Saturday, October 26, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Dreams make us better, happier, healthier people. They help us achieve our greatest potential. They help us become the person we want to be.
With In Our Selves, Ken La Salle brings another collection of essays from the pages of Recovering the Self. Not only does he share his journey but he also provides the reader with tips and clues and signposts to help them along the way.
Dreams are the best parts of all of us. We should never forget they lie not in the stars but In Our Selves…
Sunday, October 13, 2013
So, Vicky and I were out walking the dogs the other day when the topic of zombies came up… again. (What can I say? We like to keep our conversations lively.)
Not only did we talk about zombies. We also talked about zombie… guts.
Here’s the thing: Imagine you’re a zombie (Republicans, this shouldn’t be too hard). You’ve eaten a side of person but you’re still a bit peckish, so you opt for some brain salad with a side of liver, spleen, and intestine.
Now that you’ve eaten all of that… where does it go?
Seriously, where does it all go?
Do zombies poop?
None of the standard zombie cannon shows any sign of zombie bathroom habits.
If zombies don’t poop, what happens to all that yummy people? Do they digest it? They can’t, obviously, because they are dead.
Take that to its logical conclusion and you find that zombies are bound to be… well, bound. I mean, zombies would keep a gastroenterologist pretty busy. Eventually, they’d just be these stick-thin walking corpses with huge, distended stomachs.
… and who the hell wants to talk about that?
Monday, October 07, 2013
The other day, I shared with Vicky the fact that I had jogged 10 miles that morning. Actually, I refer to it as “slogged”, not “jogged”. “Slogged” means “slow jogged”. And, believe me, I’m slow.
Vicky suggested that I was getting close to half a marathon and maybe I could think about getting into something like that.
… I thought she was kidding…
I told her, “I don’t think you understand just how slowly I jog. I jog really slow.”
“I’m sure plenty of people do marathons slowly,” she countered.
I just couldn’t get her to understand the depths to which my slowness plumbs.
And so, I have decided that I will share with you, my reading public – both of you – just how slowly I jog 10 miles…
I sit at the bus stop for 34 minutes. When the bus comes, I take it for .896 miles… and then I walk the rest.
I sit with my phone and watch a “Murder, She Wrote” marathon. After the 17th episode, I realize I’m thirsty and walk to the nearest 7-11 for a Big Gulp Slurpee.
Bathroom break. I hurry to the nearest bathroom, stopping only briefly to eat a gallon of ice cream, take a nap, and get a manicure.
Stop by to get a massage.
Stop to get another massage because I just learned about “Happy Endings”. Sadly, the masseuse has me thrown into jail for soliciting.
Several days later, I am released. Famished, I stop by Subway for a footlong tuna sandwich, a “Big & Beefy” sandwich, a “Chicken O’lay” sandwich, three meatball subs, four packs of chips, and a Diet Coke. I never eat more than seven sandwiches as I am watching my weight.
After a slow meander, I “binge watch” the last season of Newsroom. Then, I stop for some Never Ending Pasta at Olive Garden, get checked into the hospital to have my stomach pumped, and catch a ride home.
I guess what I’m saying is I’m slow.
Saturday, October 05, 2013
Friday, October 04, 2013
One way I consider myself lucky is that, oftentimes, I have a very vivid memory. This doesn’t apply to everything and it sometimes pops up on its own but, when it does, it’s like a movie playing in my head. Scenes unroll and I almost feel like I was there (which, of course, I was).
That’s what happened this morning. I was sitting at my desk, editing a new audiobook, when I began to see a memory from just a few months ago.
Vicky and I were in a car, on a road in eastern Washington State. I was driving and we were navigating our way up and down along these green and winding hillsides. Traffic wasn’t too bad; the only cars we saw were some classics on their way to a car show somewhere.
We drove along – I think Cher was playing on Vicky’s iPod – and talked a little, here and there. When you’re on the road with someone for more than a week or so, you’d think you would run out of things to say but that’s not how it was with Vicky and me. We just talked and talked; I think it was because we knew that, all too soon, we’d be back home and knee deep in the minutiae of our lives once again.
So, I was sitting here, letting that scene unroll in my mind, and I just felt so lucky.
I know it’s not much – trapped in a car for more than two weeks, driving every day – but sharing that with Vicky, even that, just made it so much better. It made it the kind of memory I can reflect on, months later, and just feel good about, knowing my love was next to me, knowing that she’s mine. It’s powerful stuff.
Sure, we fought quite a few times on the road. That’s what happens. That’s so common, it’s not really worth remembering. Because the rest of the time was so good and so right that even the memory of the two of us on a road in eastern Washington can still appear in my mind and just… make me happy.