SIX HOURS, I'm released on bail. The judge on the case is a friend of mine. (And told the booking clerk at the facility to call me by my nickname, and tell me that "CARL said get your ass to court.")

While I was there, no one offered to read me my rights. When I began asking questions about those rights, I was told to shut up and wait. When I demanded my phone call, I was informed that I don't get a phone call 'until after I've booked you...which will take hours, if not days.' I was not allowed to speak to an attorney, to call my family, or to use the restroom until almost an hour and a half into my ordeal.

Then the real fun began.

I was shoved -- literally -- into a Six and a half foot by six and a half foot 'room' (read: closet) with SIX other people and ONE phone. This room was sealed, under surveillance via the windows, and had no air conditioning and no clean-air return. The six men I was in this room with were a forger, three burglars, one drug dealer and one person being held on battery charges. After standing there for almost ten minutes while the dealer called his suppliers to get him out, the booking deputy steps back in and yells "Hey! Get off the phone, he's got someone to make him bail!"

So I got to call people...for about two minutes until we were herded from the room and into another holding cell. While crossing the hall, I repeatedly tried to inform the deputies that I was attempting to make bail, that I had not completed my call, and that I had serious questions about what needed to happen next. Mind you, I've still got shackles on my feet at this point, and they are beginning to cut into my achilles tendon. In this room there is thankfully air conditioning and places to sit. There is also a large cooler of water -- but no cups. One of the men in the room began trying to gesture for attention and tell the deputies that there were no cups.

The deputy that responded came across the room and began tapping the glass like we were zoo creatures, mocking his need for a cup from which to drink water. "You wanna dwink of wa-wa?? Whaaaaaaahhhhh." His badge number got mentally bookmarked. :-)

After about another half hour, the deputies herded us BACK into the phone booth closet, where I got to call and discover that my fine had been paid and I was a free man. That was 2:30.

At 3:30, one of the deputies threatened to hit me for asking why I was still there and how long I would be detained. His response was, since this was a holiday weekend, probably until Tuesday. Another round of phone calls and yet again, Tuesday...for NO CRIME, mind you. For no reason other than 'it's a holiday'. (Can we say unlawful detention?)

A new person, another 'hardened criminal', was tossed into our phone booth. This man was arrested with no warrant on 'battery charges.' The deputies there made special note to 'treat him with care' because they didn't think they had the legal right to hold him. (This turned out to in fact be the case and he was released after a judge called and yelled at the booking clerk.)

When I asked about the shackles cutting (literally) into my heel, I was told that "that's not my problem is it?" And then to "So sit down and shut the hell up about it."

When finally all of the 'paper work' was done, the booking clerk informed me that we had paid the wrong people (at her instruction) and that I was "lucky the judge decided to let you out". Um...why? I paid my fine and my bail and you had no legal rights to hold me any longer.

In short, the court system in this state is fucked. As I was leaving, the mocking deputy made a remark to me about "oh so you're finally getting out of the big house???" To which I couldn't help but reply, "Isn't there a looter somewhere you should be shooting?"

More later on teh continuing saga of this as I meet with people I got elected on Tuesday.

The Stuff of Human Drama. (Or, Oh God Oh God We're All Going to Die!)

2005-08-30T15:06:00.000-05:00

Saturday evening, I and my roommate (an Atmospheric Sciences major) began watching CNN and the Weather Channel religiously, anxious for a finalized storm track. Sunday, we began preparing to house his parents, his little brother, and their two dogs indefinitely. His parents didn't think they were going to flee as of Saturday morning. They arrived Sunday at eleven a.m.

For our part in North Louisiana, the disaster has yet to hit. I'm not sure how well our infrastructure will sustain the 1.1 Million refugees that are projected to be here through at least next week. Many if not most of them will be here for months. Already the gas stations are straining to keep up with demand and prices are climbing. Grocers are running low on staple supplies like eggs, milk and bottled water and the warehouses are emptying quickly. And yet the water is still filling our favorite city to the south.

The readers of this blog will fondly remember the post from February "three days in the quarter." As it now stands, the quarter barely exists. For all intents and purposes, New Orleans is a ghost town and will be for the foreseeable future.

I've spoken with several friends in the state government and emergency agencies, and they assure me that we will prevail. But quietly, they say, the state is preparing for over one million unemployed and homeless for the next six months. In short, it doesn't look good.

All of this, and all we got here was a few clouds, a wind gust of thirty-five miles per hour, and the sky going "phtuh" on my windshield. It is so easy, while driving through town conducting the business of life to forget the massive scale of this tragedy, until you return home to CNN and three people who cannot return home.

Katrina is such a pretty name for such an awesomely destructive force. More on this later. For now, we're just trying to keep up.

Cardinal Sins. (Or: Things not to do when writing.)

2005-07-07T01:57:00.000-05:00

If you've ever wondered why so many books you read seem so similar and thought that it was just you, or your taste in literature, or the fact that you only read one certain genre, take heart; it's not just you. A sad fact of human literary existence is that books are all similar. The five archetypal plots aside, writers lament this. We discuss it in hushed tones over coffee in the back of little socialist bistros while consuming entire cartons of Parliaments. It's not fun.

Ironically, though, one of the reasons we complain is that we're constrained. I know what you're thinking, art isn't about being constrained. It should be about freedom to explore life and to explore it in a way that you the artist finds interesting, appealing, and real. Piccasso said that Art (note the capitol A) is a lie that makes us see the truth. While every artist you ask will agree that art is our own perspective, our own little lie if you will, we can't help feeling claustrophobic, tied up by the patterns of the five plots or the archetypes. The sad truth is that, while we so long for a life of Bohemian freedoms, we have to eat. To eat, we have to sell books. And readers like books that follow the rules.

Don't blink. That's right. The rules. There are actual rules to 'good fiction' that 'every writer simply must follow.' Are you surprised? Don't be. Inevitably, when I tell people I'm a writer, they ask a question then make two statements. Unless I'm speaking to a group of writers, the conversation goes something like this:

Them: What do you do?
Me: I'm a writer.
Them: That's cool. So what else do you do?

Aside--lucky for me I usually have a day job. Sometimes I can deflect the second, crass and annoying part of this conversation. Sometimes, though, I can't.

Me: Fill in the blank with the current stop-gap dayjob.
Them: That's cool. But you're a writer writer? Like you write books and stories and stuff? (I nod. Now wait for it, because here comes the other two parts of it...) I have this really great idea for a story. If I could write it I would.

They then launch into a monologue about the dream they had about their aunt's car wreck the night before she died in a toaster-stroodle explosion incident, how the dream and the death were just too coincidental and would make a great book. They will then ask me if it's hard to write. Now, beyond the fact that the person sitting across from me is virtually assured to be some toothless bubba fresh out of Redneck Hell, I don't flinch. "Of course, you should try to write it."

I will then launch into a description of the grueling writing process. The hours spent in front of blank pages are just the beginning, I tell them. Writing it is the easy part. Your hard part comes with editing. That's when you start fixing problems like coincidence. "But coincidences is parts of life ain't they?" the redneck asks.

I nod, thoughtfully, then say, "Unfortunately you can't rely on them in fiction. It pisses readers off."

Eventually, we go through the other rules of fiction--like crowd control. Don't have too many characters in a scene. "But I's got twenty two cousins and all of them will be real upset if I publish a book about them and don't have the time we all went skinny dippin' together down at the cow pond and Sally-Jane and JimBubba hooked up cause they's was drunk."

I don't think you'll have to worry about your relatives getting angry about that book getting published, Billy Bob, because in that one scene you've broken eight rules. Maybe it's the rules that make us capable of writing. Almost like an artistic fate laid out before us, writers must follow the rules to find out what happens next. We avoid the pitfalls of everyday life and just try to work through the problems that arise in ways that are interesting. We do it to edify and delight ourselves, to escape the world or to more adequately understand our place in it; some of us right to define ourselves or those around us or to lend voice to the voiceless and sight to the blind. We only hope that you the reader receives some of the same edification and delight we ourselves find. And if, somewhere along the way, we stumble into the Truth, that's just the gravy.

An Ode to the Idylls of the 4th. (OR: To write or to barbecue...)

2005-07-02T18:03:00.000-05:00

That is the question. Whether tis nobler to entertain one's friends on the Bayou, or to take to the keyboard against a sea of blank pages and, by opposing, fill them.

I found myself in a very interesting dilemma on Thursday. At work (I am production manager and designer for a sign company), my employer decided that he wanted an extra day off...a mini-vacation of sorts, built by adding Friday to the three day weekend. So with four days off, my head began to swim with images of seven chapters completed in my new novel or reading endlessly. Maybe I would clean out the garage and flea-dip the cats. (Puncture wounds hurt, by the way, and get quickly infected.)

Or, I could take part of my bonus from the most recent major project and do what any self-respecting southern man with a large house, a bayou, and a grill would do: throw a party.

There is nothing in the rule book that says the two are mutually exclusive. So I spent part of Friday and most of today preparing and executing a flawless barbecue.

There's a certain art to a good ol' southern cookout. It's not about what goes in baked beans (Worchestershire sauce is the secret, with about two table-spoons of mustard), or how much garlic to add to the hamburgers. Regardless if you're a modernist and demand that all beef must be extra lean ground round, a purist who wants only ground chuck, or a fusion artist (like me) who mixes the two, the answer lies in something far more simple, yet infinitely more complex than mere ingredients: food order.

The rules for the perfect barbecue are complex...that's why it is an art. Everyone has their own special way of preparing steaks. Maybe lemon pepper goes on or they use a marinade while they cook it. But the average cookout very rarely gives any thought to that most basic of questions: when to cook what. In that essence, barbecues are very similar to marriages.

Baked beans are the kids in any marriage. Put them on too early and they harden and aren't any good. Too late, and you're forced to spoil them with extra sugar and then more salt. But if you put them into the oven at just the right time (about an hour and a half before food time) and with the perfect ingredients (use name-brand mustard for the best results), presto! Perfect baked beans--ready just as the first burger is coming off the grill.

In building a successful barbecue, you have to remember something: transportation. Early marriages live or die by the couple's ability to get where they want to go and get there dependably. Now, most married couples can't afford to go out and buy matching BMW X4's. However, they can afford, with careful planning, really dependable starter cars. In your barbecue, your starter car is the sausage. If you don't get enough, people fight over it. If you get too much, they gorge themselves and end up not getting to the end of the evening. If the andouile is too bland, people won't eat it and it'll go to waste. (They'll also take bad sausage as a hint of things to come and expressly not eat anything else you cook.) If the andouile is too spicy, they'll drink too much and pass out before dessert. So selecting something that everyone can eat, can enjoy, and will make them wanting more is perhaps the most critical part of planning. Take your time with this step. (And try Savoie's Andouile. Available at any Wal-Mart in America.)

Next, you'll want to examine your guest list. Two things simply must be prepared--and in the right order--for a successful cookout: hamburgers and hotdogs. We've already address hamburgers, but what of the oft-overlooked hotdog? Sure you'll want to fix them both. But what if people eat one and not the other? The answer is simple. And it too comes from a lesson learned in marriage. Husband and wife go to restauarant. They commence to discuss what each will order. Finally, the husband turns to the wife and says, "What do you want me to order." A silly question, given that it is the man who will have to eat his own dinner. The wife, not surprised, says "You should order the Veal Scalopini. That way, I can order the Manicotti and try some of yours." Hint: Hot dogs are cheap. Fix both. And fix them at the same time. Use Nathan's Famous Brand. (Also available at your friendly, neighborhood Supercenter.)

All marriages that I know of seem to find their crowning glory later in life. The kids are all either in college or out of it, they've paid the house off and are considering retirement. Just as the party of their life is winding down, they get a second wind. And my what a beautiful thing it is to see them dancing the night away between the tables of your local fish-n-chips. Like any good marriage, barbecues have their twilight. For those who stick around (and those who show up fashionably late), there is steak. Yes, the last thing you want to cook is the steaks. Not only will your stragglers and slow-eaters be pleased, the grill will be so perfectly seasoned with the flavors of andouile and hamburgers and Nathan's all-beef franks that you won't have to do very much to produce a good steak. Let the meat do all of the work for you.

Take these tidbits of wisdom and enjoy a safe and happy July Fourth.

Nothing is ever as it seems. (Or....So your daughter has a blog...)

2005-05-11T12:48:00.000-05:00

I have a blog. Perhaps you have a blog. It seems these days that everyone has a blog. So that my daughter has a blog should have come as no surprise. After all, she's 13 and lives on the internet (albeit in a variety of post-modern chat personae).

Still, though, it isn't what one expects to find while sitting in an internet café. I bookmarked it, much to her chagrine. There isn't much there, really. Just ramblings about FF-X and whatever anime she happens to be hooked on this week. But still, that she has a blog, goes out, and posts on it...and I knew nothing about it!

The things you never know about people--even those closest to you. Right now, I'm working on adding 'character conflict' to the book, getting it ready to go to an agent in Colorado. For those of you who don't know, character conflict has to do with the interactions between people...those vague sets of circumstances that seem to scream "hey, you don't know why, but we're fighting!"

It isn't the easiest thing in the world to do and I've been relatively stumped. But it has gotten me to thinking lately about the people that I think I know. I really don't know them and they don't know me. They know the interactions--limited and brief--that they have had with me and I share the same interactions with them. But do we ever really know someone?

It kind of reminds me of a play I saw once called Second Samuel. It's about a little boy, mildly retarded, who lives in a town called "Second Samuel, Georgia." General Sherman burned the first one so they rebuilt the town. It seemed that the little boy's favorite person, whose name I've forgotten, died. And come to find out, SHE was a he and the only person in town who knew was the doctor. Go figure.

Betrayal finds its root in character conflict. That's why it hurts so bad, I think. People change, yes. But it's those moments when people *haven't* changed and yet they still hurt you that cause the deepest scars. After all, you didn't know them, did you?

Life, or something like it.

2005-04-24T11:19:00.000-05:00

Being a writer, I understand the need for universiality, that feeling that the movie's main message somehow applies to the lives of every family member. "Life As a House?" No problem. For the divorced couple it is about reconcilation. For a terminal or chronic patient, hope and living in the face of death. Teenagers? The angst of growing up. Even "EuroTrip", a teen-grossout flick has some sense of applicability to life. "Making out with your sister is a bad thing," it might say to the fifteen-year-old brother of a cheerleader on the Varsity squad.

I try not to find these little things when I watch a movie. But I simply cannot help it. Those who know me and my situation personally will understand why a friend of mine has taken to calling me "Peter Pan" after seeing the J. M. Barrie biopic "Finding Neverland" the other day. I certainly sympathized with Ray Charles's need to tune out once in a while. We're both artists, after all, who are focused on creating images and emotions with words. (Not the easiest task in the world.) But there it is. Movies. Forgive the pun, but movies can move us in ways that the written word cannot.

Yet I write fiction. Not screenplays, though I think that that is a format I would one day like to explore, but short stories. Novels, even. And recently, after three years (the last year and a half of which was torture), I completed my novel. Working endlessly, laboring at the keyboard over plot points as grand as "Should she die now, or later in chapter 33?" and as minute as "should this be a definitive article here or let the noun stand by itself?" I always made fun of my high school English teacher's insistence that writers intended symbolism and thougth about details. After the last three years, I definitely understand how tremendously in error I stood.

Sol Stein once wrote that, to be a successful writer, one must be willing to open a vein and bleed onto the page. I thought that I had done this for three years. However, I gave a copy of my manuscript to a friend (perhaps a very good friend, if this rewrite works) to read and comment. When he finished, he passed me six pages of single-spaced, typed notes. And one stunning pronouncment: while the novel has a good story, it's not an 'adult' novel but rather, young adult.

Genre.

Thus it is that I have set out on a rewrite -- a massive rewrite -- of my entire book. I project that it should be done by the end of the summer, but we'll see. Over the next few weeks and months, I'm sure I'll have interesting things to report from the world of publishing. And yes, I promise to post more regularly. Until next time, I'm at the keyboard writing.

Dating in the new millennium. (Or....Why I Predict the Human Race Will Disappear Within Three Generations)

2005-04-19T18:49:00.000-05:00

So. There I was, sitting with my daughter in the restaurant, chatting. I mentioned something about something incidental and, like sometimes happens, the girl behind the bar chimed in. And that was okay.

I'd talked to her many times before. After all, I've only been going to her restaurant since it opened. I've always enjoyed her perky personality and sometimes-razor wit. She's one of those intoxicating types of people that tend to lift the spirits of everyone around them. Thus it was we struck up a conversation about art. She's a painter, I learn, and has an art show at a local coffeehouse. We make plans to go see said art show today, after which I will cook dinner. (She's Vegan and thus cannot eat at many restaurants.)

Today, as per her request, I came by the restaurant on my lunch hour. She proceeds to give me instructions to her apartment and tells me what time I should pick her up. Once all of the details are arranged, and just as I'm leaving, one of the older waiters chimes in with a "I can't believe you just gave someone your address!"

We'll forego the mention of how easy it would be to find her address via, say, the internet, if I so chose. Forego it in favor of pointing out the absurdity of his fear. I mean do people really expect a serial killer or a stalker to show up at their place of employement and actually go through the motions of asking them out, talking to them, making plans, and bringing a kid along as a diversion? What about the secrecy stalking would require? Isn't the thrill of stalking in the very essence of doing so while the stalkee doesn't know the stalker is there? And what if I was a serial killer? How many stupid serial killers have you heard of? Nevermind that it is never the ones you *think* are the serial killers but always instead is the guy or girl who "just seemed so normal!"

Alas, MacGuiver there scared the girl away. We are set now for coffee 'sometime later in the week' -- at which there will be a chaperone in the form of her younger coworker. (And where, please tell me, is the sense in that? A younger coworker would what, exactly? Fight off the machine gun fire? Distract so her friend could make a quick getaway?)

It just all points to the absurdity of dating in today's world. How are two people supposed to get to know one another if they are afraid to go to a restaurant or a coffeeshop or to have dinner? I'm not so old that when I was coming up, a good first date was dinner at a restaurant. If you knew the person already, dinner at home was more than appropriate.

Oh well. I choose celibacy. All hail me! I proclaim myself Pope Pontifex Superfluous Maximus, minister to singletons everywhere.

(PS: Sorry for the long time away from the blog. I'll explain why in a post tomorrow. For now, though, off to hear a choir sing.)

Three Days in the Quarter. uUBloggin' Mardi Gras.

2005-02-08T01:32:00.000-05:00

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

It's kind of hard to explain Mardi Gras in New Orleans to someone who has never been here during the five final days of Carnival season, commonly referred to (albeit incorrectly) as "Mardi Gras." Mardi Gras is, in fact, right this very minute only 34 minutes old. It is the final Tuesday of Carnival, Ash Wednesday following to begin Lent.

You have to love a religion like Catholicism, a diverse faith that somehow, sometime after St. Augustine but before Martin Luther, got the notion that people shouldn't sin before Easter. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during that discussion with the Pope. "But Abba, we must allow the people their liberties, lest they revolt against Mother Church." He nods. Smiles. "Then let there be a carnival." They shake their heads. "But Abba. A carnival is but one night. This for forty days of sinlessness?" He shruggs. "So make it from Twelfth Night until Ash Wednesday."

Do you think he invisioned what would follow? For the uninitiated, let me give you a hint. I'm going to attempt to blog Mardi Gras for you, in just a few short passages. Bear with me. And if it doesn't work, come down next year and see it for yourself.

...
Saturday, February 5

We hadn't intended on coming to the Quarter...that is, at least according to Aaron. Speak for yourself. I have every intention of being down here as much as possible. Bourbon Street. The heartbeat of the Carnival in New Orleans. The cops are here only to prevent fist fights, gun shots, and looting. Anything else goes. Including the two straight girls making out in the middle of a sea of cameras. There are so many flash bulbs and spotlights that it takes me a minute to realize that they are naked from the waist up. Taptaptap on my shoulder. I turn. Aaron's nodding towards Canal. It's time to head back to the car.

Sandwiched into a swell of humanity that momentarily feels like the last scenes from Titanic, I can't decide if I want to laugh, cry out for help, or try again to breathe against the crush of the crowd. We're only feet away from the inside of a dank, tiny bar that for the moment looks as open and inviting as the fifty yard line of the Superdome. In three directions, as far as I can see, there are people. Not just standing there. Pressing.

Somehow, the three of us have had the misfortune of deciding to return to Canal at the very moment Endymion ends. We're returning, as are the 149,997 other people behind us. And somewhere around Bienville and Bourbon, we meet the 150,000 people that has just seen the end of the largest parade of the weekend. Immediately, the crowd seizes. We can't move. People behind us are pushing us forward. The people in front of us are repelling us backwards. This goes on for a few seconds that seem more like hours until, finally, mercifully, the crowd recognizes the empasse and stops. We're still packed in, with barely breathing room, but at least the pressure has ceased. I have the misfortune of being breast-to-breast with a beautiful brunette--unlike my best friend, should-behind me, who is sandwiched between a large black man and his even larger, unhappy and claustrophobic wife. I smile at him. Over the roar of the crowd I swear I heard him growl. I turn to the beautiful brunette. "Hello, there." She smiles. "Hello." I almost blush. "If we're gonna be this close, maybe we ought to get to know one another a little better," I say. She glances down and winks. "I think we already are."

We stand there for another moment. Granted there's not much to say when you're pressed so hard against a total stranger that you simply have no secrets. Eventually, my end of the crowd gives up and retreats down Bienville, allowing the parade refugees the right of free passage on Bourbon. We live to fight another day.

Sunday, February 6

Aaron's complaining about his Achilles tendon. I've got your Achilles' right here, my look says. "Relax, dude. You gotta learn how to go with the flow." He rolls his eyes. Half an hour, two miles, and 100,000 revelers later, we finally arrive in the Quarter. It's still another ten blocks to Bourbon Street, fifteen to Jackson Square (our 'destination' since we have to have somewhere we are going. That's Aaron's rule, not mine). We pass down two other side streets. Wow. That's amazing. A painting, swirls of colors and lights. Nothing real. Nothing concrete. Just colors. Hanging in the window of a gallery. The sign says "Brent Gallery." Inside the gallery.

"Leonard Neirmann," the guy behind the desk says. I nod, immediately recognizing the name and the technique. "Abstract Surrealism," he says. I nod again. I've seen his work in Austin, Texas. The gallery guy confirms this. We tour the gallery. Aaron's even more amazed than I am. After seeing the work of several artists, we're back into the streets. I turn to Aaron and smirk.

"You never would have seen that, if we'd stuck to our plans." He shrugs. I let it go for now. Food is more important. There's a bakery. I duck in, dragging him by the coat. I'm starved at this point. "Hungry?" I ask. He nods.

"Hey, I know this place! Hannah and I ate here." We order a sandwich. Turkey and Swiss. "But I don't like Swiss," he says. Fine. Ham and Cheese on croissant. In half, two plates. We've still got another two miles to walk. Food's out. Way back, near the back of the property, there is a small patio. Metal tables with plastic chairs. We can barely hear the shouts for beads, the fog horns, the trumpets, of Bacchus running down Canal only five or six blocks away.

Later, in the cab back to the car, (you park miles away and take public transportation in), I smile at Aaron, punch him on the shoulder. "Oh admit you had a good time." He smiles. "Yeah. I guess I did." Maybe next year we won't have to have the entire thing scripted? He shrugs.

Home in time for the second half of the Super Bowl. Go Patriots. Yay you. Two advil, two tylenol PM and I'm down for the count.

Monday, February 7.

Our fourth trip into the Quarter in as many days. The palpable stench of five days of partying is starting to take its toll on Bourbon Street. Yet here we are again, this time with Aaron's father and a group of men. Today is Boobie Beads day for us. They brought beads. I arrive "naked". No beads to trade. No worries. By the end of the first block, I've flirted my way into five long strands of beads, dropped from ladies on balconies into the hands of the blonde guy blowing them kisses.

Two blocks down, I look up on the balcony of the Old Absinthe House. Someone waves. I'm used to it by now. You pick someone out of the crowd, point to them, and throw them a bead. Or if you're in the crowd, you pick a balcony-watcher and toss a bead up. But this person is different. This person is familiar. I squint through the confusion. Is that?! No way! Yes it is! My first grade teacher and later elementary-school principal! She smiles, winks, and drops down three strands of beads--the big, heavy ones. Good ones for trading later. I toss up two sets of my beads. We wave our goodbyes. What happens on Bourbon, stays on Bourbon.

Two blocks later, I've traded one set of the heavy, elementary-school beads for a nice shot of a brunette's breasts. Now, I'm looking to replenish my supply. There's a girl on a balcony, waving what I want before me. I motion for a trade. She shakes her head. This one's gonna cost me. I untuck my shirt, flirting a little. She waves for me to show her something. Jokingly, I lift up my shirt. She shakes her head. What the hell, I think. It's only fair, I say to myself asI undo my belt buckle. I'm tossing beads up at them to see their breasts. Why not give a little back? And now I've done it. I'm standing with my pants down, in the middle of the most crowded street in America. But I got the beads I wanted. They come in handy two blocks later when I find a blonde, just miss her lifting her top. C'est la vie, one might say. But not me. I trade her the new beads for a fresh glimpse. What happens on Bourbon, stays on Bourbon.

Finally, exhausted, we're back on a street car, headed for the car. And only then do I begin to question everything we've been through tonight. Separation, reunion, exposure, and 'sight' seeing are only a few of the many memories from this Carnival Season. But you'll never hear me tell tales. What happens on Bourbon stays there.

Kids say the darndest things.

2005-01-23T18:54:00.000-05:00

I'm a big believer in decadence. So after spending an entire day largely either naked or in my PJ's watching my West WIng dvd set, I decided to fix a double cup of hot chocolate while watching Celebrity Poker while my oven self-cleans.

We'll divert here for a moment because I think it's a great thing that my oven self cleans. I have no ability to self-censor, and barely the ability to shower, so this is an impressive feature of my oven to say the least. I press a button, the door locks and three hours later, the chocolate chip cookie that has melded itself into the bottom of the teflon coating is miraculously gone...while I'm watching Mekhi Phifer kick some fat guy's ass in Celebrity Poker Showdown.

In the middle of it all, a commercial comes on. Perhaps you've seen this commercial. A little boy is standing there with his painfully obviously single mother, trying to learn football. He's inept at football. "Maybe baseball is your game," she offers. Next we see the poor little boy, who looks like the lost love child of Mattie Stepanik and Jonathan Lipnicki, throw a baseball. He misses his mother but manages to nail a milk bottle almost thirty feet behind her. The poor misguided mother, who fails to recognize the boy's inate talent for Olympic Shot Putting, suggests that Golf might be his game. Alas, no, as he succeeds only in digging a hole in the fairway at a course that makes Pebble Beach look like your local Muny course. Finally, we get resolve when the sadistic, sexist bitch of an overbearing mother is seated in an auditorium where little Mattie Lipnicki has joined the glee club. (Elementary schools have glee clubs, now, didn't you get the memo? Me neither.) Yay! We can finally find a place where he can succeed and belong! No wait! It's better than that. He's a *soloist*! And there, in the crowd, as he sings to his mommy an ode to single parenthood, sits the mother, crying like one of those evil women from Star Kid. And at the end of it, "Parenthood...yada yada...brought to you by the Foundation for a Better Life."

Yeah. That's what I need. Right in the middle of my lament about lacking Irish Whiskey to go into the hot chocoloate, interrupting my concentration during Celebrity Poker, they put this commercial. Hey! You want me to have a better life? Then let me watch Mekhi kick the fat guy's ass and bring me a bottle of Jameson to spike my cocoa. Or better yet, develop a button that I can press outside my front door where, when I leave, I press it and my house cleans itself. Yeah. A self cleaning house! *That's* what I call a foundation for a better life.

It's the little things, ya know?

2005-01-06T01:32:00.000-05:00

I have a friend that, in the past month, has made my week twice--simply by sharing with me a bit of humor she found in the oddest places. I'm not talking about irony. I refer instead to genuine humor. Things people created to be funny that are actually, surprisingly, funny.

The first came two days before Christmas. I was sharing with her the horrors of family Christmas and she said, "Well, then, you probably need to see this card." Out she brings a nice, fun card with Santa Clause on the front. "You'd better not pout, you'd better not cry. You'd better watch out, I'm telling you why," Santa says on the cover in a chipper, smiling manner. You open the card to find him screaming "Because Santa doesn't want to fucking hear about it, okay?!"

I cannot overstate how much joy I got from reading that card. In 23 words, forever engraved into my memory, a card-writer captured my sentiments of the holiday season. (Thank the lord it's gone.)

So tonight, I'm over at her house, helping her rescue her emails from her old computer and import them onto the new computer, a task that MicroLimp has done very little to make easy. We're talking and she starts laughing. Says to me "you've got to see this. I gave it as a gift at a ladies party for Christmas." She produces a plastic reindeer. Complete with a movable tail, antlers. I'm like, "okay?" Then she presses it down.

The tail raises up and out of its ass falls a rootbeer jelly bean. Pressing it again, the reindeer produces a cola flavored been. Both are a particular shade of brown that was slightly disturbing.

Lucky for me, she had an extra. I'm going to keep it on my desk in my study at home for those special moments when life gets me down. I'll reach up, press him down, and out will pop a poop-colored jelly bean, the prefect reminder that shit comes from the most unlikely of places and isn't always shit.

An American Christmas Carol.

2004-12-25T13:22:00.000-05:00

Christmas has always been a very odd time for me and--by extension--my family. Since we hold no particular religious attachment to the holiday, I've always marveled at the way Christians choose to celebrate the birth of their savior. (I can't fathom, for instance, Objectivists erecting trees and buying gifts, even for themselves, on Ayn Rand's birthday. Not that she's an Objectivist's savior mind you.)

Starting in July, I'm bombarded by pictures of snowmen and stars atop greenery, little funny, leprechaunish people in weird hats with primitive tools and Santa Clause. It has gotten so overwhelming that I have decided not to fight it. This year I would do the Christmas thing. Buy presents for everyone I know, hold a Christmas dinner, attend Midnight Mass. I even went so far as to break down and buy a Christmas shirt. Green, Dickensian Green, with white writing, complete with snow flakes and holly. Across the front of it, emblazoned in five-inch tall letters are the two words that made *this* Christmas *my* Christmas: bah-humbug.

My child, inquisitive as she is, asked why I didn't particularly care for Christmas. I shrugged, dusted the tree-flocking off my shoulder, and sighed. "Because people don't know what this holiday is really about," I replied.

We'll pause here for a brief note on "my child". She belongs to a good friend of mine, whom I've known for many years and I've become over the years a sort of surrogate father. When I introduce her, I introduce her as my daughter. Her mother, for all her wonderful qualities, is a 'practicing wiccan' (which has now, thankfully, topped Mormonism as the fastest-growing religion in the world). My daughter has been brought up in a house free of the guilt of killing the Messiah, therefore she's a little bit immune to all the nativities featuring multi-cultural wisemen/women, strange combinations of farm animals and sea life, and even one nativity in which Jesus was swaddled in a Gay Pride flag and Mary was wearing an AIDS Awareness ribbon. One of the wisemen looked like a transvestite and the other two were carrying a copy of the Qu'ran and the Bible respectively. Even the Beetles were making a stop at this particular Adoration. The displayers of this nativity were one Susan G. Komen button away from offending everyone with that little whopper.

Back to my child. She's inquisitive and, given that she attends Catholic school, is well-familiarized with the Nativity story- emotionally detatched familiarity. Which is good. Because she can look around and see what Christmas is 'really about', or at least what it is *supposed* to be about.

"Because people don't know what this holiday is really about?" she scoffed, in that way only a pre-adolescent can do. "Whadda ya mean don't know? Look at all of these people. They are buying gifts and giving to others and shopping, being nice and all."

A rather-stark looking woman of about fifty brushed into the shelf before which we were standing, examining incense burners, nearly sending it tumbling to the ground. The shopkeeper looked up and the woman scorned my child. "You should watch what you're doing, young lady!" she said.

I paused, considered my reply, and then politely suggested she should get Lasik and enjoy a couple of years on Weight Watchers, before wishing her a Happy Christmahanukwanzakahs and ushering my child from the store.

Once back in the crushing flow of shoppers angrily pushing and shoving their way from one over-crowded, price-gouging retail boutique to the next, I embarked on explaining Christmas to her in a not-so-subtle way.

"You see, babe, it goes like this. For 11 months of the year, the entire economy of the world goes into hibernation, storing up goods and useless shit that people really don't need. Big companies wait and wait until about September, when they begin spending their saved up advertising dollars on convincing the American public of the dire need for an underarm-hair removal kit or a cell-phone boosterpack to recharge your batteries while you shop. Then, there is the sort of 'détente' period (you know, like the first four or five moves in Risk when we're just reinforcing our troops?)."

She nodded. Encouraged by her seeming understanding, I pressed on.

"Well, détente lasts from about Halloween until the last week before Thanksgiving. Then it starts. Christmas trees signal the coming of the most important day of the year: Post-Thanksgiving Day Sales at McRaes. Everyone goes to the mall and begins spending all of their money on other people, buying them not clothes or a new pair of Doc Martens like they would really appreciate, but buying them rank, second-rate colognes and a plethora of picture frames--usually filling said frames with pictures of themselves or worst, their obnoxious children."

She stopped me. "But people *like* getting those things don't they?"

I shrugged. "Some of them, yes. But go to the return counter the day *after* Christmas and you might wonder. Because that's when the world goes *back* to the mall and gets what they really really want: the useless shit that they bought for other people!"

She nodded. "I get it now! So when you gave me that sweater for Christmas last year, I should have taken it back and traded it in for a Playstation2?"

And then I knew that my child had understood the true meaning of Christmas. As a final test, I steered her into a store. "So what should we get your mother?"

With a gleam in her eye, she smiled. "Cash."

Merry Christmas all.

The Game of Life as a metaphor for living.

2004-12-23T21:22:00.000-05:00

Since Colleen was off work tonight, we decided to give the kids their presents tonight. Tomorrow evening, after she gets off work, they'll do presents again with the extended family on her side, and then the next day with their dad and his family. I always marvelled at Christmas when I was a kid. A product of divorce myself, I knew something at a very young age: the Jews don't have nothing on goy divorce-Christmas celebrations. Sure, they get 8 days of gifts from their family. But we have road trip after road trip, hotel stays, and at least three nights of presents--not to mention Santa Clause.

After hearing Kya, the oldest, spend the last twelve months begging for a cell phone, all the while telling her that she cannot have a cell phone until she's dating, (understand she's 12), we decided to teach her that most American of lessons: whine loud enough and people will give you your way, if only to shut you up. Yes, our twelve-year old has a cell phone. The younger ones got a series of board games (all per request) and will get gifts from Santa that are sure to make the easy-bake recipes given tonight make much more sense. ("Don't worry, Gabbie. We don't know why, but Santa called and told us we should buy you easy-bake meals. I wonder why?")

After spending the better part of ten minutes setting up the board, sticking stickers, and otherwise reading rules, we embarked on the first trip around the looping yellow squares of Parker Bros. "Game of Life". Anyone who played Life as a child should throw everything you know about game play out the window. Parker Bros. has 'improved' the game, with new features and new rules that have transformed the Game of Life into a fitting metaphor for living.

Gameplay goes as follows. First, you have to set up the board *every time*. The houses, spinning wheel, bridges, and mountains all fall off the board every time you close it because of poor design, meaning that every time you play, you have to reconstruct the game. Don't loose the instructions, because the houses and bridges are remarkably similar in size and, without the reference map, you're liable to wedge a mountain where a bridge goes or put the wrong house in the wrong place. After putting the board together, everyone spins to see who goes first. Much like the real world, the highest number gets the prize. You have to then decide if you're going to go to college, and fall hopelessly and irrevocably into debt (by borrowing $100,000 before you graduate), or start your career.

It is here that the first major parallel takes place: you pull your career and your salary out of a deck of cards. If the colors match, you get to keep them. If not, you keep drawing until the colors do match. Anyone who has recently entered the workforce will immediately recognize this as the time when you pull your career out of your ass, your employer throws a number at you, and if you decide you're paid enough to put of with other people's shit, you stay. If not, you pull another job out of your ass and start over.

So you spin, passing paydays, getting married at the prescribed time. The game still has it's hard stops. No matter what you want to do you will still have to get married--whether you want to or not. Your choice is irrelevant. You don't even get to pick your bride. I want to ask my gay friends if, when they play, they put a same-colored peg into their plastic cars or if they decide not to be too out and chose an opposite colored partner-peg? Given the state of our great nation, their preference of spouse is largely irrelevant, so I'm betting they put a member of the opposite sex in the car. The rules don't mention anything about same-sex partnerships, so I'm assuming Parker Bros. has ruled this one out.

One of the new additions to the game is life tiles. You land on a square with a particular big event (having children for example--which is completely by luck. You don't get to chose this one either), and take a 'life tile'. On the small, (we're talking microscopic cat snacks if you leave the game out too long), there are impossible dreams that you have 'fulfilled' like running a world-record mile or winning a Pulitzer. The kinds of things that we all say we'd like to do but aren't willing to give up reruns of "Friends" to accomplish. And you collect these for later in the game.

Buying a house is as complicated a process as it is in real life. There are rules, there are new denominations, and it's all so frustratingly complicated that the children who are playing learn the most valuable lesson in life: because of pointless rules, life is so mundanely complex .

Think about it the next time you're playing The Game of Life. Think of all the false expectations that we set up for our kids when we talk about college and jobs and work and kids and houses and retirement. We don't talk about term papers, long hours, co-workers, labor pains, house notes, insurance, prostate exams and funeral expenses and, when they finally learn of these things, its too late for them to go back and decide they would have been better off playing Twister.

Happy Holidays, guys. I'm still young enough to know a good choice when I see one. I'm going to go play Twister with the kids.

Jesus and the art of magazine editing.

2004-12-12T21:50:00.000-05:00

If you had told me what I was facing in helming a magazine, I would have laughed, not believed you. After all, my impression of magazine editing is--sorry--was based solely on the portrayals of Ben Fong-Torres in "Almost Famous" and the guy from TNR played by Hank Azaria in "Shattered Glass". But let me tell you now, it's not all it's cracked up to be.

I'm excited to be working, doing what I reallly have wanted to do for most of my adult life. I have an amazing group of writers and a great staff. However, Jesus Christ had nothing on me. He got crucified once, rose three days later, and got to go to heaven and be worshipped by gazillions. An editor, on the other hand, gets crucified at the end of every month, sleeps it off in one night, and gets to start all over again the next day! Ah, the joys of perpetual persecution.

Understand this, though. I've always envied people in the movies who have the jobs that demand long hours that they're happy to put in because they are on a mission in life. I've always wanted that myself--twenty-hour, Dagny-Taggart-Asleep-At-Her-Desk, walking-zombie drive to succeed. And now I have it. But it's not all it's cracked up to be.

My friends hate me now, because I haven't much time and when I do, I'm on the cell almost constantly. My kid barely knows me. And I'm not writing for myself. It's all I can do to get my writers' work into the magazine, much less pen a letter from the editor. It's hard work!

If ever you wondered what an editor does for a living, email me and I'll be happy to tell you. But be prepared. It's a torture story that would make a Poe story read like a fairy tale bedtime rhyme.

Alas the joys of success. Don't get me wrong. I'm loving every minute of it.

P.S. I'll write more regularly now that my feet are back down on the earth. --md

Just when you think they're ringing your curtain down.

2004-11-10T15:37:00.000-05:00

This has been an interesting couple of weeks. Bush won an astounding reelection and I got promoted. Almost as if the Fates were saying "Hey, we know how you feel. So here's a consolation prize." This happens in life, it seems. We get down about things not going our way and then they do. Thus we are today looking at the two events.

First, take heart Democrats, Liberals, and conservatives who don't like Bush. Though John Kerry lost, we learn a valuable lesson: when you have a message that is working, don't change it. Kerry closed a 15 point gap in two weeks by harping on the war. And when he tied the race, what did he do? He changed his focus away from Iraq. Almost as if the Democrats wanted to lose (and some have made that argument almost convincingly), Kerry shifted away from what was working to talk about what hadn't been.

This election solved a problem for us--we now have something to run against. It occurred to me a few days after the election that we lost largely because of a rather strident adherence to a "Bush stole the 2000 election" mantra. While the candidates didn't address this, they certainly left it to their foot soldiers. And it made our candidate look like a whiny baby. Maybe in 2008 we won't run against the United States Supreme Court and will try to find a candidate that can answer the tough questions while returning us to a progressive, forward-looking, and ultimately hopeful party.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not at all happy with the results. Hell, anything but. Maybe someone could drop me an email and tell me why I've been wandering around singing "A New Argentina" since Kerry's defeat. But it's only four more years and this nation survived a decade of Joseph McCarthy's HUAC and two decades of Tutu Hoover's FBI. We shall prevail.

Now on to the promotion.

I'm an editor now. The editor. Open a magazine and find the masthead--the credits--and look at the name of the publisher. Then look immediately beneath it. That's me. I'm the editor. It comes with a significant pay-bump and a company leash (cell phone). And it comes with tremendous pressure. I don't know anything about outdoor living. I do know about the English language and how to be a good wordwright. So maybe the two will balance and I'll be a good editor. It is terribly exciting but also rather daunting. I've got control over a 40+ page magazine. Fun stuff.

I'll post a link to the web site when it goes live in February.

It's almost here! It's almost over! For the love of all things holy let it end!

2004-11-01T20:30:00.000-05:00

Not very many hours left. Praise whatever deity you worship, but tomorrow, America votes to elect the leader of the free world. Now my political beliefs are pretty common knowledge to all of my friends. And if the big banner at the top of the page doesn't spell it out clearly enough, I'm voting for John Kerry. For some reason, that has come as a surprise to many of my friends. So, on this eve of the election, I think it's about time for me to spell out my reasoning.

John Kerry is not George W. Bush.

It's pretty much that simple. Save a Neanderthal or Hitler, I can't think of many people who could have run that would have made me vote for "Dubya". There are reasons for this, and I'm going to list five of them in a bit. But before I piss people off, understand that I agree with Jefferson: dissention is the truest form of patriotism.

And we have a group of men running for president that exemplify dissention.

Nader, the ultra-left wing consumer advocate is representing the Green Party. Peroutka, of whom many haven't heard, appears on the ballots of many states as the Constitution Party candidate--complete with a platform that is as myopic as the racist views of many of his followers. There are others--but those are the two candidates who most accurately represent the two extremes. So if you don't want to vote for Bush or Kerry, pick someone else. There are as many as 23 people running in some states. (Does anyone know if LaRouche qualified this year?)

So why not Bush?

1.) He can't say Nuclear, America, or sylable. And I'm elitist enough to believe that the President of the United States should be able to speak coherently.

2.) Dick Cheney (and his heart condition) scares me. Haliburton scares me. And while I think that there is a more than fair chance the "Haliburtongate" scandal was and is a farcical myth, why take the chance, eh?

3.) He spent way too much time telling people what he was going to do rather than doing what he said he was going to do. Tax cuts not withstanding, he's also lied about most of the things. He claims to be a conservative in favor of small government, yet he doubled the size of the Federal government and increased the deficit twelve-fold.

4.) Iraq. 1,300 soldiers dead in a war that he proclaimed "Mission Accomplished," after telling Pat Robertson that there would be no casualties. (Sorry, Mr. President. I've listened to you tell me there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. I've also listened to Pat Robertson tell me things. While he is tragically misguided religiously, I trust him more than I trust you. So don't bother denying it.)

5.) On August 6, 2001, he was told about the possibility of a 9/11-style attack orchestrated by Osama bin Laden. And he did nothing. I'm not talking about the Michael Moore, hey-here's-a-picture-of-a-file, "watch-this" thing. I'm referring specifically to Condi Rice's testimony about the "vague" report given to the president that was titled "Osama bin Laden determined to strike within the United States." He did nothing. The economy, national security, and social welfare of the nation suffered under his dereliction of duty. Would Kerry have done anything differently? Would Gore? I haven't a clue. Probably not. But Bush was there and did nothing. The guilt is his.

I'm not going to tell you to go out and vote for John Kerry. But do go vote. Vote for someone. Anyone. Joni Mitchell said it best. It always seems to go that you don't know what you've got til it's gone. How would you like to wake up Wednesday and not have the right to vote? Go vote.

Electoral Nightmares

2004-10-20T14:00:00.000-05:00

There's a nightmare scenario that isn't being discussed in the media today. And it's one that is, given the demographic makeup (or breakdown, if you prefer) particular to the 2004 Presidential race, more than possible. So I'm going to explain it here, and reserve an "I told you so," for later use, but stop short of making this my 'official prediction.'

The Electoral College is always divided into such a manner that it might result in a tie. In the event of a tie, the Constitution mandates that the House of Representatives choose the president from the top three vote-getters, a clause I'm sure Ralph Nader is more than happy to embrace. I know what you're thinking, "Oh fun. There are 435 representatives. That makes it fairly easy. Divide 435 by 2 and add one." But it's not that simple. Each state gets one vote.

Wait for it.

That's right. California's 55 congressional delegates will amass in one corner, vote amongst themselves, and then cast ONE VOTE for the State of California for President. Little Rhode Island will do the same. So it becomes crucial, given the closeness of this election, to look at how the House breaks down right now. There are 25 states controled by Republicans, 21 by Democrats. The remaining four appear to be evenly split between the two parties. So if Kerry were to powerbroker his way into those four votes, the election would still be a tie. Let's step across the hall to the Senate chambers for a minute and complicate things a bit.

Across the hall, the Senate has just voted for Vice President from the two top-vote-getters. Since there are 54 Republican senators and 46 Democratic senators, Cheney is chosen as the Vice President-Elect. Let's fast-forward to 11:59 AM, March 3, 2005.

The House of Representatives are again voting. And now, Bernie Sanders (D-Vermont) is now the most powerful man in Washington. His vote will either give Bush the Presidency or result in a tie. He casts for--John Forbes Kerry. 25-25. The clock strikes midnight. At that moment, the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court steps into the Oval Office and swears in the Vice President as president.

That's right. John Kerry or George Bush could win this election's popular vote but, given the right circumstances, neither man might be president. Dick Cheney could be the next president of the United States. And as such, he would be empowered to appoint whomever he choses for Vice President.

VOTE! Vote now! Vote OFTEN! Because it could happen!

PC And the Art of Non-Disagreement.

2004-10-10T23:10:00.000-05:00

I had lunch with my friends at Azalea Estates today. My friends are a table of World War II vets who, for better or for worse, are retired academics. I find that interesting on many levels--that they fought and won what was perhaps the greatest ideological conflict in the history of mankind and returned home to become college professors. My friends are a true testament to the nature of war--the last resort and the natural extention of politics.

We were discussing the election, how things were looking for either candidate. Two of the men are Kerry supporters, one is a Bush supporter, but we don't hold it against him. And the topic turned to the most recent debate between the president and the senator. We all spoke our minds about who we thought won what points, but we all generallly agreed that it was a tie on the issues but Kerry looked more presidential. After all, he didn't have to interrupt Charles Gibson in an almost farcical, South Park Prime Minister sort of way. "Can I respond to that? I wanna respond to that." In the end, we decided that both men gained an equal number of 'points' and the debate was a wash, a tie in which there was no clear winner.

The topic then turned to the nature of disagreement and how we've changed as a nation and as a people. I related a story about a mailing list incident I had. The exchange went something like the following:

ME: America has turned into a hellhole of a nation, a godforesaken cesspool of a populace taking marching orders from the likes of Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh.

HER: You shouldn't insult Americans and America like that!

SOMEONE ELSE: Well it's TRUE!

HER: Yeah, but he could have said it in a non-insulting way.

After taking a minute to gain my composure, I replied that the very act of disagreement in and of itself is an insult. While we can mask the sting behind any number of niceties and politeness, play coy about 'agreeing to disagree', and condescend to our epistemological opponents, we still are, in essence, saying that we are right and they are wrong--which is, frankly, insulting. I simply chose not to mask myself behind "some people are so misguided."

The whole incident inspired me to come up with a brief list, three 'rules'. Guidelines that, if you will, will hopefully spare the feelings of whomever the idiot across the table from you happens to be. So take them to heart, live by them, and we'll all meld into that gray mush of the melting pot.

1.) Do not attack your opposition. Instead, politely inform them that they are misguided.
You can't be serious! That's just plain stupid. 2+2 does not equal five. It equals four. Any idiot with an in-tact hand could tell you that!

I understand why you would think that. After all, you were misguided by the teachers of "new math." 2+2 almost equals five. But it's actually four. Awe...look! You figured it out on your fingers! Way to go!

2.) Do not call your opponent a name--even if the name is a monosyllabic word, the definition of which they epitomise in their stupidity. Instead, use euphemisms and be cheerful as you correct their mistake.

Dumbass! That isn't a CAR! That's a rock! You've got two eyes and a brain, try using them sometimes will you?!

Awe! That's cute. You thought that the rock was a car! It's okay. I mean, they are both big, hard, and sometimes ugly. But cars have windows and rocks, while they may be shiny, don't. So that's a good way to tell them apart in the future. After all, hon. You can't drive a rock!

3.) If all else fails, don't walk away in silence. Walk away humming. At least the rest of the world will know how superior you are to your opponent.

I just--You can't--Agh!!!!!!!!

Hmhmmmmhemmmmhhhmmhemmmmhmmmmhummmm.....

I must confess. I miss the old days. The days when 'polite' behavior didn't dictate what was right. "We pledge our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor" wasn't ordered that way accidentally. You can bet your ass they prioritized that list. "Lives" was the least of their concerns of the three. When the Duel went the way of the do-do, so did truly polite society. It was okay to disagree with someone, but watch your step. If you did it the wrong way, they'd pop a cap in your ass. Ah...the good ole days. Fuck progress man. Wanna be my second?

It's still too easy.

2004-09-30T13:47:00.000-05:00

I thought maybe sleeping would afford me the opportunity to wake up from this nightmare that is the world around me. But it hasn't. C'est la vie. So now we'll talk about Grammar for a minute.

Don't get me wrong. I don't expect every person to speak flawless English. I certainly don't. Nor do I write flawless sentences. And I don't expect such from others. However, when faced with some of the trainwrecks of the English Language that I've seen recently, I can't help but wonder what the hell is going on in High School grammar classes. Example: You didn't "done" something. You *did*. You HAVE done before. I got me a problem is no more proper than ;lakdjflkajd. I have gotten an object. And please know the difference between a transitive and an intransitive verb. Example: "John instructs Math". Oh really? What does John instruct Math to do? And does it listen?

And there are just some things you should know if you're going to leave your house. No more is this apparent than in the realm of classical music.

Mozart did not write any of the following:

Symphonie Fantastique (Berlioz)
Carmina Burana (Carl Orff)
Ode to Joy (Beethoven)

Likewise, Beethoven didn't write Flight of the Bumblebee or Eine Kliene Natchmusik. That was Mozart.

Henry Ford didn't invent the automobile. Edison invented the Lightbulb (not Benjamin Franklin). Franklin didn't invent electricity, nor did he discover it. He did, however, recognize the significance of it. Gravity, at least on earth, is a constant force. Bumble Bees can fly, even though some physics models say they can't. They don't sting, by the way. All spiders *can* bite. They are, after all, carnivores. They just might not have a mouth big enough to bite *you*. Bugs have four legs, insects six, and arachnids eight. A gerund is a present-tense verb used as a noun. (I enjoy diving.) Tonight's debates aren't debates, they are a series of speeches. A debate involves interaction and challenge. Words have meanings. Columbus discovered America by accident. He didn't know it was here nor did he realize what he had found when he landed. He thought the natives were from India--thus we have *indians* in America--which was named for the man who TRULY recognized the significance: Amerigo Vespucci, an *Italian* cartographer. Greenland is NOT the same size as Africa, and France is the size of Texas. England, which looks bigger than South America, is actually the size of California. And Alaska isn't the largest state--Texas is. (Though if you count the water around Hawaii, it's Hawaii.) Something that happens at 10AM in New York happens *simultaneously* at 11AM in Saint Louis Missouri--not an hour later. So don't call your friends for the powerball winning numbers. I'm sure there are more of these, but you get the point. Please, for the love of all things sacred, don't highlight ignorance! :-)

I try so hard and they make it so easy.

2004-09-28T23:53:00.000-05:00

I really try not to be elitist, but they make it so easy.

Whom are they, you ask? They are everyone who, in the third grade, decided that they had learned everything they needed to know about life, the universe and everything, and having now opted to continue their educations, show the world everything they learned in the third grade and simultaneously demonstrate their ignorance of everything they should have learned in the fourth through twelfth grades.

While you may be thinking that I may be a bit too pissy about things, let's look at three subjects that, while rather obscure, you cannot discuss without either knowing your stuff or sounding like an idiot to those of us who do: politics, music, and grammar.

There are several myths in Politics, usually perpetrated upon unsuspecting high-schoolers by well-meaning and ill-informed Civics Coaches, that have pervaded the modern political scene to such a degree that they are repeated by roughly half of the United States Congress and more than a handful of Senators. To borrow a phrase from Chaim Potok's masterpiece "My Name Is Asher Lev," we need "a session in de-mythology."

The first myth we will attack goes somewhat as follows and, to those of us who know the truth, sounds ridiculous. "We live in a democracy," flows freely from the pundit-tap and trips from the tongues of senators, congressmen and women, and even our wonderful President. Newsflash, kids. EAHNGNH....Wrong. No, honey. We don't live in a democracy. We live in an indirect, Representational Republic. If we abandoned the Republic somewhere recently, then fuck this, I'm moving to Canada. Democracy refers to a very specific form of self-government (as do Republic, Represenational Republic, and Indirect Representational Republic). Just as there are varieties of totalitarian governments, there are varieties of *self-government*. We don't live in a democracy. Read about the fate of ancient Greece and you'll understand why.

The second myth we encounter on a daily basis during this election cycle is that of the origins of the Electoral College. This body, shrouded in mystery (who are these Electors anyway??), is the brainchild of the Founding Fathers (but they 'borrowed' the idea from the Holy Roman Empire's selection of a ruler). Again, the Civics Coach and many High School American History teachers, "The Fathers gave us the EC because they wanted to make electing a president easier and communication was a problem so this fixed it." Wrong again. The Electoral College exists to *limit the power of Populous* states to singularly elect the President while also protecting the larger states from a disproportionately strong advantage of "Senate-held" elections. In other words: the communication and widely dispersed population were irrelevant. The Fathers also talked about shielding the populace from its own poor judgement and popularity contests for a ruler. But we won't go there.

The final myth of our Political Spectrum we encounter frequently is best signaled by this refrain: We were created as a Christian Nation. Um...that might be news to Thomas Jefferson, the cheif architect of our government and future President who wasn't a Christian. He was a deist. While he recognized the presence of God, he would probably get into a big argument with most Christians about the nature of that God and whose God was stronger. The Separation of Church and State *is* a constitutional institution, despite what stupid pastors from uneducated pulpits tell you. The Federalist Papers even cite that phrase on several occasions.

So now that we've covered the big problems with politics, we'll talk about Grammar and Music tomorrow. Suffice it to say that I'm disgusted with the whole mess.

The last days of the Roman Empire.

2004-09-21T13:55:00.000-05:00

It is impossible for me to overstate how disappointed I am with my country, my government, and my fellow citizens. We stand at the precipice of a great and terrific future (terrific in the ACTUAL DEFINITION, not as in great), a future shrouded in mystery and wonder. Where are we going? What does it hold? For the first time in my life, I look out ahead of me and don't see a path for our country to follow. And this election sums up why.

On one side, I have a fortunate son who promises to increase my taxes, grow the federal government, and keep us mired in a conflict which we cannot win by anything more than a pyrric victory. On the other side, I have a fortunate son who promises to increase my taxes, grow the federal government, and keep us mired in a conflict which we cannot win by anything more than a pyrric victory.

Excuse me. Did I miss something? Did the Republican and Democratic Parties merge into one mega-Party, a monolithic entity of proportions so grand that it cannot be defeated? Increasing my terror in the face of this monstrocity, this abortion of the Republic that is this election, is the fact that, when given two candidates who are virtually identical in every way, the country is *divided*! One would think that, given the similarities in background, family connections, history, service, governing and politics, this would be a time of great unity! But no, we're on the brink of bloodshed in the streets.

Where is my candidate? The one who debates issues like Social Security and what it means and why or why not we should support it. The candidate who dares to say "I believe this, and you believe that. Here's why I'm right and you're wrong." Ronald Reagan could do this. Clinton did this to some extent. Truman was a master at staying a course. And for the love of God, FDR! I cannot tell you how many times in the past month I've been tempted to drive to Roosevelt's tomb with a pick-axe and shovel, dig him up, prop him in a wheel chair and run HIM as President! At least we'd have someone who is *actually* brain dead rather than the two baffoons who are in the race now!

But alas, this is America (Or Merkah, if you prefer the Texanese pronunciation). So we can't have an election about the rights of man, as dictated by the United States Constitution (which is seriously flawed on some interpretive points, mind you). Instead, we've a debate about what happened thirty years ago. I can see the hearings now, two years removed from today, when Kerry wins. "Mr. Kerry," says a faceless, McCarthy-esque senator into a microphone, "Where were you on Christmas Day, 1967?" Or when Bush wins, "Mr. Bush, where were you on Christmas Day, 1967?"

Instead of a debate about this war and this enemy, we're debating a war that's over, a war that was such a bad idea that *many of the soldiers who fought in it came back and protested it!* And on one side of *the current war*, we've got a man who, despite a security briefing report that sees *no way* out of the situation other than a civil war in Iraq and on the other side, a man who's taken so many positions on the war I'm not convinced he's not on a playground merrigo-round.

This election should be about the War on Terror. Regardless of where you stand or whom you support, you should be asking questions of the candidates that have to do with what they did/will do about terrorists. "Mr. Kerry, what would you do to combat terrorism around the world?" "Mr. Bush, did you receive a security briefing on August 6th where you were warned about the possibility of a 9/11 style attack?" "Mr. Kerry, were you aware of the threats?" "Mr. Bush, why USA Patriot Act?" "Mr. Kerry, why USA Patriot Act?"

Let's make this a campaign about the war. Let's make this a campaign about rights, about freedom, about what it is to be an American. And for the love of God, let's stop politicising the Military. Julius Caesar tried that and we see where it got him. Of course, I don't much suspect there is a Brutus in the Senate, anymore than I suspect Nancy Reagan could have been Cassandra.

Genius and the Art of Symbol-Reading.

2004-08-16T21:02:00.000-05:00

The Irony Gods have smiled on my entire life. Each morning, I awaken to a world filled with subtle bits of humor. You know the ones of which I speak. That misplaced pronoun that suddenly makes a news article that much more titilating or the Ice Cream truck driving through a business district filled with Cube Farms. Moments like that make life enjoyable for me. Unfortunately for the rest of the world, they're left out.

One of the ironies of life is that I was graced with an intellect. I read constantly, fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. When I decided to read Candide, I did so in French, even though my French was not that good. When I began reading The Canturbury Tales, I read them in the original middle English. Nevermind that I didn't know squat about middle English. I learned.

I have an IQ higher than many, 165 on the open scale. I read three languages. I can make a computer do anything I wish and can design graphics or recreate them from scratch. I repair my own car, I write books, journalistic articles, and academic pieces about the nature of other people's books and I do so in a timeframe so quick that I've yet to have an editor that wasn't stunned with my ability to be the 'go to' guy in a pinch. I know about computer hacking (though I've never hacked so much as my own hair, much less a computer), and political speeches are just in my blood. I can design, layout, construct and install a sign in your choice of materials. I run a tight ship at a restaurant, have managed a deli, have been the senior sales person for a major regional ISP and have covered the President of the United States--standing with the White House Press Corps. And in each of the events above I saw the irony in life.

Driving down the highway, I noticed a billboard. One of those tall, advertising-agency monstrosities with two separate display spaces--each the size of a decent home. The top was for a retirement community. An elderly woman, supposedly with Alzheimer's, smiled benevolently upon those motorists caught in traffic. Immediately below her was an advertisement for a Kawasaki motorcycle--flanked by a beautiful, curvy, and incredibly hot blonde who, if she was a day older than 19, I'll slap my mother. The irony I saw? It was more of a voiceover I heard. "I used to look like this! Look at me now!" the old woman was chuckling down.

A few minutes later, as I was doing my best to check out of Hell-Mart, I saw this girl. She was young. Maybe 15, standing with her mother at the checkout. She was pretty, but not stunningly so. But what caught my eye was what she was *wearing*. A muscle shirt that looked like it had been two sizes too small before getting accidentally washed in hot water and a pair of jersey shorts--the ones that look like tee-shirt boxers turned inside out? After the initial moment of "what I wouldn't give to be that age and know what I know now" passed, I remembered that *I* have a kid that is fast approaching that age. The Parental Gene kicked in and I wanted to smack her mother. But I resisted the urge to commit simple battery and remained in my line. Walking out a few minutes later, the Irony Gods rewarded my patience. The girl was walking out in front of me, turned away, and that's when I saw what was so tragically screenprinted across her ass: "Virgin Islands." Not for long, dressed like that, I thought to myself.

I tell you all of this because my gift for finding Irony is not without its Buddhist sense of cosmic Balance. Like a brutal reminder of the Yin and Yang, I am cursed with the inability to read my gas gauge. Yes. I ran out of Gas today on the way home. And as if the simple fact that I failed to comprehend the meaning of the needle pointing at the little yellow "e" wasn't enough, my car died--right in front of one of my professor's houses. But oh no...I've had WAY too much irony in life and the Gods just made up for it. You see, I was stopped at a traffic light half a block from their house. And as I sat there, listening to Fleetwood Mac's instructions to Don't Stop Thinkin' about Tomorrow, I looked down, saw the gauge, and thought to myself "Self, we need to stop for gas at the Citgo just up the road here." At that very instant, the light turned green, I pressed the accelerator, moved forward ten feet and my car promptly died.

The Insanity of Family.

2004-07-30T09:45:00.000-05:00

People say that Einstein defined insanity as repeating the same actions over and over again, each time expecting a different outcome. While I may not be able to confirm the speaker, the quote rings true. Sitting here, after just agreeing to help move furniture (again) for a relative, I can't help but think that I am insane. That my entire family is insane. To more aptly understand this sentiment, you'll need to understand a little about our family.

You know how your family has that one obnoxious relative that always has to be the center of attention? That is every member of my family. At a Thanksgiving table, a family conversation goes something like this:

"And bless this food to the nurishment of our bodies, amen," says Grandpa. "Who wants white meat?"

Three hands go up. Uncle Ed takes a bite of the turkey from the tray and Grandma smacks his hand. "What, ma? I just wanted to see if it was as good as the Turkey we had back in 1976 when we first moved into this house. Remember that Thanksgiving, Pop?"

The grandchildren sit in rapt attention as the Uncle and the Grandfather engage in a trip down memory lane. Sure, they've heard the story about the busted furnace and cooking the turkey in the fireplace because the stove wasn't working; they've heard a million times before. But each time, it still captivates them. Like the story of the pilgrims, this one never loses its gleen.

"Mama," says the youngest. who has never heard the story. "Why do we have Thanksgiving here and not at our house?"

"Because this is where we've always done it and we all gather here because it's tradition," she replies.

And so goes the night, until three hours have passed and the entire family decides to pass out in front of a Notre Dame game, with visions of Floating Bart Simpsons dancing in their heads. I had a Thanksgiving like this once. I was the straggler to a friend's Thanksgiving celebration and let me tell you, I was mortified! I didn't know at what point I should jump up, throw my napkin into the Oyster Dressing and begin shouting obsenities at the person unfortunate enough to be seated across from me. So instead of taking it upon myself to figure out when, I decided to take my lead from my best friend, seated next to me. Aparently, though, he wasn't much up on Thanksgiving traditions, because he didn't jump up and drop the F Bomb on his mother, brother, sister, or uncle. His two sets of grandparents (both sets were there) sat quietly discussing the weather in Texas while we all carried on a single, rather civil conversation about the pending football championship at the local High School. "Oh, now *there's* something to be thankful for!" the father exclaimed. "We finally have a winning team!"

By the end of the meal I was convinced that my friends were space aliens or worse--Canadienne. The Quebecois had invaded my neighborhood and begun the secret assimilation of our nation by usurping and destroying Thanksgiving, that sacred time when Americans come together and scream, shout, and generally mistreat members of their own families at the expense of a cornucopia of food so lavish that even the kings of France would have been impressed.

It wasn't until years later, when I observed similar rituals at my in-laws' homes that I realized that I come from a different Thanksgiving tradition. In our tradition, there are no less than seven conversations going at varying levels of intensity and volume, fluctuating from outright anger ("Hey! Shut the fuck up!....no, mama. We're not arguing, we're just having a Spirited Discuss--I said shut the fuck up!"), to damned near hostility (Note the aforementioned napkin in the Oyster Dressing). This conversational style, when mastered, can be exhilarating. Unfortunately, my family has not mastered it yet. So the entire thing looks something like this:

"And bless this food to the --Hey. Get your hand out of the giblet gravy, you dumbass--nurishment of our bodies. Ame--I said NOW!" says grandpa.

Twelve sets of hands immediately begin throwing food onto twelve place-settings of china. Glasses are knocked over, forks fly across the room with abandon. At the end of the 'serving', the only things remaining in tact are the twelve varieties of beer bottles, the four bottles of wine, and the fifth of Canadian Club that mysteriously appeared on the table sometime during the prayer.

"What's that doing there?" asks Grandma, eying the whiskey.

"Nothing," says the relative responsible. "It's just sitting there."

"Where did it come from?"

"God made it."

And thus that ends the conversation, or so thinks they. What they don't know is that two seats away, another uncle and a married-into-the-family evolutionary biology major are discussing the finer points of Evolutionary theory. The anti-Evolution uncle turns and says. "You're goddamned right! God made it."

Stunned, the first uncle, who happens to believe in evolution, is shocked by his unwitting complicity in undermining Darwin. The biology major, from up north, gets frustered and turns to her husband. "This is all just so Queer."

Two seats away, that word registers with a friend of one of the relatives--the gay straggler who had no place to go so tagged along and just so happens to have been engaged in a discussion with me concerning who is the better entertainer, Liza or Barbara (Liza of course...see, I'm NOT gay!)--and upon the registration of the word queer, he stands up and it is at this moment that I realize he is familiar with the Thanksgiving ritual. With the fluidity of Ricky Martin and the accuracy and speed of Nolan Ryan, he throws his napkin into the Oyster Dressing. Grandma turns to Grandpa, smiles and says, "Well now that we have that out of the way it's time for dessert."

Land of the Plenty...

2004-07-18T23:43:00.000-05:00

...anyone who reads this blog regularly will know that I have an absolute love-hate relationship with my local Wal-M*rt. They absolutely love getting my money and I absolutely hate them for taking so much of it. Alas, aside from being an obsessive-compulsive creature of habit, I'm also someone who values being able to get everything I need in one stop, drive home, and unload it in one trip from the car. (This last bit, about one trip from the car, is actually a habit I formed while living in a flat on the second floor. Given that, for half the year it's raining, I was loath to brave the rain more than once. So I alway choose plastic and tote in all of the bags I've purchased in one trip. I have even devised a way to keep from squashing the bread.)

But today, I go to the Wally World, park in the lot full of cars, and begin shopping. I have to buy a new DVD player, as the old one is going kaput, and dinner for tonight. I want to fix a friend a special dinner for her graduation and then watch movies. I wander over to Electronics, and immediately find two stacks of players. One is the off-brand Apex, the other, one I've never heard of. Both are within pennies of the other. My previous player is an Apex. And considering it still works, just has a few glitches, I decide to be brand-loyal, even though the Emerson player is only ten dollars more. Into the buggy w/ the box. Now onto dinner.

I wander up and down every isle at least twice, picking up in the process a pork tenderloin, a squash, zucchini, a pound of strawberries, cool whip...and it's at the cool whip that I realize the plentiful land in which we live. There is, in your typical super-sized store, fifty brands of chocolate, one-hundred and fifty kinds of breakfast cereal, a full-service deli, five brands of milk, seventeen varieties of butter, and six lines of bread. (Try the fresh baguettes. Primo.)

The only problem is I can't find anything. Not a goddamned thing.

It took me twenty minutes to find the tenderloin, stacked in a pyramid between two rows of hamburger product. The zucchini and squash were easy enough, except whoever stocked the zucchini didn't know the difference between that and the half-a-dozen cuccumbers thrown into the mix. Strawberries were in the most logical place: between endives and spinach. The baguettes were on the same shelf as the doughnuts. And now I'm off to find Redi-Whip. I chuckle to myself for a moment, at the thought of finding an isle full of half-baked teen punks, soaking up the CFC-free cans of Redi-Whip as they kill a few more brain cells. But I can't find the Redi-Whip.

My mother, when I was young and would lose something, would always say "If you were __, where would you be?" If I were a condom, I'd be unused, collecting dust in the dresser drawer, for example. So I try my mom's trick and say aloud, "If I were Redi-Whip, where would I be?"

Miraculously, a voice from the heavens chimes down. "I would be by the ice cream." So I go. It's not there. It's also not in the food isles. Nor is it near the milk. No where can I find it. Also, and more oddly, is the surprising lack of the one thing that *used to be* plentiful in Wal-M&rt: Blue-smocked people.

I would be happy with someone in smock. Anyone. Charles Manson could walk up in a smock at this moment and, as long as he can tell me where the Redi-Whip is, I don't give a rats ass what he carves into my forehead. As I turn the corner and drop a pound of Cool-Whip into my buggy, I remark to the lady beside me--who is equally befuddled and looking for Kumquats--"I remember when people actually worked in Wal-M4rt.

I never found the Redi-Whip, but I knew where she could find Kumquats. After taking her to them and showing her the boxes right below the endives, I go to check out. I stroll right up and the whole thing takes less than a minute and a half.

Driving home a few minutes later, I realized where all the Redi-Whip had gone. Somewhere, in Wally World's store rooms, are a bunch of happy, delirious smurf-clad teenyboppers and about two hundred empty cans of Redi-Whip.

Love Diary about America's Sweethearts With Notting Hill Girls.

2004-07-09T23:25:00.000-05:00

Given that I am paying out the nose for a piece of art I could not live without, a really great surrealist abstractionist ode to Holocaust Memory complete with a very haunting inscription, I haven't been indulging in two of my favorite pasttimes: drinking Irish whiskey at the pub and buying DVD's. So tonight, I went to Blockbuster and did something I very rarely do anymore. I bought some movies.

I was rather surprised by my selections, really. After all, I am an unabashed, unapologetic, male chauvinist pig-dog of a man. First off the pre-viewed rack was Pieces of April, a movie staring little Katie Holmes (wolf, baby, yeah!) of Dawson's Creek fame. It's about her family coming to Thanksgiving Dinner and how the entire event falls apart. Second grab, Big Fish, a romantic comedy staring Ewan McGregor. First two in the bag, off the special, impulse-buyer's table, I make a bee-line to the two-isle paradise of films that others have watched and returned many times. Right there, on the first endcap, Something's Gotta Give with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton. Into my hands it goes. Final decision is a toughy. I'm torn between three films: Calendar Girls, about a bunch of British women who take their knickers off to raise money for a dying friend; In America, which has the really cool chick from Minority Report; or Camp, about a drama camp. And, as I decide on Calendar Girls, I realize that I've bypassed the typical Sopranos-meets-Billy-Madison fare of movies today. And with this realization comes a horrible discovery: I am a fan of chick flicks.

I guess I've always known that, really. But I've never quite grasped the extent of my condition. As if having seen Love, Actually about thirty seven times, and Moulin Rouge one-hundred and thirty-nine wasn't enough of a clue, I scanned the shelves of DVDs at my house. We have America's Sweethearts, The American President, Bend It Like Beckham, Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Down with Love, Dangerous Beauty, and the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. I could keep going but I won't. Suffice it to say that I have a ton of tear-jerker's as well.

I don't apologize for my taste in music, movies, or art. I just enjoy what I enjoy.

....And yes, I'm sure I'm not gay!

I'm sleeping on the couch.

2004-07-04T02:12:00.002-05:00

Until further notice, I am sleeping on the sofa.

I'm not married. I don't have a significant other who has shooed me from my bed. Instead, I chose to sleep on the sofa because I think my house is haunted. By whom or what I know not. I just know that I hear noises. Every since I cleaned out the office and stored the stuff in the garage, doors inexpliably slam in the back of the house. Windows rattle. And this morning, I woke up to tapping on the wall. Or more expressly, *in* the wall.

I'm not a big believer in ghosts. Well, I guess in a way I am. I've seen one before, but it doesn't freak me out. I attribute the things to some yet-explained natural phenomenon. I saw her. And I knew what I was looking at.

Here in my hometown, there is an old home, a heavily-rennovated plantation house redesigned to look like a castle. About two years ago, while I was staying in an apartment there, a friend who also resided in the castle had a barbeque. A bunch of us were sitting on the lawn, watching the night bugs. When it started to rain, we moved the gathering to the inside of the porch. We were talking about music, politics, or some other such nonsense and I looked just outside the archway and there she was. Maybe six years old, wearing a white dress, curly hair trailing down to just past her shoulders. It had just stopped raining and she was just there, wondering who these strange people at her house were. Our gaze locked and I'll forever remember the look on her face, the bewilderment in her eyes, like she was seeing for the first time people from another race, country, and continent. She was the Indian and I was the explorer at the moment of that first, wholy unexpected first contact. I glanced away to point her out to everyone and when I turned back, she was gone. The only evidence of her ever being there was the bone-dry patch of sidewalk...right beneath a rainspout. The rest of the sidewalk was drenched from the rain. But that one spot, where the girl stood, was as dry as a rock in the Arizona Desert during a drought.

It's one thing to see a ghost outside the place where you're staying. It's wholy another to have one in the bedroom of your home. Tap tap tap, it goes on the wall outside my house. Slam it goes with the door or rattlerattle rattle at the window. On more than one occasion I've heard it cough. On a couple, footsteps.

Luckily, it hasn't ventured beyond the door to the hall. So I'll just stay in the living room until I determine the proper course of action. Any suggestions in dealing with spectral phenomenon, please email advice to: michaeldevault@techbroker.com

md

Life is like...fill in the blank.

2004-06-16T13:22:00.001-05:00

10.) Life is like...a lifeboat full of cannibals and you're the only vegan.
9.) Life is like...a trainwreck you can see, but can't avoid.
8.) Life is like...a series of really bad choices that sometimes work out.
7.) Life is like...a book you have to read in school, but you already know the ending.
6.) Life is like...a practice in gluttony.
5.) Life is like...an exercise in patience and the virtues of not moving.
4.) Life is like...a swimming pool: full of water, but useless until you learn to swim.
3.) Life is like...a beautiful, disturbing painting that you have to study but can't bear to look at.
2.) Life is like...a futile trip to the grocery store to find a rare tea.
1.) Life is like...a new pair of shoes. Just about the time you get them broken in, it's time for a new pair.

Unmitigated Co-dependants.

2004-06-01T21:32:00.000-05:00

So there I am, minding my own business, working hard and trying to get as much of the stuff from my office loaded onto the trailer as possible. Nothing is going to go wrong today--it's only the light stuff and the stuff we never or hardly ever use. The extra table, the tool-chest, the shelves from the closet. The drying rack and the welding equipment and tanks.

The last two were the start of it all. For those that don't know, let me describe to you the two pieces of equipment to which I make reference. First, is 'welding equipment'--consisting of a Medusa-Nest of hoses connected to gauges that connect to two heavy tanks marked very prominently "Flamable". The second piece of equipment is the drying rack, a seven-foot tall by six foot squared system of stacked wire 'shelves' onto which can be loaded any number of signs or teeshirts. Each shelf rotates upward in its metal slip to allow easy access to the shelf beneath it. Metal slip. Sharp, non-serated, razor edge.

A series of them, in fact, that--when the shelves are removed--looks remarkably like the chain of a chainsaw.

So here I am, masculine, strapping man that I am, having to prove how strong and tough I am to my hunter-fisherman type boss and the guy who helps us with signs. I've just wrestled the 80+ lbs. welding tanks onto the trailer and am about to lay the dolly on which they are standing down. DOWN we go with the handle to rest it on the floor of the trailer and BOOM. There is a one-and-a-half inch by half-inch blade in my thumb.

It only took a second. Less, really. Half a second. Half a second in which I registered the image of my thumb impaled at the knuckle, ripped it up and saw blood. I immediately had enough sense to pull it up and shriek, though it didn't quite hurt. I shrieked more from the thought...and the foreknowledge that it was *going* to hurt in the very very near future.

My boss looks up, all within the same second, and says--as I burst through the door and down the hall to the bathroom, my wounded thumb gripped in a vice of pressure of my left hand--"I saw blood!"

I get to the restroom, turn on the water, and remove my hand. Boom. Blood. Everywhere. I run water over it. Hoping against hope that it is but a flesh wound. No. So I do what I know must be done next.

We'll pause here to note the obvious lack of any mention of pain. That's because it hasn't hurt *at all* until what happened next.

I opened it to rinse the wound. And that's when a hundred thousand nerve endings in my thumb, when separated from the nerve *next* to them, shouted in unison "HEY! WHERE DID MY FRIEND GO!?!?!?!?!"

If you ever wondered, that is what a nerve is saying. The nerve misses its buddy...compadre, mi amigo, mon ami. That trusted companion that looks at it every so often and says "Hey...here's some info."

As I rinsed the cut and shouted very loudly and silently, I knew exactly the pain that Michael Corleone felt at the end of Godfather III...that pain that is so vast that when you open your mouth, no sound escapes. And in walks the co-worker. "How bad is it?"

"I think it needs stitches," I reply.

He glances into the sink and sees only the cut. "Nah. It'll be okay." But he hasn't seen what I've seen...the glaring white within the gaping wound. Exposed bone.

But we're being a man, right? No pain no gain. Gotta be strong, lest The Boss--who brags about removing the end of his pinky with a skill saw only to duct-tape it back on until it healed--shout "J'accuse! J'accuse mon petite employee. YOU, my friend, are a wuss!"

"I don't need stitches. Just a paper towel and some masking tape."

Five bandages and thirty-six hours later, I can now slightly move it, and can bare to hit the space bar, though my typing still needs work. The best thing, though, is that my codependant nerves are reunited with their cohorts and are again exchanging information--even if it is "Hey! Heartbeat. Throb."

Crooked Sticks and Windshear. (or, Polo sans Horse.)

2004-05-30T19:52:00.000-05:00

Golf is either the most wonderful or the most demented sport ever invented. I can't over-estimate how difficult it is to successfully play the game. Well, play the game may be too strong a word. Make no mistakes about it: golf is work.

That's probably why my grandfather--who golfs three times a week--doesn't consider himself 'retired.' He'll tell people "I work three times a week--I play golf on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays." He's right. "Work" in the traditional sense involves for most people sitting at a desk, performing tasks. Or perhaps it is walking from desk-to-desk, delivering, helping, or otherwise fixing things. For an elite group, it involves flying from place to place--sitting on a plane. But then there is golf.

Golf seems so nice and leisurely. You walk up to a mundane little ball, hit it with what looks like a mini-polo stick, and then get in the cart. Watch it on TV and you'd wonder why these guys are so unsure about raising their hands. Why do they even break a sweat?

But look at the *courses*.

Those are trees. Hills, rivers, rocky rock beds, woods, desert.

And right at the end, the 'Green'.

Green, as in pastoral. Calm. Sweet. Right there. Flat. The green green grass of home, the green of the payout.

The green of envy when you're ball misses it, short by twenty yards.

The green with sickness as the perfect shot doesn't 'bite' and bounces twenty yards past the 'green'. Yes the green. Complete with a little hole.

Now we'll digress here for a minute. Golf is a sport definitely invented by a man. After all, we are to use our 'club' to get our 'ball' (which is ironically white), into the 'hole.' Eighteen times. But like sex, men rarely get the ball in the hole eighteen times in a row without the help of alcohol. Thus the 'club house.' Ah, the Mt. Olympus of the Course. Set back, right at the first tee, the 9th Green, and 18th green. Now ask yourself this: how butch is a sport where you are expected to take a break *before* you play, during your play, and *after* your play?

The little hole. That thing that is guarded by a placid pond and a desert. Barren. Dry. Unpromising and unforgiving. And then, just when you think it's falling apart, that the world has tilted off its axis and that your entire existence is going to end, you hit it...the perfect shot. Straight, not too long and not to short, right at the pin. You know that this is it. You raise your arms, unashamed in your glory to show your sweat-stained shirt. The ball soars higher, then it archs, and the descent begins. Still on line. Your heart has stopped and you know that, in that one perfect second before the ball lands, the entire universe is aligned in your favor.

And then the ball lands...on the divot left by the dick who walked onto the course from his back yard...and bounces. Hard. Left. And into the water.

Blame Assignment 101.

2004-05-12T22:18:00.000-05:00

In Memoriam, Nick Berg

I haven't seen the video. I don't wish to see the video. The various internet sites via which the gruesome murder of Nick Berg can be viewed all attempt to justify making the video available by way of platitudes like, "We think you should see what humanity is capable of." Here's a news flash: I know what Humanity is capable of. I've read papers, news accounts of murders, crime-scene photographs, and yes, of the Hiroshima bomb and its aftermath. I do not need to be shown six thugs who are delusionally convinced that they are carrying out the glory and majesty of God by beheading (if you can call having one's head sawed off with a dull knife a beheading) a hapless, misguided American.

Sitting here, watching the 20+ news channels try assigning blame to 20+ different people/situations. So we're going to find out to whom we can assign blame.

First there are the terrorists responsible. These are men who have already been engaged in acts of tyranny and horror. They are, in short, psychopaths. They did this. Therefore they are to blame.

But what of young Nick? He did, after all, wander into their hands by being in the middle of a war zone. Does he not have some culpability? Especially given the fact that he voluntarily turned down safe transport from the region. If he had listened to the US forces who detained him, he'd be home, safe, pissed, and alive. Yet he's dead.

And why was he there in the first place? Did it have anything to do with a war? A war we waged on false pretenses and with false goals? A war demanded and led by the President. Is not the President partly to blame? How about Saddam Hussein and his damned party? Maybe we should go back further. To the British, who created Iraq when they were the imperialist powers of the last century. Surely absent the Crown sending forth troops to conquer the world, we would not be mired in this festering swamp.

There are various levels of blame here. All involved share some part of the reason for Nick Berg's murder. Operative word: reason. Blame and reasons are two different things. Culpability does not extend from having reasons to have committed an act. I might have a reason for throwing my cup across the room. Acting on that reason--albeit misguided--is the point at which we can assign blame.

As much as I detest the politics and policies of George W. Bush and the neo-conservative republicans, as much as I hate the Hussein-regime, as much as I disapprove of the efforts to 'liberate' a people by conquering them, I cannot place blame on anyone other than the men who captured, tortured, and murdered Nick Berg. The blame is theirs.

Tiki Torch Tributes

2004-05-09T21:38:00.000-05:00

Patios aren't patios unless they are surrounded by Tiki torches. For over two months, since the arrival of spring, I've walked through Wal-Mart, eyeing the bamboo-and-metal concoctions with an envious, intentful glare. Each time, though, I also eye the price tag and simply cannot justify the expense.

So I sit outside and let mosquitos nibble at my toes, my arms, my eyelids, any exposed piece of flesh until, at last consumed in a storm of red whelps and bleeding sores, I stumble back into the house, bathe in rubbing alcohol, and knock myself unconscious with benadryl. Thus was the routine of the summer until yesterday morning.

It really is simple: I only need Fabreeze-alike odor killer, paper towels, and washing detergent for the laundry. Rather than making the cross-town trek to Wal-Mart, I decide I will go to my friendly neighborhood Family Dollar. This is a store that is paradise for your every-day, on-a-tight-budget impulse shopper. Since I fall into this category, I have found my Valhalla and my hero is the polite little woman in the red smock behind the checkout stand.

"If ya need somethin', just lemme know."

Yes, ma'am, I will. I'm only here for Fabreeze-alike, paper towels, and laundry poweder today.

She knowingly smiles at me. She's seen me before. She knows that I can't resist the sirencall of the shopping cart, placed strategically within an arm's reach of the door. I grab one and I think I hear her giggle sardonically under her breath. I turn to her.

Just gonna get my paper towels, my Fabreeze-alike, and my laundry stuff today. Too much to carry, I say. But I know she knows I'm lying. Too many times, I've come into this store and made nine trips from the counter to the merchandise and back to avoid getting a shopping cart. She knows the deepest goings on in my head and she knows I can already feel the tiny tentacles of torturous temptation creeping up and latching ahold of my medulla oblongata. Soon, I will have lost all control over my being and will be racing through the store, cackling gleefully as I dump useless item after useless item into my shopping cart. Please don't let her say it! Please for the love of all things sacred and holy don't let her say the five magic words. Those five words that someone in my position with my currently-eroding will power cannot resist.

"Feel free to look around."

NO! No! No!! I can't! Yet I'm off.

Down the isle full of delightfully tacky figurines. Nothing I can't live without here....except perhaps a fake crystal bowl that is just the right size to hold a bag of potpouri in the music room. Now we're off to the kitchenwares isle. I don't need knives. At least not the kind I can get from Family Dollar. I think I'll turn and--well isn't that a lovely basket? I wonder if they still have the set of nesting tables I wanted last month. The ones with the wicker top that were only $15. Nope. Just the ugly, maple-fakes. Can live without those. But maybe I should go ahead and get that anyway? Or how about a corner-baker's rack for the dining room? Would pressed-tin grape branches clash too harshly with the pottery, neo-modernist art, and African leather turtle plate? Probably so.

Hey! There's something on this wall of cleaning supplies I needed. But what was it? OOoh! MINIBLINDS!

These are just the right width AND length to cover the windows in the doors of the living room. No more tying the curtain in a knot to let in light! But if I take down the burgundy things on the door, I'll hae to take down the burgundy thing on the window too. Guess I need a white curtain of some type. Look a here! A WHITE CURTAIN!

Into the buggy goes the mini blinds and the white curtain. I wonder how long I've been here? Maybe I should buy a watch, I think. But then I shake my head, recalling the fate that met the *last* watch I purchased.

::BEEPBEEPBEEP:: it went, until I beat it silent with the heel of my Faragamo wingtip. Nope. No watch for me today. Maybe I need to get--OH my god, check out the lamp! Sold! Into the buggy.

I step out into the middle of the store, where they keep the seasonal items. And it is the season of festive outdoor group gatherings. Since September 11th, I've developed a peculiar sensitivity to the sudden outpourings of nationalist fervor.

Right after it happened, I could understand people flying their flags. However, as time wore on and people kept adding American-flag themed crap on their houses, their cars, their clothing, I couldn't help but rebel against the movement of "Hey! I'm more patriotic than YOU are!" Cut me, and I bleed red-white-and-blue. I love my country and would gladly defend her if I thought we were under threat of invasion. However, all these Johnny Come Latelys to the party of patriotism were a step to far. And then it hit me as I was walking through the mall and could not escape the constant flowing and fluttering of the red-white-and-blue. There were flags in every business, on every purse strap, on every car. Everywhere I turned someone had found something else to drape in a flag. And I had seen this all before somewhere. Where was it? I couldn't remember. And then up came the chords of a Beethoven symphony and BINGO! I knew. Suffice it to say, the sudden outpouring of nationalist fervor was enough to do me in on the Colors for a while. Yet here I was, in Family Dollar, in a sea of stars and stripes. Nothing here I can't live without.

Except that green patio table. It matches the chairs I already have perfectly! And only $15!? Sold. Into the buggy, careful not to crush the lampshade. And the damnedest thing was hiding behind that table: tiki torches. An entire box of them, all marked $1.00 each. I bought four, went to the front of the store where my little, apron-clad cashier was snickering with the lazer gun, waiting to empty my wallet yet again.

Unexpected Happy Memories in a Box of Camel Turkish Golds.

2004-05-05T20:21:00.000-05:00

Things happen in life that we have no control over. Car wrecks, for example. While theoretically we hold control over our automobiles, unexplainable forces actually govern the dynamics of auto transit. And periodically those dynamics go haywire. So we do what we can to cope with the day-to-day frustrations of things that are beyond our control and end up trying to control the singular thing we have no business trying to control: other people.

It's probably a really good idea to clue you in on something right now. I'm obsessive compulsive. I am highly narcissistic, and I am a megalomaniac. (These aren't my words, they are the words of two therapists.) The upside of this interesting, if volatile, cocktail of neuroses is that when I'm in a good mood (which we'll call the Manic state), I'm a hoot to be around. I liven up the dullest of conversations with a razor wit, charming banter, and my delightfully entertaining disposition. However, this wonderful set of labels comes with a dark side, which we'll call my depressed state. (No, I'm not Manic-Depressive, though I almost got labled that once, too.) In this depressed state, I am mean. People don't like me. Of course, who likes to be around someone depressed? But there's more. I am rude and mean, sharp-tongued, and amazingly irritating.

It is this last state that I was in two years ago, for over two months. Let's write it off to a combination of factors. First, there was the girlfriend, who really was MDBP but won't admit it. Her mother, who refused to let us see one another. And the job from hell: helpdesk. (We'll save that for another day.) In the midst of all of this was the one person I truly regret having put in the unenviable position of roommate.

But she was more than a roommate. She was the Grace to my ultra-heterosexual-Will. If I had been Jesus (Messiah complex anyone?), she'd have been my Peter. (Read the last chapter of Matthew all you Pagan people, and remember that in Greek, Petras is Rock.) We were hardly ever seen with out the other close by, we shared thoughts, conversations, dreams, and on most occasions a brain. Frankly, she was the single best friend I ever had.

And every single thing that was wrong in my life, every red light that was too long, every dollar I fell short, or every time I talked to my ex-wife, I took out on her. Amazingly, she took it. Stood there, took it. For a while.

I left town, thought it would be over, but we kept in touch. It wasn't until I got *back* to Monroe that I managed to royally screw up our friendship. Two weeks after my arrival, in fact, we were no longer on speaking terms. Why? Because I'm a control freak who is intent on things always going my way. When I failed to realize that my best friend had developed her own life in the four months I was in Austin, I was like the Duke in Moulin Rouge (130 for those counting), shouting "My way, my way!!!" and aiming the gun at the deepest, most important bond I'd ever formed with someone I wasn't genetically connected to.

Well, today, as I was leaving my mother's, she is heading to her car. (They live in the same block.) She dropped her violin into the trunk of her car, folded herself onto the steps outside her apartment, and went to light up a cigarette. I asked if I could join her, she said yes.

And the damnedest thing happened: she took out a box, as I was taking out a box, of Camel Turkish Golds. I smiled to myself for a second. She looked up knowing full well what that smile meant.

"What?"

I showed her the box. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, as if to say, "That figures."

I sat down, lit a cigarette, and talk to her for the better part of twenty minutes. We talked about the weather (I know, cliche), cats --hers and mine, her classes, symphonies. For twenty minutes it was almost like old times. Alas, the moment ended and we got in our respective cars and drove to our respective destinations. When I got home, I turned on the CD player, blasted the SurroundSound up about four notches, and smoked another butt to the mellow, infectious tones of Natalie Merchant.

I think I may save that box of cigarettes and take them out on rainy days or when life isn't going my way. On days when I am short on money, have a fight with someone at work, or can't quite get over a hump in a story, I'll strike a match, light up one from the special box of memories, and try to remember exacty why it is that the night belongs to lovers.

Workaholics Anonymous, or Why I hate weekends.

2004-05-02T15:26:00.000-05:00

I hate weekends. Forty-eight hours of unadulterated boredom. Sitting on the sofa, surfing through seventy-eight channels of absolute nothingness. Forraging in the refrigerator for food that doesn't have a colony of pre-cognitive lifeforms on it. Two days of pajama pants and CNN's People in the News. I mean, do I really care that "The DaVinci Code" (which I favorably reviewed on TheAtlasphere.com) has spawned a laundry list of books by clergymen, theologians, psychologists, and numeroligists disputing every single point of the book? Of course not!

But here I am. Sunday afternoon, writing away on a computer screen--and not on a project that has a hope of winnng me money. Yet I'm here, fighting the urge to order a "LaserStraight" for $29.95 and hoping that something comes along to take Thomas Hammill's safe return out of the headlines. I don't mean to sound heartless. I'm really glad he was found safely. Or rather, that a single man who drove people around Iraq was able to escape from his armed captors while the single largest military power ever assembled was unable to find and rescue him. Go Thomas Hammill! I just am tired of hearing about it. He's the new Jessica Lynch. (Notice how we don't hear anything about the black people being captive--yet there were black POW's in Iraq.)

Such is the nature of things on the weekend. The only worthwhile activity in the entire two days is the two-hour span of "A Prarie Home Companion" on PRI. Garrison Keillor is my hero for his ability to entertain. But it is his weekend-coping power that makes him worthy of worship. Here is a man whose entire week is spent planning for what? For the weekend. He works every day to make sure that on Saturday, at 6PM, he sits down in front of a microphone and boom. He's on the air. Live. That's foresight of the best kind. He hates weekends, I'm sure. Otherwise, why would he work on a Saturday?

UPS Tracking and the Art of Having No Life.

2004-04-25T00:16:00.000-05:00

The most startling indication that I have no life is my recent purchase: a used, Apple G3 desktop unit. Well, actually, it's a bit more complicated than that, but the purchase is a good starting point.

You see, I'm a subscriber to an email list--several actually. There's the Atlantis_II list, full of fans of Ayn Rand, libertarians and such. Then there's Nexus, which is strictly for announcing local get-togethers. Work For Writers doesn't much provide anything in my market, but is interesting reading. I moderate Happy Hacker Windows forum, and there are others. Last but not least is LEM-"Low-End-Mac", a swap list.

This is an eBay addict's worst nightmare--or wet dream. You can decide. Either way, it spells baaaaad for MD's pocketbook. My first purchase from LEM: a pair of Mac desktops -- for only $35 each!

Now some will argue that my eBay addiction was evidence enough of a lack of life. But I view it as anti-social shopping. I don't want to be around little old people in junk shops, so there's eBay. I don't want to be around people in boutiques. eBay! About the only retail establishment I have any tolerance for is a shopping mall. And there I can tune out the people, pretend it's a building constructed specifically for me, tame the OCDemons of my fountain-tick, and find things I never knew I needed--like the fourth backpack I now own or the third pair of black shoes. No, this isn't indication of my lack of life enough. The final nail in the coffin was in the form of a number--or a combination of letters and numbers to be exact.

1ZY823430398193413

That's the tracking number on my pair of computers, set for delivery on April 27th. I know this beyond any reasonable doubt because I was informed of such in a very polite, if machine-generated, email from PayPal and UPS (a joint-venture, no doubt). But that's just the fun part.

Down at the bottom of the email was a little pair of words that the OCD in me cannot resist. We'll digress for a moment. Though I am a natural leader, I have a deplorable condition: I follow orders. Not from people, like "Hey you, do this." Hell no. I am the eternal iconoclast. But when a computer tells me to do something, a sign in the mall says stop here, or a jingle on the radio says visit, I find myself fighting with every fiber of my being to NOT do whatever it is the ad, the sign, or the computer tells me to do. Unfortunately for me, right there at the bottom of the PayPal-UPS Joint Email were two words I simply cannot resist: Click Here.

And I did.

My package was sitting in the previous owner's garage, awaiting pickup. I clicked again twenty hours later and I learned it had been picked up. But it didn't stop there. It told me it had already LEFT Michigan and was "in route". Departure Scan.

Five hours later, my parcel had arrived safely at the next depot, where it sat for twelve hours. I know this because I checked *every hour on the hour* until it left. It is now listed as "in transit", having departed the depot on a truck at Noon yesterday. Right now, I'm terrified that it's lost, fallen off a truck, or has become the victim of Druid terrorists. Like some paranoid mother awaiting the visit of the stork to deliver her progeny safely to her doorstep, I sit at home, refreshing the same screen on my browser, anxiously praying for the safe arrival of my purchase.

I check it before I leave home in the morning, from the cable at work, and just now from the dialup.

I have faith. I believe in UPS because they have never failed me. And they won't fail my progeny either. I'll sit here, quietly and fanatically clicking 'refresh' until that fateful moment when my doorbell rings and the man in brown sets that big, well-packed box down on my doorstep and utters those two magical, mystical, mythical, words:

Sign here.

Business Etiquette 101 or "Whu' up nigguh".

2004-04-21T19:34:00.000-05:00

There is one thing that I know beyond all doubt: Donald Trump did not train the workers at my local DQ. As if there were some intergalacting conspiracy against me eating tonight, I made three stops on my way home and still did not get what I wanted for dinner.

I wanted a greek salad. I have balsamic vinegar, Olive oil, and crutons. So all I need is calimata olives, a good spring mix, and feta cheese. Albertson's deli, here I come. Except there is no one behind the counter to dish up my olives. So I wait...and I wait...and I wait. And she doesn't come back. No problem. Let's find our friendly Albertson's associate and inform him of what I need. He'll surely be able to rush out and get help.

Excuse me, sir. Is the deli closed?

"No. She's gone off somewhere. Don't worry. She'll be back," he says as he wanders away. Two minutes later, I gave up, returned the basket to the stack, and got in the car. I am then faced with the rediculously complex choice of the day: Dairy Queen or Burger King.

Now let's examine this choice for a minute. I can have the beautiful woman behind the throne, complete with the promise of soft-serve ice cream, a blizzard or some other equally delicious desert. She serves burgers that are slightly less appealing than the alternative, but I'm willing to overlook a tablespoon of grease in the flat-grill broiled burger patty to have those delicious, fresh-cut french fries. Magnus Rex on the other hand, offers "fire grilled" (formerly flame broiled) burgers with less-appetizing fries. Alas, the lady wins.

My first stop was DQ (Dairy Queen). One day I want to meet the genius who coupled fast food restaurants, pizzarias, and Citgo stations. This is truly the sign of America's greatness. And it gives infinite new meanings to "Eat here, get gas." I rush into the convenience-food restaurant and it is here we will pause. Rule #1: If the restaurant is empty, this is either a really great or really horrible sign. Today, the single customer at the counter is leaning there, talking to the girl behind the register-cum-computer monstrosity that vaguely resembled a Hal9000 interface.

So I stand there, waiting. And he sits there, talking. A manager comes out. Looks up. "Whu' up nigguh", he says. Somewhere someone needs to point out to the 'gangstah' crowd that Martin Luther King Jr. is rolling in his grave right now at the abuse of a racial slur he gave his life to stamp out.

The girl behind the counter engages in a conversation with the manager in a language oddly reminiscent of the English I left behind in the first grade, while the guy at the counter continually asks questions. Finally, she says "So what do you want?" to him and he places his order. There is more light banter, and she says "What was your order again?"

I don't know if he ever ordered his food, but I certainly didn't. I walked to the home of the King next door. The king and queen in my town, like Henry and Eleanor, keep separate residences. At least there I will be able to get what I want. Right? Wrong. After standing behind two people who ordered 10 different kids' meals, I finally order, only to hear, "Excuse me, miss. But little Sarah's burger has mustard on it. She didn't want mustard. And Bobby's burger has onions. He won't eat onions."

Now I'm going to digress for a moment. When I was six, I didn't get to place orders at Burger King any more specialized than "Hamburger, CHEESE burger, or nuggets". I got a coke to drink and if I was lucky, I could ask for honey instead of barbecue sauce. But oh no, not today. In the modern world of soccer moms and stepford children, each child must have a very particular order. Like a kid knows whether or not he or she likes ONIONS?! Geesh! Meanwhile, back to the order.

I ask for a bacon double cheese burger combo and a chicken caesar salad. After watching my burger slide into the bag, followed by an order of less-than-DQ fries, I wait on my salad. Alas, she returns, "We're out of dressing. What do you want instead of caesar?" Now here's the problem. I don't. I cancel the salad, get in the car, and drive home.

After this day, I'm very glad that I at least get to watch West Wing. Tomorrow, I'm going grocery shopping.

Sorry for no posts...

2004-04-20T23:05:00.000-05:00

I've just been swamped with work, with life. Nothing major, just no time. I'll get caught up tomorrow or Thursday, with a major post by the weekend.

md

Damn.

2004-04-11T00:45:00.000-05:00

I had a really great post about a horrid experience with a closed checkout line at the retail horror of a Hell but an unfortunate touchpad-keystroke combo wiped out three paragraphs of it. C'est la vie.

I'm going to watch "Cheaper by the Dozen." Go see "The Girl Next Door." Now why couldn't that have been MY high school?!

Why oh why oh why?

2004-04-11T00:34:00.000-05:00

A Drive in the Country....or....

2004-04-03T12:09:00.000-05:00

Why I am so glad to be back in civilization.

I don't know quite what overcame me this morning when a friend asked me if I would like to ride with them to drop another friend off in the country. I guess it was the nostalgia of "Wow, a ride in the country on a Saturday morning. That sounds nice." But it isn't quite like that, is it?

For those of you who suffer from the same phobia as me will no doubt understand. I have courouge-phobia. That's right, I am afraid of rednecks. But not just rednecks. It is far deeper than a fear of men who drive pickup trucks with mudflaps and the women who love them. It's about everything having to do with the country.

The typical country house epitomizes everything that is wrong with living in BFE. There is the lilac and black-berry wallpaper in the dining room, the oversized rosebud border paper in the kitchen, and the god-aweful stench of cheap, Family Dollar Brand sun-ripened rasberry potpourri wax purchased in 1987. And country houses smell.

That's right. They smell. It isn't an unpleasant aroma. It isn't a bad smell. But it's a smell...or more expressly, the notable *lack* of one. You step through the door, inhale, and you smell apple pie and sausage and Carpet Fresh. There's always a pot of Folger's Coffee brewing in the kitchen, and the unmistakable tinkle of a faucet dripping in the background.

I can handle about fifteen minutes of a country ride. After that, my eyes glaze over and I have to fight the urge to play a harmonica, sleep with my cousin, and kill something or someone. My tonsils swell and my head begins to throb because of the lack of smog in the air I'm breathing. My ears ring with the silence of nothing happening, and I begin to desperately long for a Starbucks, a convenience store, or anything resembling civilization.

And then, there it is. Big and hard and friendly and inviting. The Interstate. The first sign of civilization with its wide, sweeping onramp and smiling overpass. A hundred yards wide and every inch of it screaming "Come with me and I will take you somewhere, anywhere other than right here.

That's why they said all roads lead to Rome. It wasn't because they really did, but that was the SOMEWHERE out there, that unknown destination of a city on a hill and the interstate is how you find it. And the first place we went upon our return from our jouney was that most civilized of all institutions: McDonalds.

It's My Birthday.

2004-03-30T13:20:00.000-05:00

I mean it. Really. As in March 30. And I'm 27 today. Twenty-seven. That's three-hundred and sixty-five days older than I was this time last year. I'm fifty-two weeks closer to 30, one year closer to forty. And it's a damned shame.

Why do we get "older"? That word just means obsolescence. It's not until fifty or so that you get to be a "classic"...which may or may not be a bad thing. So why does aging freak me out so badly?

And why is it that I have absolutely nothing planned for today? Right now, I'm lying on the sofa, watching Dallas reruns while my clothes die. What an uneventful day.

Talk to you later.

Blogs Damned Blogs and Observations

2004-03-24T00:13:00.000-05:00

I never wanted my blog to be the "typical blog". You know the type: "Hi, my day was. John said X. Mary said Y. C-Ya! :~)" Yeah. That's not this blog. Then again, I also didn't want it to be one of these blogs: "Life is pain. Pain is life. Embrace my agony as your own." So when I started this thing, I decided to take it in a new direction. My blog is about me. But more importantly, it's about how I react to the realities of life around me. With that said, I have to say I've found the mother of all blogs. For those of you who are familiar with it, please forgive. For those who aren't, strap into your seats kids, it's one hell of a ride.

http://belledejour-uk.blogspot.com. The blog of "BelleDeJour", a London working girl. That's right. There is a woman in England who is keeping a blog about her daily life as a prostitute. Go back to the link and get the "No Way!" out of your system, wank one off, then come back and continue reading. Go ahead. You have my permission....

...Now that you're back, a.) you missed a spot. But more importantly is b.) Do we really need this? At first, after reading (and re-reading) a couple of the posts, I have to say yes. This is a crucial service this girl is providing to the reader of the cyber-space blog. I'm really not kidding here. Think about it.

She's giving us a glimpse inside the head of someone who works in what is traditionally viewed as the bottom of the bottom of the scumpool. Society has conditioned us to believe that you only turn to selling yourself when you've hit rock bottom. And here's this girl, woman, whatever, in London, writing her blog and making a living aside from it--she's got a book deal--and yet she continues to work.

Process that one for a second.

That's right. She's making a living writing and continuing to hook. Now, the only reason you would continue to hook if you have a book deal (that is worth mid five figures, my sources tell me) is if you enjoy your job. Kind of like the guy who won the lottery. "What will you do now, Mr. Garbage Man?" "Eh. Well, I have to be up early in the morning, so probably go to bed." "Why do you have to be up early in the morning, Mr. Garbage Man?" "Because we have to make the Main Street run tomorrow and it's a doozy."

I say more power to her! Go out there my darling, go out into the streets of London and do whatever it is you do. Do it well. And pepper us with salacious details later. God love you for it, too. It beats the hell out of the boring porn scene on the net.

If the world ran like Apple Computers...

2004-03-11T00:53:00.000-05:00

...everywhere would be chic, spotless, and maintenance free. Every man, woman, and child would be vegans and do Yoga and cars would run on solar power. And we would all be hopelessly caught in the doldrums of poor market share and even poorer conceived advertising campaigns. (Think iPod.)

However, we don't live in the world of Macintosh, so we're stuck with the humdrum life of going to work, getting paid, and coming home. That's what makes my day. I walk in, flop on the couch, open the lid and I'm there. Internet, movies, email. Every delicious sin that man can think of right there. I can be a glutton, I can be a genious, I can be a saint. I can be anything, right there on my couch. Until something bad happens. Like happened this weekend.

Apple iBooks, certain of them at least, were/are plagued with a horrid little logic board problem. Now for the uninitiated, the logic board is a crucial piece of complex electronics that kind of tells the machine what to do and where to send what. If it goes bad, you're fucked. And for a large number of people who purchased an iBook, that happened. When I first heard about it, I went online and checked the serial number range. (By the way, serial numbers are sequential for those who didn't know. Quite handy information, really.) Lucky for me, my little iBook fell OUTSIDE of the range of the effective machines.

Except my logic board went out.

So I called support. They said "we're sorry. it's not the logic board." And I said, "Oh but it is." They said "but your iBook is outside the range of affected products." I said, "But it's affected nonetheless." And now comes the interesting part: they want to bill me for "troubleshooting software". $40. I was like "I don't think so." You see, I used to do their job. I used to sit in a cube, answer the phone, and tell people it wasn't our problem. That's right. I worked Tech Support. So the long and short of it is, my machine looked like it had the logic board issue, acted like it did, and so it did. (Nevermind the fact that I troubleshot it myself.)

Once I very politely informed the technician that I once did his job, he changed his tune and shipped me a box.

Amazing, really. Saturday he shipped the box. Monday at 4PM I received it, packed my iBook in it, and shipped it right back out. They received it Monday night. Tuesday they opened it. Wednesday (that's today, by the way) they completed it, put it in a box and shipped it back to me. And I got it today at 10:00AM. Barely thirty-six hours later.

I doubt I would have been able to get faster service if I had DRIVEN it to the repair depot myself. (Go Airborne DHL.) But that's the point.

Apple Inc. *knew* how crucial it was that I write this blog, and the five other things I've got a deadline on. They knew that my OCD dictates I check my email no less than once every four hours. They knew that I had to be able to read up on The West Wing, to write my short stories for the Lorian Hemingway Competition and to chat on iChat. So they fixed it and got it back to me.

And made me a happy customer for life.

So what if the world worked like this? Well, for one thing, restaurants would know what you want and have it ready when you walked through the door, "Here's your steaming hot bowl of chili sir. And I hope you're ready for desert because we'll bring it out at JUST THE RIGHT MOMENT." Or better: "I'm glad you dropped by sir. We took the liberty of ordering the car you're going to want in your color last week and it's here now. All you have to do is sign." Or even better still. "I'm glad you chose me as your realtor. I took the liberty of custom building your dreamhome myself and the decorators are putting the final touches on it right now as we speak. I'm glad you're wearing green. I told her green would be your favorite color."

That's the world I want to live in. The world where my food is hot, my house perfect, and everyone knows exactly what to do to make me happy. In the words of Juilet, "Aye me."

Lord of the Things.

2004-03-01T00:43:00.000-05:00

So why is it that I'm surprised that Peter Jackson's LOTR:ROTK won 11 Academy Awards, tying the all-time greats like Titanic and some Charelton Heston movie. (Maybe Ben-Hur??) I mean, it's not the first time a sequel goes well for the creators. So I should be happy right?

I guess I'm just ambivalent about that. But what reaaaaally gets my blood going is the crassness with which "the Academy" (read: everyone in attendance) gave the award to Sean Penn for Mystic River rather than my boy Bill Murray for "Lost In Translation". I mean, Jesus! He should have won simply for being able to pull off brilliance in that stunning pile of festering dog-dung that was a movie. (I was all excited about it, especially following The Virgin Suicides. What a disappointment!)

Anyway, yet another year has passed. That's how I measure years: the Oscars are like New Year's Day and The September 11 Commemorative Services are mid-way. Don't ask my why I pick those two markers. That's just how it is.

One of my OCDemons is that I count things incessantly. (Example: driving down the road the number of 'cracks' my tires register or the number of times I've seen Moulin Rouge--128.) And this makes 13 years that I've watched the Oscars without missing a beat, no small feat for someone who used to have to work on Sundays. (Portable televisions are great things.)

For those who watched, yay for you guys. Billy Crystal was great.

What's really wrong with the world...

2004-02-28T23:18:00.000-05:00

...As seen through eyes from inside the political arena.

So, there is this candidate. He is popular with the people, good looking, energetic, young, and a talented speaker. He has surrounded himself with a capable staff, a good advertising campaign, and an effective message. And he's unpopular with certain elements that know they will be the target of his administration's reforms. So what do they do?

They call the media outlet that is hosting the poll and make veiled threats concerning advertising dollars. After all, they are the powers that be. And then the poll comes out and the candidate who was previously doing well is polling behind two crack-heads because his name wasn't mentioned in some of the questions and when it was, his party was mis-identified as Republican in a 93% democrat town.

This effectively would kill a candidacy, given that he would be the only major contender eliminated from the debates because of poor polling numbers. So what do you do?

Don't ever go into politics, kids. It's a bitch.

See you in another two weeks.

PS: I'm *not* the candidate in question, by the way.
md

Yeah! Right!!

2004-02-02T22:11:00.000-05:00

As if I really believe that MTV, CBS, the producers, and Janet Jackson didn't know that Justin Timberlake was planning on removing the cup of Jackson's bustier during the SuperBreast--I mean Bowl halftime show. After all, this *is* the woman who appeared on the cover of Vibe with a nipple ring on the *outside* of her shirt. I mean, come on, do I look that stupid? (That was rhetorical, by the way.)

The big question should not be "Did they know?" Nor should it be "Was this planned?!" No no no no...the BIG question is this: ARE WE FUCKING SURPRISED?! And more importantly, Who CARES?!

And what the hell was SHE thinking? I mean, rubbing your ass up against Justin Timberlake's Uh-Huhs is one thing. But maybe that explains it: if Britney's little (pun fully intended) rumors about Justin's Yeah is true, then maybe rubbing up against it wasn't enough of a thrill for a woman as experienced and long in the tooth as Janet.

But I think there's another, far more sinister explanation, one that has, until now, escaped notice. This SuperBowl half-time show will go down in history not for the bared breast or the possible Hundred-plus millions of dollars in fines ($27,500 *per CBS affiliate* airing the game), but rather for what that flash of NippleFlicker Bling bling unequivocably confirms:

Accident or not, we now know beyond a doubt that Janet and Michael are *two different* people. Unfortunately, we'll need Justin to rip off Michael's pants to know whether or not he's male. But we've had enough excitement for this year. Let's save that little revelation for SuperBowl XXXIV.

Politics, Religion, and the President

2004-02-01T12:47:00.000-05:00

I had the privilege last night of meeting several practitioners of the Baha'i faith. Let me tell you, it was most interesting. My family background of civic service and construction not withstanding, the video of the construction of their shrine on Mount Carmel in Haifa was very interesting. But the more interesting facet of my evening with the Baha'i wasn't construction or a seriously involved discussion of the problems plaguing our farce City. It was a single statement the woman giving the presentation made before she ever started. They were forbidden to proselytize.

I was floored. Here I was, invited to a house to hear a discussion of the construction of the Arc Project, and they weren't going to try to convert me?! Forgive me if I become a little suspicious of the water. But it was so refreshing! Living in the neo-facist, Bible-Thumping, God-Is-A-Rich-White-WASP South, I didn't know what to say! And one of the most amazing things happened: I listened!

I think that's the valuable lesson for the evening, and one that our politicos and our President would do good to learn: when you're not trying to convert someone to your cause--be it God or Country, they are more likely to listen to your reasons, your logic, and your ideas.

A stark contrast to my Baha'i experience was the drive home. I passed three signs, two billboards, and a man on a street corner--all proselytizing. No kidding. Twenty-five degrees outside and the man is standing, in the middle of the night, preparing the way of the Lord. Nevermind the fact that Jesus would have enough sense to not stand out in the freezing cold (Garden cave, anyone?) and would not shout at passing cars who, for all intents and purposes, have things other than listen to him scream. He'd pick INTERESTED people. Hey, wait! That's what he did.

Everything I Need To Know...

2004-01-27T00:06:00.000-05:00

I learned from Rocky Horror.

That's right. Everything anyone needs to know about life can be learned from watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I guess it's because I find that there are three major life lessons you have to learn as you grow up, and all three are contained within the scenes of this masterpiece of cinematic masturbation.

Lesson 1: Never ever ever approach a dark castle, ignoring a sign, and ask to use the phone.

Too many times in life, we're faced with the decision to approach what is so obviously a bad situation. But it's when we feel that whatever the situation happens to be is our ONLY hope, our only chance, our only option, then we get desperate and get stupid--just like Brad and Janet. There were so many more options those two kids could have chosen. But they ignored the audience--and went in. (Don't go in!) And where did that get them?

Lesson 2: Whenever you are in a house and someone murders a guy in a walkin freezer, don't eat dinner that night -- unless you cooked it.

I mean, what the hell did they think they were eating!? Vinison? I mean, I know Meat Loaf Aday looks like a cow, but I wouldn't want to *eat* him, now would I? It's kind of like how we react in the real world, when people we *know* are prone to bad choices offer to invite us along to the party, the game, the movies. I mean, I would think after someone extols the virtues of "Gigli" you wouldn't decide to let THEM pick the movie? Or would you? That's what people do all the time...they let people make decisions for them, and usually pick the people who are making *bad* decisions.

Lesson 3: If your girlfriend, a virgin, shows up in your bed, it's probably best to tell her NO because it probably isn't YOUR girlfriend.

If she was going to put out, she would have by now. Even if the girlfriend looks like your girlfriend, walks like your girlfriend, and talks like your girlfriend, it doesn't mean she *is* your girlfriend. Women have so many personalities it could be the ALTEREGO of your girlfriend. Oh sure, she might hate you for a few hours when you turn her down...but think about how much she'll respect you in the morning.

People don't always present you with the real them. And getting to the real them is what it should all be about. But be prepared...because some people are very different from you and me. (We call them 'normal' for those uninformed.) Normal isn't a bad thing. It's just what we *aren't*. And that's okay.

I'm sure there are more life lessons that can be learned from Rocky Horror...things like sex and fair play and good communications skills. Even how to dress and how NOT to dress. So there you have it.

Everything I need to know, I learned from watching Rocky Horror.

Free Choice, Free Will, and Free samples.

2004-01-18T22:50:00.000-05:00

I'm bowled over every time I get an email offering to increase the size of body parts with a miracle pill. Mind you, I already knew that if I wished to grow breasts I could do so -- oddly enough by taking a pill. Unfortunately for the spammers, I know that those are not the pills they are offering. Nor do I desire to grow breasts. And I'm quite comfortable with the other part of my anatomy that the spammers are so interested in growing larger.

I guess that is what makes me different from the vast numbers of men in America today. I really don't give a shit how big other men are and I'm not intimidated by their boldness. I can fight, I choose not to. I don't get embarrassed in the locker room, and yes, I sing in the shower after racketball.

Who cares what other people think?

There in is our first lesson. I have free choice, so I choose not to indulge in self-pity. If my abs aren't defined or my legs less muscular, if my ass flabbier or my penis smaller than the guy with the locker next to mine, I'm no less of a person than he. Appearances are deceiving. Confidence isn't.

I have free will, too. And there is a subtle difference between choice. I choose to love people, indulge in chocolate. Free Will is different, in that I control my emotions, my desires, my philosophical structures. I am not ruled by anyone nor do I seek to rule others. Force, sometimes necessary, is rarely the answer to any human interaction, especially interpersonal relations. "Meet me in the parking lot and we'll settle this," isn't a mode of problem resolution that I typically employ. But I am a man of action and will work at all times to correct any situation that needs correcting, make improvements that I can make, and clean up messes that I'm empowered to clean.

What does all of this have to do with "En-lar.ge Your P.E.N.I.S." emails? I choose not to indulge in self-pity just as I choose to be happy with whom I am. It's not that hard to do, really.

Try it today and see if it doesn't change your mood. I mean, how can you change the world if you sulk all the time about things you cannot change? And that's why we're on this little lump of rock. Make a dent in the universe. Or at least die tryings.

The hell of writer's block.

2004-01-12T00:28:00.000-05:00

And five other reasons I'm utterly failing on my New Year's Resolutions...

Okay, so not really. Writing six reasons why I'm failing at my New Year's resolutions would be pointless, right? So instead, we'll talk about work and happiness and gratitude. In that order.

Or maybe not.

Maybe we'll talk about kitty cats and how they always sit at your feet or under your arms or...well maybe not. I know! I'll talk about the last "West Wing" ep called "The Stormy Present." It was great. It was...

Have I told you I'm utterly failing at my New Year's Resolutions?

And now you see what it's like. Writer's block is alot like that Adult ADD commercial. You know the one: the girl is sitting there at the business meeting and she keeps thinking about other things? And the announcer says something along the lines of, "Do you feel like your mind is a television that keeps changing channels?" Yeah, that's writer's block.

Ironically, as I was working my way up to the first new episode of the best television show on the air, (the West Wing for the uninitiated,) I watched "Ed," a charming, if not all together compelling, show that airs in the slot immediately before my beloved WW. It has become a quasi-OCD ritual for me. Watch Ed, eat dinner during it, and during the last segment, make sure everything in Stuckyville is nice, safe, and resolved before I turn off the telephone, shut down the computers, lock the doors, and shut out the world for one hour a week.

But this week was different.

Carol, that's Ed's girlfriend/fiance/ex depending on where you are in the series, had a meeting with an agent who was setting up a client's book signing. The agent had read a short story Carol had written and wanted to read her novel--or part of it--to decide if she will represent Carol. Aside from the fact that unless your name is Stephen King or Danielle Steele agents don't represent writers they represent works, it was a good look into the current hell through which Dante leads me. That's right, as if the blank paper on my desk, the three empty legal pads, the two notebooks and the snow white computer monitor weren't enough reminders of my writer's block, Carol couldn't find her voice.

And she wrote anyway.

Now the jury's out on this tactic. Some say write write write, even if it's shit. Other's say don't dare waste your time. Suffer it, get depressed, and it will go away. I'm not sure who is right there. But one thing is for certain: write write write produces shit. I certainly could sympathize with Carol's constant shredding of the pages. I mean, after all, I know what it's like. I've burned a novel before...or at least part of one.

And yes, it had an axe murder, pirates, Stockholm Syndrome and a Cheerleader-attracting Geek in it.

I even tried to resolve the issue by making a resolution to write more. But such is the nature of the beast, and we've come full circle. The kittens are curled, at my feet with care, and I find the most perplexing of my puzzles. This blog entry has near perfect form. It's balanced, entertaining, humorous, and yes: symmetrical. (Note we started by talking about my New Year's Resolutions, and that's where we're back to, including the bit about the kittens.) I can write...just not what I *want* to write. I *want* to finish the damned book. But here I am, wasting words on nothingness. And not acheiving a damned thing on my list.

Are any of my readers twin blonde women? And are one of you evil?

The Operational Definition of Insanity

2004-01-06T22:39:00.000-05:00

It is important, in this the new year, to lay out a series of precepts that the entire world across which I recreate myself should operate. Ironically enough, they all boil down to the following maxim: Doing the same thing expecting different results is, quite frankly, insane. (I think Einstein said this first.)

Where this stems from is the implementation of the Scientific Method. (You know, those five or six steps you had to memorize in Junior High school earth science?) Basically, if you do A and B happens, then do A, expecting C to happen, that's okay. But when B happens again and you again do A, expecting C only to find B, that's insane. Which brings us to today's lesson, kids.

When you find yourself wandering through life, dejected and alone, wondering how to fix whatever problem it is you have, ask for advice. Pick the one piece of advice that least closely resembles your own choice of actions and do *that*. See what happens. If it isn't good, solicit the next person until you find something that *does*. However, make sure you don't keep repeating the same steps over and over expecting things to miraculously change. God doesn't sit in heaven, waiting to change the laws of physics. Nor does your bank broker or your agent or your boss sit there, twiddling their thumbs waiting to change the entire system for you.

Be fluid. Roll with the punches. Let bygones be bygones and don't hold grudges. Don't hold on to the last time someone came after you or screwed you over and don't let that interfere with your new relationships. Each day should be a clean emotional slate, free of the bonds and bondages of previous days. After all, I can promise you that today will have it's own heaping pile of horse shit to deal with.

Wal-Rant.

2004-01-04T16:10:00.000-05:00

I won't name names of a certain giant retail conglomerate that has a reputation for entering small towns (and several rather large ones) and driving out competition by undercutting prices. I'm not complaining about that -- after all, competition is the name of the business. However, I will complain about something else.

When you wait in line to check out longer than you spent shopping for a buggy *full* of items, then something is wrong. If your store lies along a route used for business traffic, chances are that the hours of 4:30 - 6:30 PM are going to be very busy, right? All those people stopping for groceries or milk or that perfect widget they just realized they absolutely need don't want to have to get out again. So if that's the case, wouldn't it make sense to make *sure* that you have adequate checkers to handle the surge?

The paternal, almost-grandfatheresque founder of this company is rolling in his grave. No longer are we promised "no line longer than three" or "return without question". Walk into any of the unnamed retail establishments and you'll find that there are never more than *half* of the checkout stands open. And for the love of God, don't think you'll ever get to return anything. Ever.

"Name?"

Uh...my name is Michael DeVault

"Serial Number?"

Excuse me?

"Serial Number," the service person repeats. I think at this point I'm detecting hints of a German accent, but I can't be sure.

I'm not sure, ma'am. It's still in the box.

::WHACK OF A WHIP::

"Serial Number!"

I don't have it, ma'am.

::Sigh:: "Receipt?"

Right here.

::Eye's the receipt::

"It says here you purchased this item at 12:47 am on the third Sunday of the fourth month of the Chinese New Year, as calculated by the Mayan Calendar. Is that correct?"

I'm not sure. I just picked it up yesterday.

::Rolls eyes:: "Then that is correct. I'm sorry. I can't accept this item."

Excuse me? I just want to exchange it.

"If you'll refer to our revised corporate returns guidelines, Section seven, sub-section b, part 1a, you will find out that we can only accept this item for return if it is purchased at 12:46 AM on the FIFTH sunday of the fourth month of the Chinese New Year, as calculated by the Mayan Calendar."

That makes no sense ma'am.

"It's really perfectly clear."

No, ma'am. There are only four weeks in a month. Five sundays? That doesn't happen very often.

::Evil smile:: "Why do you think we use the Mayan Calendar? NEXT!"

You see what I mean? Why can't we go back to the simple Five-and-Dime days when the manager of your store is old Jim, who's granddaddy started the town with your Aunt June's second boyfriend before the War? I don't think that Old Jim would be any more prone to offer me a refund, mind you. It's just that he would be less geshtapoesque in his tactics. "Refund," he'd say, scratching his head. "What the hell is that?"

And then you'd have a conversation about the weather or Aunt June's THIRD boyfriend, who died in a horrific, freak collision at the tractor-pull. Alas, no. Rather than Old Jim's Five-and-Dime, we're stuck with SuperMegaMonothicioniacal Giganticenters. The next time I decide I can only get something from one of those places, I'll remind myself of the people in Afghanistan, and be happy for me that the manager of my local SuperCenter isn't a dictator. Because I'm sure he'd have pulled my fingernails out by now.

My New Year's Resolutions...or, The Art of Being Socially Anti-Social

2004-01-01T03:09:00.000-05:00

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR!!

Now that we have that out of the way, let me be very clear: 2003 was a year. 2004 is a year. Nothing of massive note happened in 2003. I mean in a hundred years, to hear about the year 2003, you'll have to take a 400 level history course at a decent university. Chances are 2004 will be *exactly the same*. People won't even remember it's an election year. So what's the big deal, right? Here's what the big deal is: Marketing.

Alcohol, restaurant, and entertainment industries combine their forces for only a few select events. The Super Bowl, National Tragedies, and New Year's Eve. And that's about it. Even Christmas leaves out the food industry pretty much. So we "celebrate" a "new year". It's not *really* a "new" year, as the concept of a year was invented a long time ago and the very nature of the concept *dictates* that all possible years have already been invented. So tis an old year we've celebrated. And I don't sit in my car and go 'oh my god! Another MILE!" every time the fucking odometer clicks off another 5,280 feet. Of course not.

With that said...I've now been to a PARTY, WORKED a Party, and am now at an "after party". Literally. Right now. I'm at the party, using the person's WinTel machine (blech), missing my Mac, and writing this blog entry. Thus begins our lesson: Socially anti-Social.

It goes like this: Go to the party, hang out, be nice for about two seconds, and then let them know that there is something absolutely crucial you have to do and ask to politely borrow their internet connection. Then sit there, checking your email, reading the NYTimes Book Review (which I'm not on yet, by the way), and doing other odd chores. Just don't download porn...that would be rather passe. Or if you so choose, at least be so kind as to invite your hosts in and download for an audience.

Here are my new year's resolutions:

1.) Write this blog more regularly.
2.) Write on the book and finish it before I turn 27 on March 30th. That's two chapters per week, roughly, or 50,000 words.
3.) Lose the ten (or fifteen for those counting) pounds I've gained and WORK THE FUCK OUT so I get in shape.
4.) Drink less regularly. (Note for those counting: I'm not drinking LESS, just less regularly. I'll still drink as much...just not daily.)
5.) Get a better paying job.
6.) Publish at least one major article, short story, or a book.
7.) Find a woman who is worthy of my worship and adoration.
8.) Meet her kinky twin sister.
9.) Finish my fucking kitchen remodel.
10.) Take a real vacation that doesn't involve staying with family.
11.) Stop counting the number of times I've seen "Moulin Rouge". (126 if you were wondering.)

All admirable, worthy goals, I think. Then again, who the fuck am I kidding? 6,7, and 8 were on LAST year's list.

Happy fucking New Year. :-)

Tragic Blockage

2003-12-28T20:48:00.000-05:00

Sorry I've not posted in a few days. Things are happening right now that have me kind of blocked, writing wise. So please just hang loose and I'll return shortly. I promise.

md

Trimming trees...

2003-12-21T23:36:00.000-05:00

...is so much easier with a chainsaw. The branches just peel away and fall off with no trouble at all. Of course you've figured out by now (or God I hope you have) that I refer not to decorating a Christmas Tree but rather the titanic oak in the front yard. What would have taken perhaps two afternoons of backbreaking work with a handsaw I accomplished in just over half an hour. Unfortunately, the chainsaw kicked back a bit and I twisted a muscle in my shoulder and am now a lame duck.

I'm not sure what has gotten into me, really. But I've been bitten by a home improvement bug the last few days. Yesterday it was Christmas lights, the patio, and starting painting in the kitchen. Today, it was more painting, a new stovetop, trimming the tree, and finishing the surround sound hook up. It's great to be accomplishing so much right here before Christmas.

Such is life when you have a few days off unexpectedly. The deeper I get into the chores, though, the more I recognize how much I have left to do. It reminds me of how we live life.

We humans are strange creatures. We rarely get to the point of stasis. Rather, we work ourselves to continually, progressively harder, until the day we retire. Why can't we find a comfortable place to live -- and I don't mean house...I mean the active verb, the act and art of conducting life? After all, we only get one shot at it -- regardless of what happens *after*.

Live life to the fullest, be well, and be of good cheer.

Hello all...

2003-12-20T18:14:00.000-05:00

...I've begun a new project in my next few days off, one that I hope will brighten my mood, if not my kitchen. I'm painting it. Yay, me.

Right here at the Christmas Season (or Chanukah, Ramadan, or Chinese New Year as the case may be), it never amazes me the crassness of people. Pushing, shoving, being rude in stores -- all in the best efforts to get into the spirit of the Holidays. Go figure.

So I've decided to stay home this year. No presents to speak of, very few at least, and hopefully only things that can be purchased at Freds, Everything's A Dollar, or the local grocer. Maybe over the next few days I'll be able to actually complete a project or seven.

So, with that said, this is an obviously brief entry. (My stomach is growling right now.) I'll begin posting regular posts tomorrow. Look forward to seeing you...

But before I go, here's a shoutout to all my homies at the CenturyTel helpdesk who've been reading today. Good to see you guys visiting! Leave a comment and let me know who all is still there. Enjoy the classes. ;-)

md

Why oh why?

2003-12-17T21:21:00.000-05:00

I'm on vacation from writing for a few days, as I'm in the middle of horrid writers block. Try back next week, around Christmas.

md

A brief bit of brevity.

2003-12-11T23:54:00.000-05:00

It always freaks me out when friends of mine and I have that weird moment of psychic connection. You know those moments where a friend tells you they were thinking about you at such-and-such a time and you realize that is exactly when you were thinking about *them*. That just happened to me and my friend Jen.

About two days ago, she had a weird dream that someone got struck by lightening. Ironically (or not), it was during a big storm. At or around the same time, I was walking into my house. I noted the strange weather and the live oak in my front yard. For some strange reason, I felt an urgency to run into the house and hide because -- you guessed it -- I had a fear that the tree was about to be struck by lightening. As if the Universe were playing some cruel trick to remind me of codependence, the tree didn't get struck.

But the connection remains.

Just a bit of "things to make you go hmmmm..." before I tuck myself into bed tonight.

Not seeing in a seeing world...

2003-12-10T22:21:00.000-05:00

We take a lot of little things for granted in life. Toilets that flush and a McDonalds on every other corner aside, what about the really important things that go neglected throughout our daily lives. Forget for a moment the person you wake up next to every night or the car in the garage. Start your day *before* that. You're barely conscious, lying in the warm embrace of a matress and comforter, a pillow or two tucked under an arm. You yawn, stretch, roll over and there they are. Your eyes are lying on the nightstand, waiting to be hooked over your ears.

Tonight, on my way into the restaurant, I suddenly couldn't see. I heard a pop, reached up and was just in time to catch my glasses as they tumbled from my face. Can you imagine what it is like to be virtually blind and navigating tables in a cramped room? Carrying food trays was quite the adventure. Luckily, tonight was slow and I ducked out early, rushing home to try and find my spare glasses. No luck yet.

The drive home was quite an adventure, let me assure. But broken glasses got me to thinking. We take a lot of things for granted. Maybe it's someone you wake up next to every day for thirty years or the weekly phone call from your mother. Maybe it's a friend who has feelings too. Sometimes, those things most important to you are the things you think the least about.

New Year's Resolution #2: Make sure that I know what's important to me and do what is necessary to make sure it doesn't get bunged up.

Things you discover...

2003-12-08T23:22:00.000-05:00

...hidden in closets can be disturbing. Stashed away, in dark corners of forgotten recesses, are the darnedest things. We've all heard stories about the discovery of old pictures stuck to a baseboard or a Mickey Mantle rookie card in a hole under a loose board. But what about those things hidden in closets we *don't* necessarily want to find?

What about the ancient bird cage or kitty litter box, forgotten behind two boxes of wrapping paper and a stack of air conditioner filters? Or the dead lizard in the garage store room? People have these little closet spaces. And like their real-world counterparts, these closets can contain hidden treasures and dark surprises. I'm always shocked when I find these kinds of hidden parts of a person's psyche. After all, I'm someone with no secrets. I'm a writer -- which means my life is, literally, an open book. This isn't true for the vast majority of people, though.

For every secret smile or quiet inside joke, there is a horribly tragic or devastatingly dark bit of the sinister waiting to rear its ugly head. I think, maybe, the world needs a "closet cleaning" day. A day of accountability where everyone lets those bad parts out for good and brings the good parts out to play.

But then again, maybe not. For most people, our secrets are what make us who we are. So until the day when people proclaim their lives fair fodder, I'll just have to deal with being the only one without a closet.

I have found heaven...

2003-12-05T16:44:00.000-05:00

...and it's at my new job. Formerly, I was employed as a waiter at an unnamed Mexican food restaurant that is a large chain, has stores in shopping malls and around movie theatres, and only offers quasi-edible food. Now, I'm working at a mediterranean food restaurant where the waiters *know* what they are doing, the owners are equitable to good service, and the food is out of this world. I'm just glad I popped in for dinner that night that I got the job.

That's the way good things normally happen -- accidentally. Like accidentally finding a dollar or a new software program that allows you to burn a Video CD in a third of the time as previous. Things like that are what make life good, I think. And it's the drought of things like that that make it bad. When the simple little surprises (the good kind) dry up, then you're just left with the crap of everyday.

Fortunately, life is unpredictable like that and we get to see those little surprises every day. Maybe it's a Dr. Pepper when you ordered a Coke and the discovery that you really wanted a Dr. Pepper to begin with. Maybe it's finding twenty bucks in your blue jeans pocket when you were down to the last five bucks. Whatever the situation you find it, there's a bit of joy in them.

I've company coming. Talk to you tomorrow.

I've a migraine, please forgive, but...

2003-12-02T22:22:00.000-05:00

Victoria Paige will not dance the Dance of the Red Shoes tonight.

Sorry--wrong movie. I've got a headache, hon, and am going to take three tylenolPM and go to bed.

Love and ciao.

md

Christmas isn't something that's all around me...

2003-12-01T11:56:00.000-05:00

...it's something I've stepped in and gotten on my shoes. At least that's how I feel as related to the people I've been around for the last few days. Save last night's excursion into alchohol-induced euphoria at the Olive Garden. (Try their stuffed chicken marsala. Fucking phenominal.) I had a good time then.

I don't know...maybe it's having worked 70 hours in six days. That could be the funk I'm in. I know it is *not* depression. It feels alot LIKE depression, but this is kind of like a Long Island Iced Tea that is missing something, maybe a twist of lemon or a half a jigger of crown. You know it's *close*, but not what it says it is. So don't worry, kids. I'm not about to go and do something stupid.

Besides. ;-) I'm too narcissistic. hehehe...

WIth that said, I wish this shit would just end! I'm not sleeping well...or nearly enough. I can't concentrate, and I have nightmares about trays of food coming out of kitchens all wrong and mean people at tables shouting obscenities at me while they're wearing santa hats.

I guess that's the relative oxymoronic image of the season for me. People in Santa Hats or fucking Rudolph sweaters (the reindeer, not the mayor--though both have very shiny noses), staring up from me at a table, complaining as if *I PERSONALLY* went into the kitchen and incorrectly cooked their food. My response to them is the same as it is to the people whose orders our restaurant (that shall remain nameless) *doesn't* screw up.

"I'm sorry."

"For what" the customer asks.

"I dunno. Something's gonna be wrong. Merry Christmas."

Then, when their receipt prints out the 800-Tell-us-how-we-did number, I point it out to them, make sure the wife files it in her wallet by the checkbook, and send them on their way with instructions to "tell them how you really reacted and how everything really was!"

Bye-bye average of 68% positive. :-)

I guess I'm a dangerous kind of disgruntled worker--not postally dangerous. PR'ly dangerous. I'll tell people the truth, regardless of how it affects me or my employer. Call it a character flaw.

New Year's resolution 1: Work on that.

My feet hurt...

2003-11-29T22:51:00.000-05:00

Who would have known that a pair of Rockport could be uncomfortable! Nevermind that I was on my feet 11 hours, waiting on people who, for whatever reason, decided that this was the weekend they wanted Mexican food and stuff you can only get at Gap and JC Penney.

Why do people want to shop for Christmas, all at once? Wouldn't it make more sense for shopping malls to *assign* a time to people when they could come and do all their shopping? Then there wouldn't be a mad crush of people -- literally mad and figuratively mad.

Of all the things I don't understand about the Human Race, it's a drive to rat-pack it to the mall and be herded around by a security guard on a powertrip with a stungun. Doesn't it make more sense to say, shop at little boutiques and other places where they would actually *care* that you're giving them business?

That's the challenge this Christmas Season: Don't go to the mall. Instead, find what you want at either a local store and pay the extra four percent (that's the price differential these days), or worst-case, only go to free-standing chain stores. Avoid Mega-Super-Conglomo-Mall.

See you at the food court.

The Wonderful World of Deadlines....

2003-11-28T22:28:00.000-05:00

I love deadlines -- especially that glorious wooshing sound they make as they go flying by. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline on a paper I'm writing concerning sexuality in Romeo and Juliet, specifically the presentations of Juliet's sexuality presented in the play by various characters. Ironic really, the concept of sexuality and deadlines are so similar.

Things have to start at a certain age to be finished by a certain age. It's the same with projects. If you don't *begin* a project in time, then the deadline will pass long before you have a chance to complete the project. I'm not sure how it's going to work out -- The R&J deadline, not my sexuality. (That's done been and gone. I'm convinced I'm never getting laid again.)

Why deadlines? Don't misunderstand me. I know why we have dates by which projects must be completed. But why do we call it a DEADline, as if the fear of not getting paid, not getting published, getting a bad grade isn't enough to get our creative juices scared into flowing. No, we have to tack to the concept an appeal to the most basic of human emotions: fear of death.

Today, I'm going to protest. No longer will I suffer under the burden of fear. I will stand my ground against the deadline. Instead, I'll call it a LIVEline. Instead of a point-of-no-return, it will be a date that -- if you succeed in reaching your goal by it, you get to celebrate!

I invite you all to stand with me and fight the oppression of -- hello, yes. OH! I ALMOST FORGOT IT'S THE FIRST!

Thanksgiving and being thankful.

2003-11-27T17:37:00.000-05:00

I am thankful for many things, this year. I'm thankful for a job, for a warm bed and a roof that doesn't leak. I'm thankful for my friends, even the ones that don't always live up to expectations and promises. I am thankful for living in a free country and a refrigerator that has food and a working control knob. But mostly I'm thankful for a quiet living room, a Mac w/ a wireless router, and a forty-eight hour marathon of West Wing on Bravo.

This show has become such a religion to me, and aparently a phanatical group of other people around the world. (My Canadian friend watches it relentlessly and it was recently plugged on the Brit-Flick "Love Actually"--set in London.) I'm very thankful to call Martin Sheen my president and I am thankful that once a week I can snuggle up on the couch with Toby, Josh, Leo, Abby, CJ, Charlie and Jed and catch a glimpse of life in a bigger and more grand scale than I can ever imagine in my own art.

That's what it is -- art. It is the selective recreation of a reality, as Aristotle defined art. With that said, it's more than even that. It is a glimpse of not what life is like in the White House, but what it *could be* like. These are basically good people who are doing what they think is right. It doesn't always work out well, but they try.

Maybe that's what we're looking for, those of us who watch this show. And that's why it's the thing for which I'm most thankful. I'm thankful that I live in a nation where this, while not likely, is at least possible.

Happy Thanksgiving

Paid to put up...

2003-11-26T21:40:00.001-05:00

...but the irony is I'm not. So what's the point? Why take abuse for pennies?

Sorry for the brief post. It's just the day before Thanksgiving. Will post more tomorrow evening.

Paid to put up...

2003-11-26T21:40:00.000-05:00

...but the irony is I'm not. So what's the point? Why take abuse for pennies?

Sorry for the brief post. It's just the day before Thanksgiving. Will post more tomorrow evening.

O Christmas Tree...

2003-11-26T00:43:00.000-05:00

...oh Christmas tree, how thorny are thy fricken branches that cut me and made me bleed and now itch from the thousand and two microscopic fleshwounds covering my arms and legs.

Yep, you guessed it. I put up my Christmas tree today, breaking one of my own cardinal rules--NO CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS BEFORE THANKSGIVING! Alas, the day *after* Thanksgiving, the day I would normally put up the tree and deck the fricken halls (of which I have two very long, narrow halls just crying out for holly), I will be working. And Saturday...and Sunday. And I have company coming. So I wanted the house to be in holiday form for the weekend.

Thus, today I trimmed the tree. A hundred tiny, light-em-up pine cones and fifty velvet bows. Four runs of beads and three runs of garland. Twenty christmas globes, thirty candy canes, and a poor angel with a tree branch run up her--well you get the picture. But that was the easy part.

The moron--excuse me. The Engineer who came up with the concept of a Christmas Tree Stand should be hunted down and executed by the angry mob of Christmas decorators who have had the unfortunate experience of coming to UNDER a Christmas tree. (Oh yeah...scratches on the back as well.) I fought and I fought and I fought. I'd get the stand on and as tight as it would go, stand the tree up and it would pull a leaning tower of Piza. Then I'd straighten it and, you guessed it. TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR....

I almost gave up. I threw a tantrum that demolished the base of the tree, the stand, and a very expensive pen of the writing kind. After rebuilding the stand, cleaning the bark from one part of the tree, I finally got it to stand. But it was leaning rather ominously forward. At this point, I didn't care. I simply got a coathanger and wired it to the wall.

If any one asks, tell them it is because I don't trust the cats. :-)

Alas the tree is up, the halls are decked, and I spent an evening listening to the Bing Crosby/David Bowie's rendition of "Little Drummer Boy." It is one of my all-time favorite Christmas tunes. After that CD was done, I listened to what I call "the Really Crappy Carolers" album. If I don't have carolers this year, I'll simply put the CD player at the door, ring the bell, and act like I answered the door to twelve kids singing the same two verses of "Joy to the World" six times each, (verse, not kid) and then throw some candy out the door, shut it, and return to watching West Wing.

Jessica Lang is still hot. (And other equally profound observations.)

2003-11-24T15:29:00.000-05:00

Jessica Lang will forever be the beauty that tamed Kong. Lately, though, she seems to have stumbled into the realm of 'crazy beautiful spurned chick who goes psycho', a path that other great beauties have followed as well. Look at Joan Crawford, whose work strangely mirrored her life. Jessica Lang has now played a freakish Tamora in the Tabor production of "Titus Andronicus" and the psycho-electra-complexed mother in that Gwyneth movie I forget the title of.

This tends to be the pattern, though. Beautiful young actress, makes a splash. Goes nuts in movies--and then in real life. A few have avoided this...but they've always implanted some other equally un-desireable era in their career. (Betty Davis had the scary-woman syndrome, Blythe Danner that cool-color-wearing WASP bitchwife thing, still going btw, and Kate Hepburn, God rest her soul, played the debutante long past her debutante years (Desk Set anyone??).) I shudder to think about the future careers of Natalie Portman and Jennifer Aniston. You know what I'm talking about--that period of time where Jennifer Aniston is wishing someone would climb a wall to see her topless?

It's all about aging, I think. Or more expressly, staving off aging for as long as you can. Crazy people don't get old. Neither do bitches. That's why we go in that direction. (Yes, even men! I mean does anyone actually believe that Amanda Peet would sleep with Jack Nicholson? Or Dianne Keaton for that matter.)

C'est la vie, kids. We get old. We die. It's part of life. I guess it's time we all started coping with that simple, stark -- Holy shit, there's a Starbucks.

Detente and DMZ

2003-11-24T03:14:00.000-05:00

Dealing with conflict is never easy. I sat there today, watching the Washington Spin Machine as they tried to solidify some image of the President's resent trip into insanity (also known as Great Britain). Amazing resources -- both psychological and physical -- are being expended to create a unified picture of what happened. It's very similar to how everything goes in the real world.

People observe one thing, report another, and then form an opinion based on what other people have said about what they reported about the thing completely different. Our society is so hell-bent on creating images of what we are that we forget to look at *what we are*. We interface on the image-level of our beings.

Sadly enough, we're imitating movies, books, music--trying to be more real by imitating the "real" we see in the movies--which are representations of how people react as seen by the auteur eye--rather than real reality. So we're copying the copy. Ironically, it goes further than that--the new movies are copying the 'real' real we're copying from the older movies. Thus we're starting to copy copies of copies of a copy.

Go figure.

Perhaps what we need is a period of detente followed by the creation of a DMZ -- A DE-Manipulation-Zone in which honesty is valued above national loyalty, 'personal' interest (though the truth should always be in one's best interest), and inuendo. In this DMZ of humanity, families could sort out their differences, husbands and wives could save their marriages, and politicians could salvage what's left of civilization before we end up wiping ourselves off the face of our own planet.

Good luck with that one, though. It sounds too much like something that's intelligent to actually work.

Boy that was about as fun...

2003-11-22T02:12:00.000-05:00

...as having a lobotomy. Who knew that configuring a wireless router would make me want to throw my computer into the bayou behind my house (or worse, throw ME into the bayou...sure it's only three feet deep, but it's fricken cold outside).

I'm not sure why it is I really *wanted* to get a wireless network going in my house. Maybe it was so I could sit on the back porch, watch the ducks in the water, and chat on the internet. Maybe I just want to be able to do what I'm doing right now: kick back in bed and play on the 'net. Maybe it's some sick, masochistic desire to keep myself up-to-date on technology. (Why, for heaven's sake, why?)

It all really comes down to one thing: something to do. That's what life is all about for the vast majority of humans. We spend our days, evenings, nights, and mornings filling the precious hours with pitter-patter and temporal brickabrack until we fall into bed at night. I can't tell you how many times I've caught myself *inventing* things to do--just so I would have something to busy myself.

Example? Wireless networks.

That's what it all comes back to, really, wireless networks. Oh sure, broadband's a must-have these days. But where's the fun in tethering myself to a desk--even if the tether is a 50' long ethernet cable snaking through my house. It's the point of freedom.

I feel free now that I'm not physically plugged into a black box on the desk. I mean, can you get anymore IBM than that? Oh well, I think I'll wander off and surf CNN.com or something equally mundane and pointless. I can't go outside right now because I'm plugged into the wall socket. :-)

I got wireless!

2003-11-20T18:07:00.000-05:00

My airport card arrived today for my iBook. I installed it and immediately went to the coffee shop, where I can enjoy wireless internet access and drink latte and talk about politics and Joni Mitchell.

Wi-Fi cards really signify alot in our culture--the dire need to plug in and connect, the mystical, almost romantic feel of sitting in a coffee shop or a bar or a restaurant or an airport (of the plane variety) and kick back, pull up a web browser or an email window and immediately feel a sense of community, of belonging, of citizenship to something that transcends borders.

Nevermind that we do this while *SITTING* in a coffee shop, a restaurant, or an airport--surrounded by hundreds of other people all doing the exact same thing. Why not unplug? Look around? The best thing that could possibly happen right now would be some weird, wireless-card zapping Virus that knocks routers offline.

In the moments after this virtual apocalypse, I can see the people screaming at their laptops, throwing bluetooth phones through the windows and then sitting there. But it would pass quickly enough, I think. The people would look around, see others in their same predicament, and unite in the common bond of disconnectedness.

Until someone reboots the router, of course. Then it would be business as usual.

Hey...there's a cute girl over at a neighboring table. It's time to disconnect for a while.

I'm a hippy communist bleeding-heart pinko liberal and I have a mac to prove it.

2003-11-19T18:35:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm in reality fairly conservative. I'm for small government, no social welfare programs (save Student Loans which are actually an investment in future tax base) and I'm against any form of government intrusion into my diet, my habits, or my bedroom.

With that said, I bought a Mac. I absolutely love it. The sound it makes when I press the power button calls out to my deepest soul and says "Go do Yoga." The screen is beautiful, bright, and I can see it in broad daylight. iTunes is a phenominally intelligent product. EVERYTHING about this machine makes sense.

And did I mention it looks cool? It's sleek and white and makes me want to hop a plane to Europe. I think I'll do that one day...just go to the airport and get on a plane to London for the weekend. When I get back on Monday morning, I can say to my friends, when they ask what I did over the weekend, "I went to London for lunch."

That's the point I've come to in life, I think. I like to plan my jaunts into insanity well in advance. Make sure I have the financing in place and will be able to adequately recover. There was a time when my particular neuroses would manifest themselves without warning. A trip to a casino or worse: the Galleria. Coming home with a new ink pen or a new bracelet that I'd never wear again. Or deciding that I want to dress like Neo from the Matrix and buying a black coat on my lunch hour.

I'm all better now. These days, I build up the nervous energy in my system until I can no longer tolerate it. Then, I do something massively impulsive to expell the demons once again. And that's how it goes. Demons expelled. Sanity returns.

One day, I'll be rich and just live on a yacht. Until then, I'll continue loosing it about once a quarter. See you on the other side of the deep end.

I hate computers...and five other minirants

2003-08-18T23:20:00.000-05:00

1.) I hate computers. Since humans discovered that the entirety of human knowledge, actions, and activities can be reduced to ones and zeros, humans have become grumpier and more stupid. And the more we rely on computers, the more complicated they become. Take today for instance, when I had to spend three hours on the campus waiting for computers to come back online. Nevermind that they *never did* and my problem was *still* taken care of (then why did I have to wait in the first place?), the computers were just down so the entire staff of a 9,000 student college were reduced to dopey-voiced, chainsmoking droolers.

2.) And while I'm on computers, what brilliant morningstar of a computer engineer decided it was a good idea to incorporate a WEB BROWSER in the system kernel? Today, as I'm trying to recouperate from three hours in Land of the Living Morons (see above), I attempted to access the university servers--which, because of a combined over-dependence on ASP mixed with some pretty bad Java, a heap of PERL and piss-poor CGI, locked up IE (remember, part of the XP Kernel??) and forced a reboot--which crashed windows. Now, some Einstein of a dumbass at Microsoft decided to make NTFS the default (and honestly, much better) file management system in WinXP. However, the boot disks (a.k.a. Emergency Recovery Disks) are in FAT (the old version). Translation? There is no feasible way to get your documents off the system once it crashes. I lost two essays and missed a deadline because of it.

3.) Children should be shot. All of them. I used to love children, but now I hate them. They whine, they complain, the are demanding and they smell. YES children smell! You know what I'm talking about--that eight-year-old stench of "I've-been outside-in-the-sweltering-heat-and-don't-know-what-a-bath-is-and-lack-the-neurons-to-realize-that-playing-in-mud-only exacerbates-my-budding-BO". So here you have this smelly, dirty, mini-adult screaming about how he or she doesn't want to take a bath and you, the adult, attempting to explain in Kiddy-English just why what THEY want is irrelevant.

4.) Parents should be tortured and then shot. All of them. For what they did to their children and are continuing to do by drawing air into their lungs. Parents (and I am one), seem to have this warped perception that once children reach the age of majority, their role as guides and mentors is through and is, instead, replaced by their role as obstacle and tormentor. So all parents deserve unmitigated pain. :-) (Again, though, that's what children are for. See above.)

5.) I hate summer. I hate Fall. I like spring--or at least the middle two months of it, when it isn't still winter-cold and isn't quite summer-hot. It's summer hot right now and the AC runs constantly--when there is electricity. (We had a blackout here last night.)

6.) And last, but not least, why is it that everything that could possibly go wrong does just that at the same time? Is Fate really that cruel? Why, in the grand scheme of the evolutionary experience, haven't humans developed the biological mechanisms necessary to at least schedule the bad things over periods of time? If someone you know dies, it's two weeks before your kids can be bad. If your car breaks down, it can't share the day with your wife leaving or your computer crashing.

Makes sense to me. I now see why people become grumpy when they get old and will never, ever again be angry at my dear old grandmother.

The Big Time

2003-08-17T12:11:00.000-05:00

I don't envy the people suffering through the blackout. Especially considering that I'm under not one but two deadlines. A book review for a new online magazine is wooshing by, and the deadline for the next chapter of Tuscany was on Friday. Neither are completed quite yet. So this blog will be brief.

I have arranged an interview with a NY Times Bestselling author and am quite stoked about it. :-) I'll post more on that later.

Shameless self-promotion

2003-08-09T12:19:00.000-05:00

Three times. That's the number of times I threw up yesterday morning. I wouldn't mention it, except that it corresponds to the number of times people have, in the last week, asked me to qualify for the October primary against a certain state representative. The money's there, the people are there, but I'm not.

Aparently, since I'm a "non-traditional college student," they think I have all this free time and resources to devote to kicking someone out of an office I really have no interest in holding. It's understandable, really. I'm politically active, I'm seen frequently around public, and I'm always involved in activist causes. That makes me a prime target for certain undesirable jobs like helping friends move, cleaning out gutters on old ladies' houses, and running for state representative.

But I decided against it. I'm going to go to Europe for a summer instead.

Maybe that was what my body was trying to tell me, while I was confined to the Ceramic Palace praying to the Porceline Gods. "Don't run for office!"

Green Lizard Regulation

2003-08-04T23:12:00.000-05:00

This morning, I overslept, demanding that I request an emergency ride from my grandfather. When he arrived, there was a lizard perched on his hood a la hood ornament. I laughed, thinking that he had glued a fake cameleon to his hood. It turned out to be real. Later that day, I had a conversation with the financial aid people at the University. Oddly enough, the conversation with Financial Aid ties directly into the green lizard on the dashboard.

It seems that every year, the award letters go out with a disclaimer printed in fine print on the back: This award is contingent upon payment in advance for your classes and satisfactory completion of the semester before a refund will be issued.

Knowing in a school where 75% of students are on full financial aid, I thought that there was absolutely no way this rule was enforced. However, my past dealings with the university have led me to the belief that you follow *every rule* absolutely until told otherwise. So I went to the office and asked. The man behind the desk shook his head. "No, that's not real."

"In other words," I replied, "it's one of those fake requirements?" He nodded.

"Yep, a fake requirement. Sorry."

I left financial aid and figured out what the green lizard and Financial Aid have in common. Just like no one bothered to tell the green lizard that it is probably not a good idea to ride around on the hood of a GMC Jimmy, it's not a good idea for the financial aid people to put crap on their letters that they don't mean. Both can lead to very bad experiences, both for the lizard or financial aid, and for us the viewer and the student.

C'est la vie.

Specificity

2003-08-03T21:08:00.000-05:00

My high school English teacher had a nifty little shorthand she used when grading our essays, the only part of which I remember was "B.S." *BE SPECIFIC*. If you received an infamous B.S. scrawled in one of the margins, follow the arrow and you would no doubt find a sentence, phrase, or word that lacked specificity. If there was more than a sentence, she might frame entire passages with nifty little red-ink borders, doodling notes like clip-art. And somewhere, deep down inside the dark recesses of her mind, there was a specificity threshold that, once crossed, would send her over the edge. I learned fairly quickly that "things" and "stuff" were instant B.S. words. Push her hard enough, and she would explode--the result of which would be a huge "B.S." scribbled across entire pages.

Today, those two letters came screaming back to me when I received the following quote in an email from a mailing list:

I'll have you know that I my philosophic ideas don't require "tricks" to "come," and I resent the implication that they do. I may be forty-one years old, but I'm still healthy and intellectually virile as a horse.

I paused for a minute and re-read this line. Now, the more demented of you who read this will understand why. Others, it might take a minute. But immediately, I replied to the e-mail with something akin to the following: "Hey...don't leave yourself open. You could be a mare or a gelding!"

It just goes to show that, be it in the heat of passion of an email or in an academic paper, or even in a Presidential state of the union address, specificity is completely void. I recall fondly the last paper I ever turned in for my aforementioned high school English teacher. Eight pages long, I was shocked to find not a single red mark on the first seven. Flipping to the last, where I knew I would find my grade, I saw why. In very ornate, articulate penmanship, she had written, "Mr. DeVault, this paper is a load of B.S., and I *don't* mean Be Specific."

2003-08-02T21:42:00.000-05:00

So I learned two valuable lessons today, both oddly enough are related to Pizza.

First, the overhead on pizza parlors must be incredibly low. Here in Monroe, a local merchant genius has set out to sell what he calls "Take and Bake" pizzas. Now these are the same pizzas that he runs through his ovens, cuts, boxes and delivers, but instead of cooking, cutting, cartoning, and carrying, he wraps the *raw* pizza in plastic wrap and sends it home with you to cook in your own oven at a tremendous discount. Great idea right?

As I was standing, watching this operation, I did a little bit of loose math in my head. For $8.00, I get a fully cooked, cut, and boxed pizza. For $5.00, I can cook it myself. Saves me three bucks so it's worth it. (Or so you would think, wait until the second lesson.) The oddest thing happens, though, when you don't *bake* a pizza assembled in a kitchen specifically designed to bake pizzas: the labor *increases*. The poor guy who would normally spend about a minute and a half per pizza cutting and boxing it, must now *wrap* each *uncut* pizza in plastic wrap, careful not to disturb the toppings. The whole process takes about three or four minutes *per pizza*. (These are big pizzas we're talking about here.)

So it occurred to me. The pizza guys are making at least double on each pizza. Is something that can feed a family of four for under $2.00 worth of ingredients *really* something I want to put into my body? At least not on a regular basis. So lesson one is what I originally called the Taco-Bell Precept: If you can manufacture a food item for under a buck that feeds a family, it's not human food.

Lesson two occurred later, when I got the pizzas home. It is a simple lesson, to be honest. Cheese bubbles when it is hot. (Specifically when it is four hundred and fifty degrees farenheit.) How, might you be asking, did I come across this gem of wisdom? By plunging, I say, my hand into the top of a boiling hot pizza. Cutting pizzas with those big fance curved blade thingies the pizza joints use? It's a hell of alot harder than those guys make it look. The blade rocks not only from side to side, but from front to back, making short order of the hair on the back of your hand should you hit a wayward peperoni or a stubborn, extra thick portion of the crust.

So what is the moral of the story? Let the pizza joints do what pizza joints do best: cook pizzas. It's a hell of a lot less hazardous to your health.

2003-08-02T09:55:00.000-05:00

So here I am, starting a blog. Why on earth do I need, want or otherwise think that a blog would be something worthwhile? Who knows. If you're one of those people who have to have a reason for things, call it an exercise in self-therapy.

I'm sitting in the middle of Chapter 18 on Bohemian Row, almost done with it actually. I'm glad I found my stride on it again, to be honest. It had been stagnating in the back of my mind and now things are moving again. Maybe it's the added 'pressure' of three kids, two cats, and a French class in a pear tree. Or maybe it's just that I don't have fifty English papers hanging over my head right now. Whatever the reason, it's moving along.

Speaking of French class, if you've not read anything by David Sedaris, pick up a copy of "Me Talk Pretty One Day", in which he give a hilarious treatment to going to introductory French. I'm laughing hard at it, even though this is my second time to read it.

I got a new "gig"-- reviewing books for a new online magazine and forum called The Atlasphere, (www.theatlasphere.com, Launch Date: 31 Aug 03). The publishers hope to attract fans of the novels of Ayn Rand, but not exclusively Objectivists. My first submissions will be a review of the Illustrated "Seabiscuit", by Laura Hillenbrand and an interview with the scupltor Martin Eichinger (www.eichingerstudio.com). I am very much looking forward to it.