This is a tough one. In the next few days, it could be meaningless. It could also be timely. I don’t know.
The thing is, my dad’s in the hospital right now. And things aren’t good. The words being tossed around – backflow, heart failure, aneurysm – are all guesses referring to what may or may not be wrong with him. But the way I’m guessing, when your guesses go from the realm of “stubbed toe” and end up in the neighborhood of “heart failure”, it’s not a good thing. Then again, it could be nothing - see how this just fucks with your head?
I’m supposed to know something this afternoon so I could put this off and write it later. But I decided not to because I’ve been spending that past couple of days driving myself absolutely crazy, eulogizing a man who is still alive. Odds are, I’ll probably drive out to Arizona this weekend to see him. It may be to grieve him. I don’t know – and it’s the “not knowing” that’s the worst part.
So, my thoughts today are with my father. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you about my father so I thought I’d do that now. There are some stories you may have heard before but, honestly, when has that ever stopped me?
My father was born just before the outbreak of World War II, on June 8th… or 18th… um… 20th? Okay, so I have his birthday at home; I just can’t remember off the top of my head! That’s what happens when you live apart from your dad for most of your life… but I’m getting ahead of myself. He grew up in the forties but I think his formative time – the time to which he really belonged – was the fifties. Sure, in the forties, he listened to those old, radio shows he loved so much. But it was in the fifties that he got that slicked-back, Elvis Presley hair style he had for so many years, the way I remember him from my childhood. It was the fifties that helped turn him into a right-wing nutjob, that made him think right and wrong meant conformity over individuality, “Better Red Than Dead”, ideas that became so out of place and out of time that he became an anachronism to me more than just an absent parent. These things made him more of a mystery than a father.
He was bold, too. He wanted to be a musician. He wanted to be an actor. He joined the air force and went AWOL. He told me it wasn’t because he was rebellious but because of a girl, which was even better as far as I was concerned. He met my mom in the 50’s and took her to California. They started a new life with no friends or relatives, all on their own, and they had three kids. Eventually, he had to leave. I won’t assign blame but I will observe that my father suffered from the same, chronic dissatisfaction that I, too, have experienced and, on the other side, my mom could drive any man crazy.
I still remember the day he left. It is seared into my mind. I was five years old, not a bad kid but I blamed myself for that day just like we all do. That, and the years after, killed a part of me but they also gave birth to the actor and the writer and, even, the man who I am. So, as hard as it may sound, I can't fault him for leaving. I turned out fine. (Notice how I am not soliticing opinions?)
He left behind a couple of comedy records, one by the Smothers Brothers and another by Don Adams (pre-Get Smart). These were the basis for my sense of humor. I listened to them so much that I can still quote them from memory.
He tried to come back several times, as a father but not as a husband. My mom didn’t really want that and that’s understandable; she wanted back the man she loved. I am left with only a few memories of my dad after he left. I remember him bringing me a race-car set as a child and helping me put it together. I recall the many movies he took us (my brother, sister, and me) to see. Get this, they were always Disney movies and he hated Disney movies. He must have thought that these were the kinds of films you took kids to see, so he did. This is why I had to suffer through Bedknobs & Broomsticks, Herbie goes to Monte Carlo, and That Darned Cat, which is nearly unforgivable all by itself… but I’ll try.
My mom couldn’t have her husband back because the man who was her husband was in love with someone else. Her name was Blanche. The first memory I have of Blanche was at Disneyland. (Not a bad memory.) She amazed me. Here was a woman who laughed and smiled – You gotta understand, my mom wasn’t the same because she was on the other end of it. She was raising three kids on her own after having the man she loved leave her. Dad rarely paid child support – he was no saint, don’t get me wrong. Meanwhile, Blanche received his love and, yes, his money, so… I guess I’m guilty of putting Blanche over my mom. That was wrong. But, you know, the parent who is gone is always the cooler one. He never punishes you or gets angry with you or doesn’t understand you – there’s a certain benefit to not being there.
When he had an aneurysm, I was too young to go inside of his hospital room to visit. My brother and sister could go in, so I was often left outside and only heard about how my dad nearly died that time.
Then, came the time when I saw something I’d never seen before. I was 14. Dad and Blanche brought the three of us (my brother, sister, and me) to spend the weekend at their home. Here, I saw new furniture, a fridge filled with food, and “luxuries” like a TV and a VCR. For those of you who don’t know, I grew up poor. I have no problem with that; it’s the truth. Dad and Blanche’s home looked like heaven. So, being a teenager, I tried to ostracize my mom and live with my dad and Blanche.
But enough about what an ass I was.
Dad and Blanche had two children, one in the late 1970’s and one in the early 1980’s. Two boys. I used to call them my “half-brothers” but, in the end, they became full brothers to me. What I learned was remarkable. Dad was just as much of an enigma to them as he was to me. Nobody understood him. So, in 1988, when Rosa and I got married and Dad invited us up to Washington to get married there – and he arranged and paid for everything – we agreed (why not? We were going to elope!) and I used the opportunity to ask him questions, to try and get to know him better.
Rosa and I disembarked from our train in Seattle around May 19th, 1988, and found Dad and Blanche, Dwight and Richard, waiting. I hadn’t seen my dad in nearly a decade. My first words to this man with white hair was, “Dad! You look so old!” Did I mention that my middle name is “Tact”? He didn’t leave me at the station, thankfully. They took us back to their home in Redmond and I sequestered myself with my dad and started asking questions.
… he answered every one.
… and I still didn’t know him. I didn’t realize at the time that’s not how it works.
My dad loved being a part of my first wedding. He even walked Rosa down the aisle – as strange as that might sound. We were married in front of just over half a dozen people and the one crying, the one you could still hear on the video tape (if I still had the video tape), was my dad. Go figure.
But that got us talking again and building a shaky relationship. Not a house of cards. More like a Jenga.
I don’t think he ever understood why I left Rosa the way I did, which makes two of us. I had Blanche’s blessing but he remained quiet – and I could really respect that. And as the years afterwards passed, hearing him say, “Hi, son,” and ask how I was doing really started to mean something. I don’t know what he felt when he left my mom but, although I know he didn’t understand my divorce, I got the feeling he understood my singleness. He became something of a fan of my acting, but he wouldn’t watch anything with swear words – and that became a juggling act, let me tell you! So, he never saw my plays – the ones I wrote. And he never read my books.
When I was a teenager, after I had decided I wanted to write, I remember telling him, “Dad, I want to be a writer.” My dad’s reply was, “If you want to write, write.” It was a Yoda-like moment, so pithy and wise. What I had blocked from my memory was what a nuisance about it I was being and how he was probably trying to get me to shut up. That’s a good memory, though. I clutch it tight. I think it says a lot about my sense of self, my need for approval, my father’s understanding – both of what I needed to hear and what would shut me the hell up.
Around the same time, he drove down to see a show I was in. It was a show for choir (yes, I was one of those people!) and, as we were getting ready, we found out that Tammy Philbrick couldn’t get a ride to the show. My dad offered to pick her up, so off we went. On the way there, he asked me, “Is this the girl?” The girl? “The one you like?” I told him she was and you could see the smile in his eyes as I introduced them. Maybe he thought we would get married or that we would date or kiss or hold hands, for fuck’s sake! Okay, she wasn’t “the girl”. She was just “a girl”.
“The girl” turned out to be Vicky. After I met her, all my dad and Blanche could tell me was how happy they were that I was happy again. They made me sick. I was fine! Get off my back! I was really afraid for a while, though, that he wouldn’t like Vicky as much as he liked Rosa. I mean, this was my dad, after all. He wasn’t Mr. Sensitive; he was my dad. My dad could be a real jerk sometimes. The first time they met was at our house. Dad and Blanche had come into town and we were all going out to dinner together. And he was so happy to see her! He beamed! And I was glad because that went according to plan: Vicky should never, ever feel like she’s less than Rosa in any way, because she isn’t.
Vicky thought my dad was funny. This just goes to show how FAR OUT OF TOUCH WITH REALITY my bride is. She doesn’t get my jokes but she thinks my dad’s funny? Wrong! Just plain wrong! Wrong in other flavors, too! Filled with great wrongnessitude!
I’m just saying.
There’s a moment I want to tell you about. It occurred at the ending of the rehearsal dinner for our wedding. Everyone moved out of the room where the dinner was held. (For those who know the Hacienda, it’s the large room adjacent to the smoking section and the bridal suite.) I was picking up the check and my dad came out of nowhere.
“What are you doing, son?”
“I’m just getting this.”
He took the check from me and said, “No. I’ve got this.”
I said, “You don’t have to.”
And he replied, looking straight into my eyes, “I know. I love you.”
Which pretty much broke my heart. How could I hold any of the crap he pulled against him now? Oh well. So, he came to the wedding and he danced with my new bride and that was a year and a half ago.
I still don’t understand him. He’s still a mystery. But, you know, every time I’ve tried to pierce that veil he puts up, it ends in failure. I remember one time he came to visit Rosa and me, I put on “St. Louis Toodle”, which was a jazz piece from the 1940’s. I thought he’d get it. He didn’t. He kinda hated it. Every time I tried to bond with him, it just didn’t work.
Then, about a year ago, I was picking up some audio books. I love audio books. I found some old radio shows, which I just love. I mentioned them to my dad, in passing, and found out that he loved them, too. Recently, visiting their home, I found out he loves silent films; I do, too! He asked me about a month ago if I’ve ever heard of Allan Sherman. What? Are you kidding?
Hello Muddah
Hello Faddah
Here I am at
Camp Granada
Camp is very entertaining
And they say we’ll have some fun if it stops raining
I practically grew up on that song!
So, I’m just beginning to pierce that veil just the tiniest bit... and now, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s infuriating.
But I do know this – this is what I get. Whatever relationship I can extract from my dad, is all I get. Nobody gets forever, no matter what relationship you are in. You only have so much time. So, you try to work around the crap and see the good. The greatest sin of all is waste and, as time is all you get in any relationship, wasting that time is the worst thing you can do.
I don’t know if my father is going to heaven. I don’t know if my father is going to hell. I don’t know if my father will be reincarnated. An educated guess would be: None of the above. And that makes this time we have all the more precious and worthwhile and important. But, if I had to chose one such fate, I think my father deserves reincarnation. My father’s life was filled with disappointments and missed opportunities and dreams too big to carry. What goodness he found is to be applauded and the sins he committed are to be forgiven.
Normally, I’d look for some catchy way to end this, but I can’t seem to find one. But that’s okay, too. It keeps going
Friday, April 27, 2007
Keith Olbermann on Rudy Guiliani...
This is the Republican frontrunner... that means most Republicans like him... it's a good thing we have Keith because I'm speechless...
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Not to mention brownies…
Since I started this new job, I have been drinking a whole lot of water. Three liters. Four liters. Five liters. Each day!
And nobody has ever said to me, “Gee, Ken. That’s your fifth liter. Think you should cut down a bit?”
See, as a smoker – on and off, now and then, once in a while, take your pick – I can’t help but notice that cigarettes are pretty much the only time people say that. You never hear someone say, “Gee, Bob. That’s your third mile you’re running. Shouldn’t you cut down?” or “Say Mavis, shouldn’t you watch those olives.” Never. Not once.
And it’s not even a smoking thing. You never hear someone say, “Say Ted, that’s your fifth pipe in a row.” You know why nobody says it? Because nobody ever smokes more than one pipe in a row. There’s no reason to own more than one pipe! A guy could be smoking a pipe for hours but you move on to your second or third cigarette and you hear, “Hey, isn’t that your third cigarette?”
This is why I’m hoping marijuana gets legalized, because you’ll hear people say, “Gee Dude, isn’t that, like, you’re fifth dooooob?”
People who smoke from bongs, however…
And nobody has ever said to me, “Gee, Ken. That’s your fifth liter. Think you should cut down a bit?”
See, as a smoker – on and off, now and then, once in a while, take your pick – I can’t help but notice that cigarettes are pretty much the only time people say that. You never hear someone say, “Gee, Bob. That’s your third mile you’re running. Shouldn’t you cut down?” or “Say Mavis, shouldn’t you watch those olives.” Never. Not once.
And it’s not even a smoking thing. You never hear someone say, “Say Ted, that’s your fifth pipe in a row.” You know why nobody says it? Because nobody ever smokes more than one pipe in a row. There’s no reason to own more than one pipe! A guy could be smoking a pipe for hours but you move on to your second or third cigarette and you hear, “Hey, isn’t that your third cigarette?”
This is why I’m hoping marijuana gets legalized, because you’ll hear people say, “Gee Dude, isn’t that, like, you’re fifth dooooob?”
People who smoke from bongs, however…
Mornings like these...
I had a late morning this morning. It wasn’t dead; it was just tardy.
Normally, you see, I go into work at 6:30am. I wake up at 4:00am, go to the gym at 4:10am, hurt myself for the better part of an hour, and come back at 5:00am. Then, I shower and dress and pack my lunch and eat breakfast and head out by 6:00am, so I can get to work at 6:30am. This is craziness.
This morning, I thought I’d try going into work at 10:00am. This sounded more reasonable. Anyway, I had a meeting at 7:00pm near my place of employment for the Orange County Writers Who For As Good As We Are Can’t Seem For The Life of Us To Get Published At All In Any Way Period It’s Pathetic Really tonight anyway, so why not just go into work late and stick around for the meeting. You know, and hope I’m not the only one there… again…
There’s something just fantastic about letting your body wake up when it wants. If only my body thought the same thing.
It’s so used to waking up at 4:00am, it woke me up at that time. I looked at the clock. No… it’s only 4:00am. I can get a whole lot more sleep than this.
Then, at 5:00, it woke me again. No kidding – I don’t have to wake up. Go back to sleep.
At 6:00am, I was getting angry. Didn’t my body realize I was trying to let it sleep?
At 7:00am, Vicky woke me up. “You wanted to get up and go to the gym, right?”
Now, I try not to grumble. Mostly because Vicky corners the market on that and, you know, you don’t want to steal someone else’s material. Instead, I said, “Yes, of course,” and went back to sleep.
But, by 7:15am, I was up and out of bed.
I got to the gym by 7:45am. Now, I was already on the clock. I knew that I had to be at work at 10:00am, which meant I had to leave by, say, 9:15am. It takes me a half hour to get dressed, get my lunch packed, and eat something for breakfast. That “something” is very vague because, being out of milk as I am, it’s usually whatever I can pull out of the freezer or the pantry that doesn’t require the accompaniment of milk. I’m not picky. Frozen dinners are fine! Anyway, that puts me back to 8:45am. With about a half hour to shower, brush, etcetera – and etcetera usually includes a ten minute discussion with the dog about how my workout made my shirt stick to me and who wants to pull that over their heads? – I was now at 8:15. But that only gave me a half hour to work out! I get more time when I wake up at the asscrack of dawn!
So, I stretched it out. I worked out on the elliptical, the machine that makes you think you’re running like a superhero, for 40 minutes, and then I was on the bike for 15. Now, I don’t know how I did this but it was only about 8:30am when I was done. All I can figure is I did that thing where you slow down time by running really fast. The Flash did this once, I think – so it must have been the elliptical.
Anyway, when I got home, I skipped my conversation with Suki. She didn’t look too put out, anyway. As I stepped into the shower, I noticed that Vicky had put up fresh towels. Beach towels. I thought, “Beach towels? For the shower?” And they weren’t just beach towels, they were really brightly stripped beach towels. I thought, “Either we really need to do laundry or Vicky is planning on having us join clown school.” One way or the other, I still had to take a shower.
Stepping out afterwards, it was like I’d forgotten all about the beach towels. I saw them and thought, “Oh, right. Beach towels.” It wasn’t until I started drying myself that I realized just what a fantastic idea this was. Beach towels! Suddenly, I felt like I was at the beach. Maybe Vicky was trying to hint that we should move to Jamaica? Either way, I was loving it. I thought, “I’ll just slip down to the water, lay down on a chair, get a little sun, and waste my day on the shore.” Then, I opened the bathroom door and was hit in the face by the fact that, while I was wasting my time planning my day at the beach, I still had to go to work. No Jamaica. No beach. Just a stupid towel. A towel of lies!
Great. Not only am I not going to the beach but I’ll be late for work!
So, I dash through the house, put on my slacks, grab my socks and shoes – so I’m pulling up socks on feet that aren’t entirely dry and the socks are resisting me. They don’t like wetness. They’re holding back. I’m saying, “Come on. You’ll get dry. I promise! Somewhere on the 91, you’ll be dry.” I pulled and pulled until I started thinking, “What would happen if I pulled so hard my foot went right through? Would that be possible?” It wasn’t… not that time, at least – and I race downstairs to heat up a burrito for, of course, breakfast. A burrito for breakfast, a yogurt and a fruit cup for lunch, and a chicken soft taco for dinner – and people say I don’t eat healthy.
Only then do I realize that the dog, my adorable Suki, is waiting at the door. I’ve got half a burrito in my mouth and my dog wants to go for a stroll. I can’t stroll; can’t she see that? I’ve got to RUN!
So, I take the dog out for a stroll. It’s now past 9:00am and I’m waiting while the dog sniffs where another dog peed. Great. We get back and I’m wolfing down my food when I notice Suki at her dish. She’s hungry. Of course. I say, “I’ll feed you as soon as I force down these last few bites.” When you’re in a rush, you don’t chew – you just push really hard. Then, I grabbed my lunchbox and my coat, ran out the door, got in my car, and drove off.
By the 91 freeway, my socks were dry – as promised.
But, of course, I forgot to feed Suki.
… um…. Vicky?
Normally, you see, I go into work at 6:30am. I wake up at 4:00am, go to the gym at 4:10am, hurt myself for the better part of an hour, and come back at 5:00am. Then, I shower and dress and pack my lunch and eat breakfast and head out by 6:00am, so I can get to work at 6:30am. This is craziness.
This morning, I thought I’d try going into work at 10:00am. This sounded more reasonable. Anyway, I had a meeting at 7:00pm near my place of employment for the Orange County Writers Who For As Good As We Are Can’t Seem For The Life of Us To Get Published At All In Any Way Period It’s Pathetic Really tonight anyway, so why not just go into work late and stick around for the meeting. You know, and hope I’m not the only one there… again…
There’s something just fantastic about letting your body wake up when it wants. If only my body thought the same thing.
It’s so used to waking up at 4:00am, it woke me up at that time. I looked at the clock. No… it’s only 4:00am. I can get a whole lot more sleep than this.
Then, at 5:00, it woke me again. No kidding – I don’t have to wake up. Go back to sleep.
At 6:00am, I was getting angry. Didn’t my body realize I was trying to let it sleep?
At 7:00am, Vicky woke me up. “You wanted to get up and go to the gym, right?”
Now, I try not to grumble. Mostly because Vicky corners the market on that and, you know, you don’t want to steal someone else’s material. Instead, I said, “Yes, of course,” and went back to sleep.
But, by 7:15am, I was up and out of bed.
I got to the gym by 7:45am. Now, I was already on the clock. I knew that I had to be at work at 10:00am, which meant I had to leave by, say, 9:15am. It takes me a half hour to get dressed, get my lunch packed, and eat something for breakfast. That “something” is very vague because, being out of milk as I am, it’s usually whatever I can pull out of the freezer or the pantry that doesn’t require the accompaniment of milk. I’m not picky. Frozen dinners are fine! Anyway, that puts me back to 8:45am. With about a half hour to shower, brush, etcetera – and etcetera usually includes a ten minute discussion with the dog about how my workout made my shirt stick to me and who wants to pull that over their heads? – I was now at 8:15. But that only gave me a half hour to work out! I get more time when I wake up at the asscrack of dawn!
So, I stretched it out. I worked out on the elliptical, the machine that makes you think you’re running like a superhero, for 40 minutes, and then I was on the bike for 15. Now, I don’t know how I did this but it was only about 8:30am when I was done. All I can figure is I did that thing where you slow down time by running really fast. The Flash did this once, I think – so it must have been the elliptical.
Anyway, when I got home, I skipped my conversation with Suki. She didn’t look too put out, anyway. As I stepped into the shower, I noticed that Vicky had put up fresh towels. Beach towels. I thought, “Beach towels? For the shower?” And they weren’t just beach towels, they were really brightly stripped beach towels. I thought, “Either we really need to do laundry or Vicky is planning on having us join clown school.” One way or the other, I still had to take a shower.
Stepping out afterwards, it was like I’d forgotten all about the beach towels. I saw them and thought, “Oh, right. Beach towels.” It wasn’t until I started drying myself that I realized just what a fantastic idea this was. Beach towels! Suddenly, I felt like I was at the beach. Maybe Vicky was trying to hint that we should move to Jamaica? Either way, I was loving it. I thought, “I’ll just slip down to the water, lay down on a chair, get a little sun, and waste my day on the shore.” Then, I opened the bathroom door and was hit in the face by the fact that, while I was wasting my time planning my day at the beach, I still had to go to work. No Jamaica. No beach. Just a stupid towel. A towel of lies!
Great. Not only am I not going to the beach but I’ll be late for work!
So, I dash through the house, put on my slacks, grab my socks and shoes – so I’m pulling up socks on feet that aren’t entirely dry and the socks are resisting me. They don’t like wetness. They’re holding back. I’m saying, “Come on. You’ll get dry. I promise! Somewhere on the 91, you’ll be dry.” I pulled and pulled until I started thinking, “What would happen if I pulled so hard my foot went right through? Would that be possible?” It wasn’t… not that time, at least – and I race downstairs to heat up a burrito for, of course, breakfast. A burrito for breakfast, a yogurt and a fruit cup for lunch, and a chicken soft taco for dinner – and people say I don’t eat healthy.
Only then do I realize that the dog, my adorable Suki, is waiting at the door. I’ve got half a burrito in my mouth and my dog wants to go for a stroll. I can’t stroll; can’t she see that? I’ve got to RUN!
So, I take the dog out for a stroll. It’s now past 9:00am and I’m waiting while the dog sniffs where another dog peed. Great. We get back and I’m wolfing down my food when I notice Suki at her dish. She’s hungry. Of course. I say, “I’ll feed you as soon as I force down these last few bites.” When you’re in a rush, you don’t chew – you just push really hard. Then, I grabbed my lunchbox and my coat, ran out the door, got in my car, and drove off.
By the 91 freeway, my socks were dry – as promised.
But, of course, I forgot to feed Suki.
… um…. Vicky?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Writers writing on writing writers…
So, here’s a conversation you don’t have at your house. “Honey, should I write a horror novel or a comedy?”
See? I told you.
You might hear people say, “You wanna watch a horror or a comedy,” I mean, sure, you know, that happens. And when you watch something together, you never have to worry about yawning. If Vicky yawned while we were watching a horror move or didn’t laugh at a comedy, I wouldn’t worry. In fact, I might yawn along with her. But, with a book, such would not be the case. “Was that a yawn? Are you yawning? Is it boring you? Maybe I should just throw the whole thing away.”
“Honey,” she’d say, “it’s two a.m. I’m just tired. That’s all.”
“If the book doesn’t keep you up, what good is it?!”
Vicky did not know what she was getting into when she married a writer.
And hey, I’d be happy to act. Don’t get me wrong. The thing is – and there’s always a thing. You could be in a sensory deprivation tank and there’d be a thing. Nowhere do you find something that’s featured as “THINGLESS” – I get to do a lot of writing in my off moments at work. No additional equipment is needed; I just think and type. To act, I’d need to set up a small stage in my office, find the appropriate play and seating would be a bitch. I’m not saying it couldn’t be done but I think there’s a chance someone might catch on.
See, here’s the thing – it’s a different thing, it’s raspberry flavored – I just got done telling Vicky how I think I’ve matured as a writer. I actually said to her that I’ve gotten good at picking my next project to work on and following it through to the end. Where I got that idea, I can’t tell you, but I’m sure it was on late-night TV because, let’s face it, it’s got everything.
I do have this horror novel idea. In fact, I wrote out a detailed outline over a year ago. And it’s good. I mean, we’re talking blockbuster. The problem, though, is that I already know how it ends. See, one of the key things about writing a book is that it helps if you, the writer, are interested. Me? I’ve seen this picture. I know the plot twists. Next film, please!
Then, there’s the comedy novel idea, which seems like a no-brainer to me – not that I’ve ever been fond of that saying. I mean, how can a phrase mean “that’s a smart idea” when you’re talking about people with no brains? Maybe because “giant-colossal-brainer” sounded lame? But all three of my plays were comedies and they did pretty well. I’ve been saving every punchline I’ve though of since Whatever Happened to Me – and I wrote that a year before I met Vicky! – so why wouldn’t I want to use them? Maybe it was Vicky’s response to the idea. Vicky, who has never laughed at one of my jokes, responded to the idea of me writing a comedy with, “Don’t ask me to read it.” And there’s the big fear. I mean, as a comedy writer, when nobody laughs you pretty much have to give up the title. Writers of love stories don’t have to worry so much. They can say, “Of course, you didn’t find it touching. You’re a slob.”
If I needed an example of just how fickle I can be – by which I mean pretty much the opposite of mature – last night, Vicky handed me a stack of papers. “Do you still want me to keep this?” she asked. The stack was the first chapter to a novel I had started about… well, to be honest, I haven’t a clue. But it was well written. I seemed to have some idea back then… “Hey,” I grunted from bed, “Why did I ever stop writing this?”
Vicky remembered it as, “Nobody said they absolutely loved it, which to you means they hated it.”
Touché. Two touchés.
And now, of course, I’m stuck.
But I realized this morning at the gym – at 4:00am how could you NOT realize something – that I so enjoyed writing Climbing Maya that I don’t really want to write another book. I want to keep writing that book. It’s like the first girl you try dating after breaking up. You’d like to enjoy her company but you know the only way that’s going to work is to pull out your wallet and say, “Listen, here’s a picture of my ex. Can you go in the washroom and try to look more like this, please. I’m sure you’re a fine human being but I’m kind of used to this.”
But just so you know, in the end, I stuck with the horror novel. It took a lot of deliberating but, in the end, it came down to the fact that I've been waiting over a year to write this book. It was in line first. That was the whole reason. If that's not like saying, "I'll marry the first biped who walks in this room," I don't know but, hopefully, the outcome will be slightly better...
See? I told you.
You might hear people say, “You wanna watch a horror or a comedy,” I mean, sure, you know, that happens. And when you watch something together, you never have to worry about yawning. If Vicky yawned while we were watching a horror move or didn’t laugh at a comedy, I wouldn’t worry. In fact, I might yawn along with her. But, with a book, such would not be the case. “Was that a yawn? Are you yawning? Is it boring you? Maybe I should just throw the whole thing away.”
“Honey,” she’d say, “it’s two a.m. I’m just tired. That’s all.”
“If the book doesn’t keep you up, what good is it?!”
Vicky did not know what she was getting into when she married a writer.
And hey, I’d be happy to act. Don’t get me wrong. The thing is – and there’s always a thing. You could be in a sensory deprivation tank and there’d be a thing. Nowhere do you find something that’s featured as “THINGLESS” – I get to do a lot of writing in my off moments at work. No additional equipment is needed; I just think and type. To act, I’d need to set up a small stage in my office, find the appropriate play and seating would be a bitch. I’m not saying it couldn’t be done but I think there’s a chance someone might catch on.
See, here’s the thing – it’s a different thing, it’s raspberry flavored – I just got done telling Vicky how I think I’ve matured as a writer. I actually said to her that I’ve gotten good at picking my next project to work on and following it through to the end. Where I got that idea, I can’t tell you, but I’m sure it was on late-night TV because, let’s face it, it’s got everything.
I do have this horror novel idea. In fact, I wrote out a detailed outline over a year ago. And it’s good. I mean, we’re talking blockbuster. The problem, though, is that I already know how it ends. See, one of the key things about writing a book is that it helps if you, the writer, are interested. Me? I’ve seen this picture. I know the plot twists. Next film, please!
Then, there’s the comedy novel idea, which seems like a no-brainer to me – not that I’ve ever been fond of that saying. I mean, how can a phrase mean “that’s a smart idea” when you’re talking about people with no brains? Maybe because “giant-colossal-brainer” sounded lame? But all three of my plays were comedies and they did pretty well. I’ve been saving every punchline I’ve though of since Whatever Happened to Me – and I wrote that a year before I met Vicky! – so why wouldn’t I want to use them? Maybe it was Vicky’s response to the idea. Vicky, who has never laughed at one of my jokes, responded to the idea of me writing a comedy with, “Don’t ask me to read it.” And there’s the big fear. I mean, as a comedy writer, when nobody laughs you pretty much have to give up the title. Writers of love stories don’t have to worry so much. They can say, “Of course, you didn’t find it touching. You’re a slob.”
If I needed an example of just how fickle I can be – by which I mean pretty much the opposite of mature – last night, Vicky handed me a stack of papers. “Do you still want me to keep this?” she asked. The stack was the first chapter to a novel I had started about… well, to be honest, I haven’t a clue. But it was well written. I seemed to have some idea back then… “Hey,” I grunted from bed, “Why did I ever stop writing this?”
Vicky remembered it as, “Nobody said they absolutely loved it, which to you means they hated it.”
Touché. Two touchés.
And now, of course, I’m stuck.
But I realized this morning at the gym – at 4:00am how could you NOT realize something – that I so enjoyed writing Climbing Maya that I don’t really want to write another book. I want to keep writing that book. It’s like the first girl you try dating after breaking up. You’d like to enjoy her company but you know the only way that’s going to work is to pull out your wallet and say, “Listen, here’s a picture of my ex. Can you go in the washroom and try to look more like this, please. I’m sure you’re a fine human being but I’m kind of used to this.”
But just so you know, in the end, I stuck with the horror novel. It took a lot of deliberating but, in the end, it came down to the fact that I've been waiting over a year to write this book. It was in line first. That was the whole reason. If that's not like saying, "I'll marry the first biped who walks in this room," I don't know but, hopefully, the outcome will be slightly better...
Monday, April 23, 2007
Bill Maher, "We're boned."...
Colony Collapse Disorder... in case you didn't think we were already totally boned.
VideoVets: John Bruhns...
For every nimrod who supports this criminal war, there are a bunch of videos on YouTube of vets who say otherwise.
(And to those who still support it, I suggest you go on over there yourself.)
It’s no illusion, Climbing Maya is finished…
I wrote the final chapter today. It takes place in the middle of the night in our bedroom. Vicky is dead asleep and I’m talking to her about the meaning of life. Vicky grumbles and tells me to shut up.
Who said this wasn't autobiographical?
So, I’ve finished the first draft of my thirteenth novel. Clocking in at 89,000 words, it’s a little shorter than I’d like but I’ll be adding and amending things during rewrites so anything could happen.
This book turned out to be far more ambitious than I ever thought it would be when I started. Back then, I thought I had an interesting book about people struggling with success. Now, I see that, all along, I had been aiming for the brass ring. You might call it the Philosophy of Empathy or Success Theory but it’s simple and profound and it works.
I’m very pleased.
Every book you write changes you a little bit, by which I mean every book I write changes me a little bit. When Cheryl read one of my earlier books, she said that she didn’t buy the story of hope because the writer was too damned cynical. You might say that, with Climbing Maya, I’ve grown out of my cynicism. Once you read this, any claim I might make to being a cynic just won’t hold water.
Looks like I might have to start acting like an adult.
But not right away.
Vicky and I are still sending With Eyes to See and No More Blue Roses to publishers and agents. After we’re done with those, we’ll need to start sending out Love of Your Life. However, once that one’s done, we can start sending out Climbing Maya. This is not a mass-market kind of book but I think those who do read it will agree it’s worth reading.
We’ll see.
Concrete slabs for breakfast…
Some of you might have heard about how Vicky and I went though a “steel-cut oats” craze recently. We made some home-made steel-cut oats on Sunday morning that were just insanely good. I think I shocked Vicky by how much I put away. They were just fantastic.
Well, we also bought some microwavable steel-cut oats… and it’s about these that I’d like to write today.
Concrete slabs.
That’s what they are. Concrete slabs. I nuked one this morning and I could lift it from its plastic bowl like a brick. Hmmmmm… oatmeal bricks! Then, I poured a little milk on it, added a bit of sugar, stirred it up, and had a cold, broken concrete slab.
Ugh.
I think I need Vicky to make some of her home-made oatmeal to get past this trauma…
Well, we also bought some microwavable steel-cut oats… and it’s about these that I’d like to write today.
Concrete slabs.
That’s what they are. Concrete slabs. I nuked one this morning and I could lift it from its plastic bowl like a brick. Hmmmmm… oatmeal bricks! Then, I poured a little milk on it, added a bit of sugar, stirred it up, and had a cold, broken concrete slab.
Ugh.
I think I need Vicky to make some of her home-made oatmeal to get past this trauma…
Saturday, April 21, 2007
What? Me act?…
Anything you read on April 3rd is patently untrue!
… you believe that, right?
See, back on April 3rd I wrote about an audition I’d be going to today… yeah, but times change, don’t they?
In the intervening few weeks, a few things have happened, though…
First of all, I received the “side” for the audition. (A “side” is the scene you’ll be acting in for the audition.) I’d say it stank but that would be an awful insult to stinky, well, anything. I mean, this script was so bad, even Vicky was telling me how awful it was – so I knew it wasn’t just me. It was all just so phoney and sappy and melodramatic – did I mention it’s a comedy? It just wasn’t funny, basically.
So, why would I audition?
Secondly, I’ve been working my ass off lately, finishing Climbing Maya. And, as soon as I’m done with that, I’m going to start my next book, a zombie horror story. And I had to ask myself, “Why do I feel the need to work myself to death: have a full-time job, write books, and do this audition?” Why couldn’t I cut myself some slack?
So, why would I audition?
Also, even if I was cast – and the odds of that between my age, my weight, and my day job that would have created a scheduling conflict – I wouldn’t actually be able to do it without losing my day job. The job I sought for so long. A job I actually like!
So, why would I audition?
So, this morning, I asked Vicky, “Would you drive all the way to Bakersfield to put your money in a bank where you weren’t sure if you’d get any interest?”
Of course, she answered, “No.”
But I keep thinking I need to do that! The only reason I can think of audition is because there’s the off chance of something else coming of it, some better (paying) opportunity, something that didn’t conflict so dramatically with the life I’m trying to have with Vicky. And that’s kind of stupid. I mean, I submit my books to agents and publishers in a very methodical way. I don’t just put my books places in the hopes of someone seeing them! (Considering the results thus far, don’t think it’s not tempting!)
Going to this audition in the hopes that I don’t get cast in it but that someone, working on something else that might work better in my schedule, decided to cast me in other project… it didn’t make sense.
So, I’m staying home today and I’m going to forget that awful script. I’m going to spend the day with my wife and enjoy myself.
Next time, I’ll wait until after I audition to even mention it!
… you believe that, right?
See, back on April 3rd I wrote about an audition I’d be going to today… yeah, but times change, don’t they?
In the intervening few weeks, a few things have happened, though…
First of all, I received the “side” for the audition. (A “side” is the scene you’ll be acting in for the audition.) I’d say it stank but that would be an awful insult to stinky, well, anything. I mean, this script was so bad, even Vicky was telling me how awful it was – so I knew it wasn’t just me. It was all just so phoney and sappy and melodramatic – did I mention it’s a comedy? It just wasn’t funny, basically.
So, why would I audition?
Secondly, I’ve been working my ass off lately, finishing Climbing Maya. And, as soon as I’m done with that, I’m going to start my next book, a zombie horror story. And I had to ask myself, “Why do I feel the need to work myself to death: have a full-time job, write books, and do this audition?” Why couldn’t I cut myself some slack?
So, why would I audition?
Also, even if I was cast – and the odds of that between my age, my weight, and my day job that would have created a scheduling conflict – I wouldn’t actually be able to do it without losing my day job. The job I sought for so long. A job I actually like!
So, why would I audition?
So, this morning, I asked Vicky, “Would you drive all the way to Bakersfield to put your money in a bank where you weren’t sure if you’d get any interest?”
Of course, she answered, “No.”
But I keep thinking I need to do that! The only reason I can think of audition is because there’s the off chance of something else coming of it, some better (paying) opportunity, something that didn’t conflict so dramatically with the life I’m trying to have with Vicky. And that’s kind of stupid. I mean, I submit my books to agents and publishers in a very methodical way. I don’t just put my books places in the hopes of someone seeing them! (Considering the results thus far, don’t think it’s not tempting!)
Going to this audition in the hopes that I don’t get cast in it but that someone, working on something else that might work better in my schedule, decided to cast me in other project… it didn’t make sense.
So, I’m staying home today and I’m going to forget that awful script. I’m going to spend the day with my wife and enjoy myself.
Next time, I’ll wait until after I audition to even mention it!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Completely Imaginary news you might have missed...
Okay, so the Pope issed a statement today saying that unbaptized babies needn't worry about getting into heaven.
Yeah...
One of the most power men in the world spent his day commenting on the imaginary state of an imaginary afterlife of people no longer living...
Let's see... there's the worsening environment, attrocities being committed by the US in Iraq, horrifying policies against birth control by the Catholic church that stop people from even having a chance at preventing the spread of AIDS...
I guess he just had nothing better to do with his time...
Yeah...
One of the most power men in the world spent his day commenting on the imaginary state of an imaginary afterlife of people no longer living...
Let's see... there's the worsening environment, attrocities being committed by the US in Iraq, horrifying policies against birth control by the Catholic church that stop people from even having a chance at preventing the spread of AIDS...
I guess he just had nothing better to do with his time...
Thursday, April 19, 2007
And the name of the 13th novel is…
Climbing Maya
No, Maya is not a reference to a girl. Actually, it’s a reference to the Hindu concept that refers to illusion, specifically the illusion of this world.
So, how do you climb it?
And what does that have to do with success?
Ah, but that would be telling!
By the way, I’ve reached the 80,000 word mark so I’m closing in on an ending. Any day now. I might have told you that this book is autobiographical but even I didn’t realize how much so when I started. This could easily be a sequel to A Grand Canyon, the book about how I lost Rosa and gained Vicky, though that book has yet to be published.
I’m really looking forward to getting this wrapped up, completing the rewrites (you know, after I start them), and getting this book out. If I had to make an early estimate, and I will, I’d say this is easily my best work since Vampire Society… five books ago!
No, Maya is not a reference to a girl. Actually, it’s a reference to the Hindu concept that refers to illusion, specifically the illusion of this world.
So, how do you climb it?
And what does that have to do with success?
Ah, but that would be telling!
By the way, I’ve reached the 80,000 word mark so I’m closing in on an ending. Any day now. I might have told you that this book is autobiographical but even I didn’t realize how much so when I started. This could easily be a sequel to A Grand Canyon, the book about how I lost Rosa and gained Vicky, though that book has yet to be published.
I’m really looking forward to getting this wrapped up, completing the rewrites (you know, after I start them), and getting this book out. If I had to make an early estimate, and I will, I’d say this is easily my best work since Vampire Society… five books ago!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Heroes--Zeroes AND DON'T MISS 'ZEROES 2' JUST ADDED
Vicky and I LUV HEROES...
... I can't tell you what this is about...
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I’m sick of shock…
You allow a war-manic man from a war-happy party to take the office of president, and then behave shocked that he’s gotten us into this lunatic war…
You tune in by the millions to men who are specifically there to shock you – in fact, they are called “shock jocks”, and then behave shocked when one calls some ladies “nappie-headed ho’s” and shocks you…
You create a market in which machines of death are mass produced and sold at LOW, LOW PRICES, and then behave shocked when someone uses them in the manner for which they are intended…
You didn’t just get dropped onto this planet, you know. It’s your responsibility to see that things aren’t totally fucked up. Stop acting like you didn’t know about all this.
Next person who acts shocked – I’m slapping them.
You tune in by the millions to men who are specifically there to shock you – in fact, they are called “shock jocks”, and then behave shocked when one calls some ladies “nappie-headed ho’s” and shocks you…
You create a market in which machines of death are mass produced and sold at LOW, LOW PRICES, and then behave shocked when someone uses them in the manner for which they are intended…
You didn’t just get dropped onto this planet, you know. It’s your responsibility to see that things aren’t totally fucked up. Stop acting like you didn’t know about all this.
Next person who acts shocked – I’m slapping them.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Vicky’s Birthday – What Did and Did Not happen…
“Thank you so much for joining us tonight.” Who is this strange man, I wondered, and why is he shaking my hand. Vicky and I were leaving La Vie En Rose.
… but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
This all started three weeks ago.
Actually, it started earlier.
As soon as I got hired, I knew I wanted to get Vicky something great for her birthday. But I had no idea what to get. She wanted a purse but… come on. In fact, the response (when I polled her friends) was a nearly unanimous “… come on!” That wasn’t going to happen. Vicky has more purses than she knows what to do with! And I’m tired of buying my wife stuff.
Let me rephrase. I’m tired of helping her acquire a bunch of useless shit that she doesn’t need. In fact, once I realized that it became much easier to shop for her birthday. Last year, I got her into a racing car (with Trish and Billie’s help). This year, I decided I’d get her a nice massage and a day at a spa.
… but… um… where?
The only spa I knew of was Burke Williams at The Block in Orange. So… I found the place!
Then, while driving home one day, we passed by La Vie En Rose, and Vicky said, “I’ve never been there. I’ve always wanted to go.” She didn’t realize I was still looking for a place to take her for dinner. So… I found the place!
The week that followed was a nightmare. I was on the phone non-stop with Burke Williams, as they changed the plans for Vicky’s day daily, making me have to change reservations with La Vie En Rose – daily! Finally, after more than a week passed, I’d had it! They had screwed up the schedule. They had screwed with my patience. They had even screwed up my credit card, causing my bank to think someone had stolen it – yep, another nightmare! I was done!
… and I rescheduled my reservations at La Vie En Rose… again. The woman on the phone knew I was trying to arrange a day for my wife though and, anyway, she said, “My boyfriend’s name is Ken. I like Kens.”
So, I told Vicky that we’d only be doing dinner – though I didn’t say where.
Which still left me without a gift.
I even tried putting a day together for her at Burke Williams online – no luck there, either!
But we live in southern California, a hedonist’s paradise! I could just make reservations at another spa… right….?
Ugh! More headaches!
Finally, I thought, “I should just pick Vicky’s favorite place!” So, I called Trish and asked her, “What’s Vicky’s favorite spa?”
And Trish said, “Burke Williams.”
Ugh.
But one problem I’d been having with putting together a whole day for Vicky was that she would be spending the whole day by herself, and she’d have nobody to share it with. Then, Trish mentioned that she’d been given a gift certificate. DING! IDEA!
So, I drove to the Burke Williams location and went inside.
Now, just to paint you the picture, there are three registers as you enter. On both sides, the walls are lined with “product”. On either side of the double-doors leading in, there’s a chair.
The woman at the far left register said to me, “Oh, just take a seat, sir. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Okay, no problem. I sat down.
I saw her finish helping the people she was with… and start helping someone else.
That was it! I had had it! I got up, fuming, turned to leave, and heard, “Sir? I can help you?”
It was the woman to the far right…. If she hadn’t been so cute… anyway, I still had to get Vicky a present. So, I told her everything I’d been through and she apologized. Then, she looked up my name in her computer… and saw page after page of notes and how many times things had been screwed up. And then, she really apologized.
And she gave me a freebee to give to Vicky, in addition to the gift certificate I bought her.
I told Vicky that I’m done with surprises for a while. Next time, I’ll talk to Vicky and see what she wants. (NO PURSES!)
Thankfully, her surprise dinner went off without a hitch.
I asked Vicky to be ready at 6:15, although our reservations weren’t until 7:00, because that usually meant she’d be ready by 6:40… but she was ready at 6:15! Miracle of miracles!!!
I was a little worried about arriving at the restaurant early, but I figured we could drink until the table was ready.
It was ready when we arrived at 6:30, a lovely table in an alcove. Now, I knew the place would cost a small fortune but I wanted to give Vicky a lovely dinner. We had steamed mussels, and soup (lobster bisque for her, French onion for me), and beef tenderloin in black truffle sauce (me) and roasted lamb (Vicky). We drank champagne and an absolutely wonderful French pinot noir. For dessert, Vicky was given a lovely, little birthday pastry and we shared a Grand Marnier soufflé, and we ended the night with cappuccinos.
I only wished we could have gone dancing or something. Instead, we went home and shared a little bottle of Muscat. (That turned out to taste like ass… you can’t win ‘em all…)
… but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
This all started three weeks ago.
Actually, it started earlier.
As soon as I got hired, I knew I wanted to get Vicky something great for her birthday. But I had no idea what to get. She wanted a purse but… come on. In fact, the response (when I polled her friends) was a nearly unanimous “… come on!” That wasn’t going to happen. Vicky has more purses than she knows what to do with! And I’m tired of buying my wife stuff.
Let me rephrase. I’m tired of helping her acquire a bunch of useless shit that she doesn’t need. In fact, once I realized that it became much easier to shop for her birthday. Last year, I got her into a racing car (with Trish and Billie’s help). This year, I decided I’d get her a nice massage and a day at a spa.
… but… um… where?
The only spa I knew of was Burke Williams at The Block in Orange. So… I found the place!
Then, while driving home one day, we passed by La Vie En Rose, and Vicky said, “I’ve never been there. I’ve always wanted to go.” She didn’t realize I was still looking for a place to take her for dinner. So… I found the place!
The week that followed was a nightmare. I was on the phone non-stop with Burke Williams, as they changed the plans for Vicky’s day daily, making me have to change reservations with La Vie En Rose – daily! Finally, after more than a week passed, I’d had it! They had screwed up the schedule. They had screwed with my patience. They had even screwed up my credit card, causing my bank to think someone had stolen it – yep, another nightmare! I was done!
… and I rescheduled my reservations at La Vie En Rose… again. The woman on the phone knew I was trying to arrange a day for my wife though and, anyway, she said, “My boyfriend’s name is Ken. I like Kens.”
So, I told Vicky that we’d only be doing dinner – though I didn’t say where.
Which still left me without a gift.
I even tried putting a day together for her at Burke Williams online – no luck there, either!
But we live in southern California, a hedonist’s paradise! I could just make reservations at another spa… right….?
Ugh! More headaches!
Finally, I thought, “I should just pick Vicky’s favorite place!” So, I called Trish and asked her, “What’s Vicky’s favorite spa?”
And Trish said, “Burke Williams.”
Ugh.
But one problem I’d been having with putting together a whole day for Vicky was that she would be spending the whole day by herself, and she’d have nobody to share it with. Then, Trish mentioned that she’d been given a gift certificate. DING! IDEA!
So, I drove to the Burke Williams location and went inside.
Now, just to paint you the picture, there are three registers as you enter. On both sides, the walls are lined with “product”. On either side of the double-doors leading in, there’s a chair.
The woman at the far left register said to me, “Oh, just take a seat, sir. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Okay, no problem. I sat down.
I saw her finish helping the people she was with… and start helping someone else.
That was it! I had had it! I got up, fuming, turned to leave, and heard, “Sir? I can help you?”
It was the woman to the far right…. If she hadn’t been so cute… anyway, I still had to get Vicky a present. So, I told her everything I’d been through and she apologized. Then, she looked up my name in her computer… and saw page after page of notes and how many times things had been screwed up. And then, she really apologized.
And she gave me a freebee to give to Vicky, in addition to the gift certificate I bought her.
I told Vicky that I’m done with surprises for a while. Next time, I’ll talk to Vicky and see what she wants. (NO PURSES!)
Thankfully, her surprise dinner went off without a hitch.
I asked Vicky to be ready at 6:15, although our reservations weren’t until 7:00, because that usually meant she’d be ready by 6:40… but she was ready at 6:15! Miracle of miracles!!!
I was a little worried about arriving at the restaurant early, but I figured we could drink until the table was ready.
It was ready when we arrived at 6:30, a lovely table in an alcove. Now, I knew the place would cost a small fortune but I wanted to give Vicky a lovely dinner. We had steamed mussels, and soup (lobster bisque for her, French onion for me), and beef tenderloin in black truffle sauce (me) and roasted lamb (Vicky). We drank champagne and an absolutely wonderful French pinot noir. For dessert, Vicky was given a lovely, little birthday pastry and we shared a Grand Marnier soufflé, and we ended the night with cappuccinos.
I only wished we could have gone dancing or something. Instead, we went home and shared a little bottle of Muscat. (That turned out to taste like ass… you can’t win ‘em all…)
Post-Birthday...
It's official now...I'm old. Or at least older. I can hardly believe that I am the age that I am. I certainly don't feel my age, and I guess that is what matters. Well, how I feel and how old I look. And I know I don't look my age.
So, Friday night Ken and I went out with Jeff and Gail. Jeff took us all out to Claim Jumper for dinner. Jeff and I have a tradition of going to Claim Jumper nearly every year for the past 7 years for our birthdays. Jeff gave me a beautiful orchid plant and Gail gave me some cute little trinkets. Oh and a pink princess crown to wear for the evening. You know I wore it with pride.
Saturday, Ken took me out for an amazing dinner at La Vie En Rose. The food and atmosphere were spectacular. Then he told me his story of trying to get me a gift. He wanted to give me a day at Burke Williams, but things just weren't working right. So, he got me a gift certificate for Burke Williams and I will get to enjoy a day at the spa.
I am so lucky to have a husband that is so incredibly wonderful to me (and yes I know that I'm spoiled).
So, here I am a year older, a year wiser and a lifetime happier. I love you very much honey pie.
So, Friday night Ken and I went out with Jeff and Gail. Jeff took us all out to Claim Jumper for dinner. Jeff and I have a tradition of going to Claim Jumper nearly every year for the past 7 years for our birthdays. Jeff gave me a beautiful orchid plant and Gail gave me some cute little trinkets. Oh and a pink princess crown to wear for the evening. You know I wore it with pride.
Saturday, Ken took me out for an amazing dinner at La Vie En Rose. The food and atmosphere were spectacular. Then he told me his story of trying to get me a gift. He wanted to give me a day at Burke Williams, but things just weren't working right. So, he got me a gift certificate for Burke Williams and I will get to enjoy a day at the spa.
I am so lucky to have a husband that is so incredibly wonderful to me (and yes I know that I'm spoiled).
So, here I am a year older, a year wiser and a lifetime happier. I love you very much honey pie.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Happy Birthday, Vicky!
Today is the day.
Today is the day we celebrate the birth of Vicky.
It’s the Vicky’s birthday season. You might say that Vicky is the reason for the season.
… sorry. I’ve been writing so much lately my brain is mush. I just finished writing a lot about Christianity and now I’m writing about Vicky’s birthday… somehow, I combined Vicky’s birthday with Jesus’ birthday.
Merry Vicmas!
What?!
Vicky was born on this day in 1969, missing Woodstock by so much she doesn’t even know what it is. She graduated from high school at 18 years of age in 1988. In 1998, she turned 20, which somehow makes her 29 today… I don’t know how.
Her parents are Steve and Noriko, two people who, in 1968 at least, were fucking like bunnies. Vicky was born in 1969… and they didn’t have sex again for nearly a decade.
Vicky’s brother, Mike, is a Highway Patrol officer. He’s the only one in California who actually beats up cars.
Vicky’s dog, Suki, actually pre-dates me, when she dates me at all. (I’m sure you’ve been out with your share of dogs!) Vicky’s her favorite, though… although “why” is increasingly unfathomable. Vicky refuses to just give Suki a treat. Suki must sit, speak, beg, shake, make margaritas, clean the porch, and quote Proust before she gets her treat. And that’s not the weird part. Vicky insists on sniffing Suki’s toes and Suki sniffs and LICKS Vicky’s. They’re a strange duo.
And then, there’s the cats. Harley tries to french kiss Vicky. Othello screams at any opportunity, which Vicky contends is his way of saying “Hi.” If he were bleeding from both eyes, like red fountains, I’m sure she’d say, “He likes you.” Alacrity is learning. He stays far, far away from Vicky. He knows she’s crazy and he’s not afraid to, well, act afraid of her.
Finally, there’s me. The husband. I knew before I married her that she considered herself a “princess”… but I thought she was kidding. No. So, in addition to her regular manicure appointments, there’s the hired help: the pillow-fluffer, the tiara-polisher, and the keeper of the royal robe. Oh wait. No, that’s my robe. Vicky insists that I keep it inside of a closet and never bring it out because it might get cat hair on it… it was nice having a bathrobe, once.
But I was going to mention me. The husband. Only recently did I realize that I married a redneck. She watches NASCAR, eats pork rinds, and possesses not the least of desires to watch Ingmar Bergman. But I understand that. It’s my lot. She prefers the Rolling Stones and I prefer the Beatles. Granted, she doesn’t even know who the Beatles were… and I only base the supposition that she would prefer the Rolling Stones on two things: a) she prefers hard rock and b) she can’t wait to see the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
But I was going to mention me. The husband. Wasn’t I?
… I guess there’s no hiding it. I’m crazy about this redneck princess, something I never thought would happen in my life. I hope to grow very, very old with her so she can annoy me until I’m in my 90’s and she’s 40… or 50!
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.
And, no. You don’t get your present until tomorrow.
(Doesn’t make it more of a “future” than a “present”?)
Today is the day we celebrate the birth of Vicky.
It’s the Vicky’s birthday season. You might say that Vicky is the reason for the season.
… sorry. I’ve been writing so much lately my brain is mush. I just finished writing a lot about Christianity and now I’m writing about Vicky’s birthday… somehow, I combined Vicky’s birthday with Jesus’ birthday.
Merry Vicmas!
What?!
Vicky was born on this day in 1969, missing Woodstock by so much she doesn’t even know what it is. She graduated from high school at 18 years of age in 1988. In 1998, she turned 20, which somehow makes her 29 today… I don’t know how.
Her parents are Steve and Noriko, two people who, in 1968 at least, were fucking like bunnies. Vicky was born in 1969… and they didn’t have sex again for nearly a decade.
Vicky’s brother, Mike, is a Highway Patrol officer. He’s the only one in California who actually beats up cars.
Vicky’s dog, Suki, actually pre-dates me, when she dates me at all. (I’m sure you’ve been out with your share of dogs!) Vicky’s her favorite, though… although “why” is increasingly unfathomable. Vicky refuses to just give Suki a treat. Suki must sit, speak, beg, shake, make margaritas, clean the porch, and quote Proust before she gets her treat. And that’s not the weird part. Vicky insists on sniffing Suki’s toes and Suki sniffs and LICKS Vicky’s. They’re a strange duo.
And then, there’s the cats. Harley tries to french kiss Vicky. Othello screams at any opportunity, which Vicky contends is his way of saying “Hi.” If he were bleeding from both eyes, like red fountains, I’m sure she’d say, “He likes you.” Alacrity is learning. He stays far, far away from Vicky. He knows she’s crazy and he’s not afraid to, well, act afraid of her.
Finally, there’s me. The husband. I knew before I married her that she considered herself a “princess”… but I thought she was kidding. No. So, in addition to her regular manicure appointments, there’s the hired help: the pillow-fluffer, the tiara-polisher, and the keeper of the royal robe. Oh wait. No, that’s my robe. Vicky insists that I keep it inside of a closet and never bring it out because it might get cat hair on it… it was nice having a bathrobe, once.
But I was going to mention me. The husband. Only recently did I realize that I married a redneck. She watches NASCAR, eats pork rinds, and possesses not the least of desires to watch Ingmar Bergman. But I understand that. It’s my lot. She prefers the Rolling Stones and I prefer the Beatles. Granted, she doesn’t even know who the Beatles were… and I only base the supposition that she would prefer the Rolling Stones on two things: a) she prefers hard rock and b) she can’t wait to see the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
But I was going to mention me. The husband. Wasn’t I?
… I guess there’s no hiding it. I’m crazy about this redneck princess, something I never thought would happen in my life. I hope to grow very, very old with her so she can annoy me until I’m in my 90’s and she’s 40… or 50!
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.
And, no. You don’t get your present until tomorrow.
(Doesn’t make it more of a “future” than a “present”?)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Half of Success…
Many have wait. Some have worried. Most have forgotten.
…
I reached the halfway mark in the novel about success this week. During my stretch of unemployment, I was writing less and less, being stressed about finding a job, and I honest didn’t think I’d get here. But, here I am, and it looks like getting to the finish is inevitable.
You’ll pardon me if I tell you it’s a daunting task. People have only been trying to figure out things like success for a couple thousand years! Now, here I come along, a writer with an Associates degree and very little success of his own, to tell you just what it is.
Keep in mind that the novel answers what success is, not how to find it. As I told Vicky, it answers what and why (as in, Why is this important?), not how. But I’m hoping it will be my own how (as in, How long until I get published?).
In the process of writing this book, I’ve made a lot of amazing discoveries. They were for me, at least, and I’m hoping they will be slightly as amazing for the reader. For instance, my definition of success has changed twice more since I last posted it here. (What? Tell you what it is? No, no! I’m hoping you’ll want to know so much you’ll buy the book!)
The only real disappointment has been my own timidity in the book towards discussing philosophy. I’m tending to whip by those sections pretty quickly! But then, maybe the reader will appreciate that.
So, now I enter the home stretch and it’s a bit depressing to have to go there. And I’m not referring to the book being behind me at that point, though that too will be somewhat sad. No, I refer to the content of the last pages. (Which is 45,000 words worth, if you’re wondering.) The second half of the book covers the last time I saw Tim, and the last time I saw Megan, and it’s hard to me to talk about losing them. It seems to cement things. But it’s important to move on, and so I do.
Anyway, I told Vicky that my next book will be filled with sex and violence!
…
I reached the halfway mark in the novel about success this week. During my stretch of unemployment, I was writing less and less, being stressed about finding a job, and I honest didn’t think I’d get here. But, here I am, and it looks like getting to the finish is inevitable.
You’ll pardon me if I tell you it’s a daunting task. People have only been trying to figure out things like success for a couple thousand years! Now, here I come along, a writer with an Associates degree and very little success of his own, to tell you just what it is.
Keep in mind that the novel answers what success is, not how to find it. As I told Vicky, it answers what and why (as in, Why is this important?), not how. But I’m hoping it will be my own how (as in, How long until I get published?).
In the process of writing this book, I’ve made a lot of amazing discoveries. They were for me, at least, and I’m hoping they will be slightly as amazing for the reader. For instance, my definition of success has changed twice more since I last posted it here. (What? Tell you what it is? No, no! I’m hoping you’ll want to know so much you’ll buy the book!)
The only real disappointment has been my own timidity in the book towards discussing philosophy. I’m tending to whip by those sections pretty quickly! But then, maybe the reader will appreciate that.
So, now I enter the home stretch and it’s a bit depressing to have to go there. And I’m not referring to the book being behind me at that point, though that too will be somewhat sad. No, I refer to the content of the last pages. (Which is 45,000 words worth, if you’re wondering.) The second half of the book covers the last time I saw Tim, and the last time I saw Megan, and it’s hard to me to talk about losing them. It seems to cement things. But it’s important to move on, and so I do.
Anyway, I told Vicky that my next book will be filled with sex and violence!
Monday, April 09, 2007
Do you know it's Vicky's Birthday Week, after all???...
Yes, that's right! My honey, Vicky, has a birthday this week!
(It's actually on Friday the 13th... but let's forget about that collision... perhaps I shouldn't say "collision"...)
I have the perfect gift ready and waiting on Saturday... but she'll just have to wait!
(You will, too. But, don't worry. I'll let you know on Sunday.)
(It's actually on Friday the 13th... but let's forget about that collision... perhaps I shouldn't say "collision"...)
I have the perfect gift ready and waiting on Saturday... but she'll just have to wait!
(You will, too. But, don't worry. I'll let you know on Sunday.)
Answer me this: A tough segment for tough questions on tough issues...
Answer me this...
Why don't they have chewable vitamins for adults?
... in gummy bear flavors?
Why don't they have chewable vitamins for adults?
... in gummy bear flavors?
Sunday, April 08, 2007
From the "I wish I said it" department...
There's a reason why I'm Just Saying is one of my favorite blogs and should be yours as well. Take a look at what was posted today...
JOHN McCAIN’S April Fools’ Day stroll through Baghdad’s Shorja market last weekend was instantly acclaimed as a classic political pratfall. Protected by more than a hundred American soldiers, three Black Hawk helicopters, two Apache gunships and a bulletproof vest, the senator extolled the “progress” and “good news” in Iraq. Befitting this loopy brand of comedy — reminiscent of “Wedding Crashers,” in which Mr. McCain gamely made a cameo appearance — the star had a crackerjack cast of supporting buffoons: Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, who told reporters “I bought five rugs for five bucks!,” and Representative Mike Pence of Indiana, who likened the scene to “a normal outdoor market in Indiana in the summertime.”
Five rugs for five bucks: boy, we’ve really got that Iraq economy up and running now! No wonder the McCain show was quickly dubbed “McCain’s Mission Accomplished” and “McCain’s Dukakis-in-the-Tank Photo Op.” But at a certain point the laughter curdled. Reporters rudely pointed out there were 60-plus casualties in this market from one February attack alone and that six Americans were killed in the Baghdad environs on the day of his visit. “Your heart goes out to just the typical Iraqi because they can’t have that kind of entourage,” said Kyra Phillips of CNN. The day after Mr. McCain’s stroll, The Times of London reported that 21 of the Shorja market’s merchants and workers were ambushed and murdered.
The political press has stepped up its sotto voce deathwatch on the McCain presidential campaign ever since, a drumbeat enhanced by last week’s announcement of Mr. McCain’s third-place finish in the Republican field’s fund-raising sweepstakes. (He is scheduled to restate his commitment to the race on “60 Minutes” tonight.) But his campaign was sagging well before he went to Baghdad. In retrospect, his disastrous trip may be less significant as yet another downturn in a faltering presidential candidacy than as a turning point in hastening the inevitable American exit from Iraq.
Mr. McCain is no Michael Dukakis. Unlike the 1988 Democratic standard-bearer, who was trying to counter accusations that he was weak on national defense, the Arizona senator has more military cred than any current presidential aspirant, let alone the current president. Every American knows that Mr. McCain is a genuine hero who survived torture during more than five years of captivity at the Hanoi Hilton. That’s why when he squandered that credibility on an embarrassing propaganda stunt, he didn’t hurt only himself but also inflicted collateral damage on lesser Washington mortals who still claim that the “surge” can bring “victory” in Iraq.
It can’t be lost on those dwindling die-hards, particularly those on the 2008 ballot, that if defending the indefensible can reduce even a politician of Mr. McCain’s heroic stature to that of Dukakis-in-the-tank, they have nowhere to go but down. They’ll cut and run soon enough. For starters, just watch as Mr. McCain’s G.O.P. presidential rivals add more caveats to their support for the administration’s Iraq policy. Already, in a Tuesday interview on “Good Morning America,” Mitt Romney inched toward concrete “timetables and milestones” for Iraq, with the nonsensical proviso they shouldn’t be published “for the enemy.”
As if to confirm we’re in the last throes, President Bush threw any remaining caution to the winds during his news conference in the Rose Garden that same morning. Almost everything he said was patently misleading or an outright lie, a sure sign of a leader so entombed in his bunker (he couldn’t even emerge for the Washington Nationals’ ceremonial first pitch last week) that he feels he has nothing left to lose.
Incredibly, he chided his adversaries on the Hill for going on vacation just as he was heading off for his own vacation in Crawford. Then he attacked Congress for taking 57 days to “pass emergency funds for our troops” even though the previous, Republican-led Congress took 119 days on the same bill in 2006. He ridiculed the House bill for “pork and other spending that has nothing to do with the war,” though last year’s war-spending bill was also larded with unrelated pork, from Congressional efforts to add agricultural subsidies to the president’s own request for money for bird-flu preparation.
Mr. Bush’s claim that military equipment would be shortchanged if he couldn’t sign a spending bill by mid-April was contradicted by not one but two government agencies. A Government Accountability Office report faulted poor Pentagon planning for endemic existing equipment shortages in the National Guard. The Congressional Research Service found that the Pentagon could pay for the war until well into July. Since by that point we’ll already be on the threshold of our own commanders’ late-summer deadline for judging the surge, what’s the crisis?
The president then ratcheted up his habitual exploitation of the suffering of the troops and their families — a button he had pushed five days earlier when making his six-weeks-tardy visit to pose for photos at scandal-ridden Walter Reed. “Congress’s failure to fund our troops on the front lines will mean that some of our military families could wait longer for their loved ones to return from the front lines,” he said. “And others could see their loved ones headed back to the war sooner than they need to.”
His own failures had already foreordained exactly these grim results. Only the day before this news conference, the Pentagon said that the first unit tossed into the Baghdad surge would stay in Iraq a full year rather than the expected nine months, and that three other units had been ordered back there without the usual yearlong stay at home. By week’s end, we would learn the story of the suspected friendly-fire death of 18-year-old Pvt. Matthew Zeimer, just two hours after assuming his first combat post. He had been among those who had been shipped to war with a vastly stripped-down training regimen, 10 days instead of four weeks, forced by the relentless need for new troops in Iraq.
You can finish the article here.
JOHN McCAIN’S April Fools’ Day stroll through Baghdad’s Shorja market last weekend was instantly acclaimed as a classic political pratfall. Protected by more than a hundred American soldiers, three Black Hawk helicopters, two Apache gunships and a bulletproof vest, the senator extolled the “progress” and “good news” in Iraq. Befitting this loopy brand of comedy — reminiscent of “Wedding Crashers,” in which Mr. McCain gamely made a cameo appearance — the star had a crackerjack cast of supporting buffoons: Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, who told reporters “I bought five rugs for five bucks!,” and Representative Mike Pence of Indiana, who likened the scene to “a normal outdoor market in Indiana in the summertime.”
Five rugs for five bucks: boy, we’ve really got that Iraq economy up and running now! No wonder the McCain show was quickly dubbed “McCain’s Mission Accomplished” and “McCain’s Dukakis-in-the-Tank Photo Op.” But at a certain point the laughter curdled. Reporters rudely pointed out there were 60-plus casualties in this market from one February attack alone and that six Americans were killed in the Baghdad environs on the day of his visit. “Your heart goes out to just the typical Iraqi because they can’t have that kind of entourage,” said Kyra Phillips of CNN. The day after Mr. McCain’s stroll, The Times of London reported that 21 of the Shorja market’s merchants and workers were ambushed and murdered.
The political press has stepped up its sotto voce deathwatch on the McCain presidential campaign ever since, a drumbeat enhanced by last week’s announcement of Mr. McCain’s third-place finish in the Republican field’s fund-raising sweepstakes. (He is scheduled to restate his commitment to the race on “60 Minutes” tonight.) But his campaign was sagging well before he went to Baghdad. In retrospect, his disastrous trip may be less significant as yet another downturn in a faltering presidential candidacy than as a turning point in hastening the inevitable American exit from Iraq.
Mr. McCain is no Michael Dukakis. Unlike the 1988 Democratic standard-bearer, who was trying to counter accusations that he was weak on national defense, the Arizona senator has more military cred than any current presidential aspirant, let alone the current president. Every American knows that Mr. McCain is a genuine hero who survived torture during more than five years of captivity at the Hanoi Hilton. That’s why when he squandered that credibility on an embarrassing propaganda stunt, he didn’t hurt only himself but also inflicted collateral damage on lesser Washington mortals who still claim that the “surge” can bring “victory” in Iraq.
It can’t be lost on those dwindling die-hards, particularly those on the 2008 ballot, that if defending the indefensible can reduce even a politician of Mr. McCain’s heroic stature to that of Dukakis-in-the-tank, they have nowhere to go but down. They’ll cut and run soon enough. For starters, just watch as Mr. McCain’s G.O.P. presidential rivals add more caveats to their support for the administration’s Iraq policy. Already, in a Tuesday interview on “Good Morning America,” Mitt Romney inched toward concrete “timetables and milestones” for Iraq, with the nonsensical proviso they shouldn’t be published “for the enemy.”
As if to confirm we’re in the last throes, President Bush threw any remaining caution to the winds during his news conference in the Rose Garden that same morning. Almost everything he said was patently misleading or an outright lie, a sure sign of a leader so entombed in his bunker (he couldn’t even emerge for the Washington Nationals’ ceremonial first pitch last week) that he feels he has nothing left to lose.
Incredibly, he chided his adversaries on the Hill for going on vacation just as he was heading off for his own vacation in Crawford. Then he attacked Congress for taking 57 days to “pass emergency funds for our troops” even though the previous, Republican-led Congress took 119 days on the same bill in 2006. He ridiculed the House bill for “pork and other spending that has nothing to do with the war,” though last year’s war-spending bill was also larded with unrelated pork, from Congressional efforts to add agricultural subsidies to the president’s own request for money for bird-flu preparation.
Mr. Bush’s claim that military equipment would be shortchanged if he couldn’t sign a spending bill by mid-April was contradicted by not one but two government agencies. A Government Accountability Office report faulted poor Pentagon planning for endemic existing equipment shortages in the National Guard. The Congressional Research Service found that the Pentagon could pay for the war until well into July. Since by that point we’ll already be on the threshold of our own commanders’ late-summer deadline for judging the surge, what’s the crisis?
The president then ratcheted up his habitual exploitation of the suffering of the troops and their families — a button he had pushed five days earlier when making his six-weeks-tardy visit to pose for photos at scandal-ridden Walter Reed. “Congress’s failure to fund our troops on the front lines will mean that some of our military families could wait longer for their loved ones to return from the front lines,” he said. “And others could see their loved ones headed back to the war sooner than they need to.”
His own failures had already foreordained exactly these grim results. Only the day before this news conference, the Pentagon said that the first unit tossed into the Baghdad surge would stay in Iraq a full year rather than the expected nine months, and that three other units had been ordered back there without the usual yearlong stay at home. By week’s end, we would learn the story of the suspected friendly-fire death of 18-year-old Pvt. Matthew Zeimer, just two hours after assuming his first combat post. He had been among those who had been shipped to war with a vastly stripped-down training regimen, 10 days instead of four weeks, forced by the relentless need for new troops in Iraq.
You can finish the article here.
Why we don’t support Wal-Mart…
Vicky and I have never been big supporters of Wal-Mart.
Okay, that might be an understatement. Not only have I never shopped there but, the entire time we’ve been together, neither of us have shopped there. (I’m not going to try to speak for Vicky but I’m pretty sure she didn’t shop there before we met, either.)
They are horrible global citizens, horrible American citizens, and they are horrible to every city and town they swarm into. Just a single good example is the amount of government subsidies they suck up. And then, there’s the way they push their employees onto welfare rolls, how they deprive governments money for schools and other services, and even their own brands of propaganda. Are their prices low? Not if you consider the incredible strain they put on federal and local governments, employees, small businesses, and manufacturers. Shopping from Wal-Mart is like stealing from others. It’s just not fair.
Of course, I’m not the only one to say so.
And, in fact, there’s a great movie out there, Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Price, that’s been out for a while. Vicky and I are kind of behind the curve on this one because we just saw it today. It does a great job of spelling out the many instances where Wal-Mart does some pretty horrible things.
I think it’s a great movie to see. If you can afford the price of lunch – a cheap lunch – you can get it from DVD Planet. There are also free showings, like this one in my old neighborhood in Orange, Ca.
I think it’s also important to note how much this film wakes you up to the power you can have as a citizen, how you can change things for the better. The company behind the film, Brave New Films, has created other films to help educate you on the truths behind the lies.
Iraq, Gonzalez-gate (if you will), and a federal deficit created to aid the mega-rich are just the start of all the atrocities being carried out in the name of greed. It’s time we wake up.
Okay, that might be an understatement. Not only have I never shopped there but, the entire time we’ve been together, neither of us have shopped there. (I’m not going to try to speak for Vicky but I’m pretty sure she didn’t shop there before we met, either.)
They are horrible global citizens, horrible American citizens, and they are horrible to every city and town they swarm into. Just a single good example is the amount of government subsidies they suck up. And then, there’s the way they push their employees onto welfare rolls, how they deprive governments money for schools and other services, and even their own brands of propaganda. Are their prices low? Not if you consider the incredible strain they put on federal and local governments, employees, small businesses, and manufacturers. Shopping from Wal-Mart is like stealing from others. It’s just not fair.
Of course, I’m not the only one to say so.
And, in fact, there’s a great movie out there, Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Price, that’s been out for a while. Vicky and I are kind of behind the curve on this one because we just saw it today. It does a great job of spelling out the many instances where Wal-Mart does some pretty horrible things.
I think it’s a great movie to see. If you can afford the price of lunch – a cheap lunch – you can get it from DVD Planet. There are also free showings, like this one in my old neighborhood in Orange, Ca.
I think it’s also important to note how much this film wakes you up to the power you can have as a citizen, how you can change things for the better. The company behind the film, Brave New Films, has created other films to help educate you on the truths behind the lies.
Iraq, Gonzalez-gate (if you will), and a federal deficit created to aid the mega-rich are just the start of all the atrocities being carried out in the name of greed. It’s time we wake up.
Friday, April 06, 2007
But let's not rule out sheer stupidity...
According to this headline, belief in reincarnation may be tied to memory errors.
Not to piss on your parade or anything, you believers in any kind of afterlife, but honestly isn't life short enough without wasting your time even thinking about something that's impossible to know about until your dead, anyway? Gather ye rosebuds and enjoy the party, folks.
It's a brief candle but at least it's lit.
Not to piss on your parade or anything, you believers in any kind of afterlife, but honestly isn't life short enough without wasting your time even thinking about something that's impossible to know about until your dead, anyway? Gather ye rosebuds and enjoy the party, folks.
It's a brief candle but at least it's lit.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Good thing about Vicky #27: She makes me less neurotic…
One thing that comes with reading a lot of Abraham Maslow (he of the Hierarchy of Needs) is that I’m reading a lot more psychology than ever before. (Scratch that, I’m reading a whole lot of EVERYTHING than I did before! I’ve done more research for this book than, I believe, all my previous books combined! It’s exhausting! What happened to the good, old days when I would write plays filled with dick and fart jokes???????)
(Um… where was I?...)
One of the things I read about today had a great deal to do with neurosis. Now, listen, I know neurosis. Neu and I go back a long, long, fucking long ways. I got the mother-fucker laid is what I’m saying. So, it was with some surprise that I found myself reading about how fearful neurotic people are. They’re very fearful, as it turns out. Fearful over what? Nothing! And everything! They’re most fearful about the unknown.
You should probably know by now that I’ve spent much of this century being called neurotic. My plays were called neurotic. Actors I worked with called me neurotic. Girls who have dated me have called me neurotic. (But you can’t trust them. They’re crazy. Just look at Vicky. She’s the worst – she actually married me!) So, it’s pretty established.
But, would I consider myself fearful?
… not so much, anymore.
And I spent the better part of today thinking about this. You could say I was fearful about not finding a job but that’s a known element, not what Maslow was talking about. No, overall, I’m not nearly as neurotic as I used to be. And that comes as something of a shock, really, because it’s how most people know me. But Vicky’s had a good influence on me, a calming effect. I can handle things a little better knowing she’s got my back.
… guess people will just have to find another adjective.
“Neurotic” just doesn’t seem to apply any more.
(Vicky: Okay. How about “bat-shit crazy”?)
(Um… where was I?...)
One of the things I read about today had a great deal to do with neurosis. Now, listen, I know neurosis. Neu and I go back a long, long, fucking long ways. I got the mother-fucker laid is what I’m saying. So, it was with some surprise that I found myself reading about how fearful neurotic people are. They’re very fearful, as it turns out. Fearful over what? Nothing! And everything! They’re most fearful about the unknown.
You should probably know by now that I’ve spent much of this century being called neurotic. My plays were called neurotic. Actors I worked with called me neurotic. Girls who have dated me have called me neurotic. (But you can’t trust them. They’re crazy. Just look at Vicky. She’s the worst – she actually married me!) So, it’s pretty established.
But, would I consider myself fearful?
… not so much, anymore.
And I spent the better part of today thinking about this. You could say I was fearful about not finding a job but that’s a known element, not what Maslow was talking about. No, overall, I’m not nearly as neurotic as I used to be. And that comes as something of a shock, really, because it’s how most people know me. But Vicky’s had a good influence on me, a calming effect. I can handle things a little better knowing she’s got my back.
… guess people will just have to find another adjective.
“Neurotic” just doesn’t seem to apply any more.
(Vicky: Okay. How about “bat-shit crazy”?)
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The danger of being so damned incredible…
Now that I’ve got your attention, I should probably mention that the subject line is completely facetious. You’ll soon learn why.
I’ve been writing at an incredible pace lately. The book on success, the one I put aside for about six months, is nearly halfway completed! I’m amazed at how well – and how fast – things are rolling along. But progress comes with a price and here it is – for the first time in my life: I’m writing too fast!
No kidding. I hadn’t completed my research into Aristotle’s Ethics when I found myself already writing the section on it! I had to scramble to get all my notes together! I had no idea how they’d be integrated into the story and, in fact, it didn’t matter. All my notes are getting gobbled up by this writing machine I’ve become.
I’m only 50 pages into Maslow’s book and I’m nearing the section on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
… so, why’s this a problem, anyway?
Well, let me begin by stating that I’m sure this book won’t sell. If you had to get less marketable, I don’t know how it’s done. So, writing this book, of all books, quickly is unnecessary. Unnecessary? Did I also mention that we still have two books to promote – try to sell? This thing won’t see the light of day until 2008, even if I finish it this week. (Which, of course, I won’t. I’m just saying.)
The other side to this is that writing takes something out of you. It’s exhausting even when, and perhaps especially when, it’s done on such a subconscious level. Sit down and write 3000 words and tell me how lively you feel after. Now, try making it the middle 3000 words of a book on success… you see? I’m turning into a zombie and I can see the question writ large on Vicky’s face: “You just got a job. Why can’t you take it easy?” (The answer of which is actually in this book!)
So, the halfway mark is approaching. One of the big events in this book - and I think a sign of how action-packed it is – is Megan’s death and the aftermath, ending the book at her memorial service. Those few days are probably going to take up the last 20-25% of the book, with the preceding three weeks before it, which is my way of saying the book is going to be horribly lopsided. But I can think of nothing more meaningful in the search for success than a meaningless (which is to say “unnecessary”) death. In a way, I’ll be happy to race to the finish, just to be done with her death and move on.
But before I do that, I need to finish this book by Maslow…. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….
I’ve been writing at an incredible pace lately. The book on success, the one I put aside for about six months, is nearly halfway completed! I’m amazed at how well – and how fast – things are rolling along. But progress comes with a price and here it is – for the first time in my life: I’m writing too fast!
No kidding. I hadn’t completed my research into Aristotle’s Ethics when I found myself already writing the section on it! I had to scramble to get all my notes together! I had no idea how they’d be integrated into the story and, in fact, it didn’t matter. All my notes are getting gobbled up by this writing machine I’ve become.
I’m only 50 pages into Maslow’s book and I’m nearing the section on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
… so, why’s this a problem, anyway?
Well, let me begin by stating that I’m sure this book won’t sell. If you had to get less marketable, I don’t know how it’s done. So, writing this book, of all books, quickly is unnecessary. Unnecessary? Did I also mention that we still have two books to promote – try to sell? This thing won’t see the light of day until 2008, even if I finish it this week. (Which, of course, I won’t. I’m just saying.)
The other side to this is that writing takes something out of you. It’s exhausting even when, and perhaps especially when, it’s done on such a subconscious level. Sit down and write 3000 words and tell me how lively you feel after. Now, try making it the middle 3000 words of a book on success… you see? I’m turning into a zombie and I can see the question writ large on Vicky’s face: “You just got a job. Why can’t you take it easy?” (The answer of which is actually in this book!)
So, the halfway mark is approaching. One of the big events in this book - and I think a sign of how action-packed it is – is Megan’s death and the aftermath, ending the book at her memorial service. Those few days are probably going to take up the last 20-25% of the book, with the preceding three weeks before it, which is my way of saying the book is going to be horribly lopsided. But I can think of nothing more meaningful in the search for success than a meaningless (which is to say “unnecessary”) death. In a way, I’ll be happy to race to the finish, just to be done with her death and move on.
But before I do that, I need to finish this book by Maslow…. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Just when you thought it was safe to assume Ken was no longer an actor…
Safe. That’s the operative word. Safe from turmoil. Safe from stress. Safe from Ken fucking everything all up!
Sometimes things don’t happen they way they’re supposed to happen and then sometimes things do happen that were supposed to happen but didn’t happen and they throw a wrench into the things that did happen that weren’t supposed to happen and happen to happen when you never thought they’d happen because they happen to happen when you were certain there was no longer a chance of them happening…
I’ve been invited to audition for a feature film.
…. I’ll wait.
Are you standing again?
See, the thing is Vicky married a lunatic. That’s pretty much all there is to it. Am I a writer? An actor? Can I hold down a fucking job? Am I worth a god damned?
The audition is in Bakersfield on the 21st and… I have to go. There’s no way I can miss it. It’s the brass ring. It’s a big part in a comedy. I can’t say no.
So, I’ll audition.
The odds of me getting the part are stacked incredibly in the AGAINST column. I mean, well, let’s look at this:
1) I’m overweight
2) I haven’t acted in years
3) I have very little experience in front of the camera
4) On my best days, I don’t really have the look for film
5) I’m 41 – the part is for a 34 year old
And that’s not even getting into the whole “I’m not that good an actor” category.
I’ll audition and, when I don’t get the part, at least I’ll have the experience of auditioning.
If I do get the part… well, then I’m kinda screwed. It’s an independent film and it offers no pay. (Thought it does offer credit, copy, lodging, and food – which is far more than I saw on my last film… in which I had three lines…) It’s a ten-day shoot in Bakersfield. I’ll have to take time off of work… and, since I haven’t even worked for three months, might get fired.
Let’s try to forget what getting the part could bring. My SAG card? More roles? A real acting career? Those are ALL pie in the sky dreams.
… not to say they aren’t possible. They’re very possible… but that's only if I get the part...
Crap.
Can you see now why try to I stick with writing?
Sometimes things don’t happen they way they’re supposed to happen and then sometimes things do happen that were supposed to happen but didn’t happen and they throw a wrench into the things that did happen that weren’t supposed to happen and happen to happen when you never thought they’d happen because they happen to happen when you were certain there was no longer a chance of them happening…
I’ve been invited to audition for a feature film.
…. I’ll wait.
Are you standing again?
See, the thing is Vicky married a lunatic. That’s pretty much all there is to it. Am I a writer? An actor? Can I hold down a fucking job? Am I worth a god damned?
The audition is in Bakersfield on the 21st and… I have to go. There’s no way I can miss it. It’s the brass ring. It’s a big part in a comedy. I can’t say no.
So, I’ll audition.
The odds of me getting the part are stacked incredibly in the AGAINST column. I mean, well, let’s look at this:
1) I’m overweight
2) I haven’t acted in years
3) I have very little experience in front of the camera
4) On my best days, I don’t really have the look for film
5) I’m 41 – the part is for a 34 year old
And that’s not even getting into the whole “I’m not that good an actor” category.
I’ll audition and, when I don’t get the part, at least I’ll have the experience of auditioning.
If I do get the part… well, then I’m kinda screwed. It’s an independent film and it offers no pay. (Thought it does offer credit, copy, lodging, and food – which is far more than I saw on my last film… in which I had three lines…) It’s a ten-day shoot in Bakersfield. I’ll have to take time off of work… and, since I haven’t even worked for three months, might get fired.
Let’s try to forget what getting the part could bring. My SAG card? More roles? A real acting career? Those are ALL pie in the sky dreams.
… not to say they aren’t possible. They’re very possible… but that's only if I get the part...
Crap.
Can you see now why try to I stick with writing?
Monday, April 02, 2007
Joke of the day...
I heard this morning that Shrub is being critical of the Congress for taking their recess...
Funny guy!
Funny guy!
How do you sell Success?...
Things are moving on the new book and I'm starting to think of marketing. So... how's this for a tagline?
In his search for success, he lost his job. He lost his best friend to alcoholism. Another friend died.
What the hell is success???
(This could change without notice...)
In his search for success, he lost his job. He lost his best friend to alcoholism. Another friend died.
What the hell is success???
(This could change without notice...)
And they stiffed him with the check!...
The tagline on CNN this morning, which I saw at the gym, read, "The Truth About Jesus: The Site of the Last Supper". Apparently, someone says they've found where the final snack was held.
I couldn't hear the television - there's no volume at the gym - but I couldn't help imagining what they were saying, "Turns out the baguettes are stale and the wine is weak. Is it any wonder they had to resort to cannibalism?"
They just don't get it. It's not important to find historical accuracies in the Bible because the Bible is not a history book.
It's like looking for Noah's Ark, or trying to recreate the conditions that allowed Jonah to live inside a whale. I can only imagine people trying to find Sodom. "Well, it's very simple. You just look for the largest deposit of salt..."
"That's stupid. Everybody knows God used a nuke to take out Sodom. You look for the most radiation."
"Fools! He took them down with circus peanuts!"
And on an on.
The meaning of the Bible is not diminished by taking it out of an historical context. In fact, it's enhanced.
But, in the meantime, steer clear of the bagels...
I couldn't hear the television - there's no volume at the gym - but I couldn't help imagining what they were saying, "Turns out the baguettes are stale and the wine is weak. Is it any wonder they had to resort to cannibalism?"
They just don't get it. It's not important to find historical accuracies in the Bible because the Bible is not a history book.
It's like looking for Noah's Ark, or trying to recreate the conditions that allowed Jonah to live inside a whale. I can only imagine people trying to find Sodom. "Well, it's very simple. You just look for the largest deposit of salt..."
"That's stupid. Everybody knows God used a nuke to take out Sodom. You look for the most radiation."
"Fools! He took them down with circus peanuts!"
And on an on.
The meaning of the Bible is not diminished by taking it out of an historical context. In fact, it's enhanced.
But, in the meantime, steer clear of the bagels...
Saturday, March 31, 2007
I’m stumped…
What psychosis must humanity possess that allows it to say it cherishes life, to feel love for cute animals, to nurture and protect creatures while, at the very same time, it kills wantonly, unknowingly, profusely, and rampantly?
Surely, there’s a name for it! There must be!
Ah, if only the extinct could speak!
Surely, there’s a name for it! There must be!
Ah, if only the extinct could speak!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Not failing at success… I was just resting…
Normality. Who would think it’s so… normal. Aside from the name, I mean. Things just settle back into their routines with such regularity you swear you’ve been eating bran.
So it is with my life. I mean, I have a job again. Vicky and I are still together. We’re picking up where we left off in August. We’re going to refi our house… we’re going to buy the new bed we’ve needed for the past 8-9 months…
And I’ve started working on the book about success again.
Being out of work just screwed up my ability to work – I mean, to write. For some reason, writing regularly keeps me… regular. (There we are with our bran references again.) But I never gave up on the success book. I even told Vicky that I’d be getting back to it.
And back to it I am.
I spent this week rereading what I have, reviewing my research, doing more research, writing some more, and, yes, feeling daunted. I’ll get to each of those points, one at a time.
Can you believe I already have one-third of the book complete? Seriously! One-third! That’s not bad, after all, for giving me some idea what I was shooting for. Oh, I have my complaints. It’s not nearly funny enough. (But I would say that about all of my books. Not one of them is funny enough.) Books on philosophy have got to be funny or you’ll just want to cry. And, on top of that, it is a book about unemployment, alcoholism, and death. This is funny stuff, you know?
I’d already done a crapload of research, not to mention the mountain of survey results, so you can imagine how shocked I was that I hadn’t started! Mind you, only about a tenth of all the research ends up in the book. (After all, who would want to read that?!) But it was in continuing the research that I found the most amazing thing.
Months back, I wrote about “underlying forms”, using the wrong term to refer to Plato. But did you know that “underlying forms” refers to Optimality Theory? It’s a linguistic convention used to create a hierarchy much like that of… Maslow! (Remember me mentioning his “Hierarchy of Needs”?) Without knowing it – to make a long story short – I’m tying together such diverse paths as Kundalini yoga, psychiatry, philosophy, linguistics – and, of course, unemployment, alcoholism, and death – to get at the core of something that touches them all and that nobody thinks of in relation to any… success.
It’s incredibly daunting but, at the same time, a terrific subject for me. You see, as political and passionate I am about current events and ethics – this has nothing at all to do with any of that. So, I don’t have to worry about any of that seeping in. It’s like writing in this nice, little bubble, a safe place where I can be cool with everybody. Nice.
So, two-thirds to go and I’m on my way…
Summer is not out of the question!
So it is with my life. I mean, I have a job again. Vicky and I are still together. We’re picking up where we left off in August. We’re going to refi our house… we’re going to buy the new bed we’ve needed for the past 8-9 months…
And I’ve started working on the book about success again.
Being out of work just screwed up my ability to work – I mean, to write. For some reason, writing regularly keeps me… regular. (There we are with our bran references again.) But I never gave up on the success book. I even told Vicky that I’d be getting back to it.
And back to it I am.
I spent this week rereading what I have, reviewing my research, doing more research, writing some more, and, yes, feeling daunted. I’ll get to each of those points, one at a time.
Can you believe I already have one-third of the book complete? Seriously! One-third! That’s not bad, after all, for giving me some idea what I was shooting for. Oh, I have my complaints. It’s not nearly funny enough. (But I would say that about all of my books. Not one of them is funny enough.) Books on philosophy have got to be funny or you’ll just want to cry. And, on top of that, it is a book about unemployment, alcoholism, and death. This is funny stuff, you know?
I’d already done a crapload of research, not to mention the mountain of survey results, so you can imagine how shocked I was that I hadn’t started! Mind you, only about a tenth of all the research ends up in the book. (After all, who would want to read that?!) But it was in continuing the research that I found the most amazing thing.
Months back, I wrote about “underlying forms”, using the wrong term to refer to Plato. But did you know that “underlying forms” refers to Optimality Theory? It’s a linguistic convention used to create a hierarchy much like that of… Maslow! (Remember me mentioning his “Hierarchy of Needs”?) Without knowing it – to make a long story short – I’m tying together such diverse paths as Kundalini yoga, psychiatry, philosophy, linguistics – and, of course, unemployment, alcoholism, and death – to get at the core of something that touches them all and that nobody thinks of in relation to any… success.
It’s incredibly daunting but, at the same time, a terrific subject for me. You see, as political and passionate I am about current events and ethics – this has nothing at all to do with any of that. So, I don’t have to worry about any of that seeping in. It’s like writing in this nice, little bubble, a safe place where I can be cool with everybody. Nice.
So, two-thirds to go and I’m on my way…
Summer is not out of the question!
And let’s not get started on the name…
Dear Nabisco, c/o Kraft Foods Global, Inc.,
I recently saw this after eating a bag of Cheese Nips:
When writing to us, please enclose the entire package with printed code, or call 1-800-NABISCO, Weekdays.
How dare you not hire me as a writer!
How mother fucking dare you!
Do you even read your shit? I mean, really, do you?! Because you’re giving me the option, when I write, to either enclose the package or call! You certainly aren’t, however much this might be your intention, suggesting that I can either write or call. I’m sorry, that is not what your written message means!
This one was free. Next time, I send a bill.
I recently saw this after eating a bag of Cheese Nips:
When writing to us, please enclose the entire package with printed code, or call 1-800-NABISCO, Weekdays.
How dare you not hire me as a writer!
How mother fucking dare you!
Do you even read your shit? I mean, really, do you?! Because you’re giving me the option, when I write, to either enclose the package or call! You certainly aren’t, however much this might be your intention, suggesting that I can either write or call. I’m sorry, that is not what your written message means!
This one was free. Next time, I send a bill.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
We are, none of us, as young as we seem – or – Welcome to GenJones!...
You could also call this “Anonymous”…
I’ve always been grateful for the fact that I’m not a Baby Boomer. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hold anything against them. Baby Boomers got to go to Woodstock. Baby Boomers contributed to changing Civil Rights (if they were on the right side). Baby Boomers got to see The Beatles play on Ed Sullivan. Baby Boomers had it good.
But I never wanted to be a Baby Boomer because Baby Boomers are old. And Shrub’s a Boomer. ‘Nuff said.
I always thought I was part of Generation X. What a cool name: X! The unknown! Maya! An entire generation of illusion! Bitchin’!
… But I’m not.
Excuse me?
I’m not.
I took a mental double-take on that one when I found out. I am not a Generation X’er.
Son of a bitch.
Does that mean I’m a –
No. I’m not a Boomer, either.
Thank God in all his cock-sucking glory.
… wait a minute. If I’m not a Gen X’er… and I’m not a Baby Boomer… what the hell am I?
You won’t believe me when I tell you – and I know that because I didn’t believe it, either – but there’s a whole generation in between! It’s another “lost generation”. You never hear about them.
Generation… Jones.
… the fuck? Jones?
Jones.
I don’t believe it.
See, the problem is that, while the Baby Boomer generation stretched from 1942-1964 (putting me safely a year out of reach), Generation X didn’t kick in until a couple of years later. It goes from 1966-1980.
That’s right. That leaves 1965 out in the snodgrass of generations. Mother fucker.
And that’s not all. Generation Jones goes from 1954-1965. That means that 90% of those people (birth rates being equal) are also Baby Boomers! I have to share my fucking generation with a bunch of fucking Boomers! That’s not fair!
I demand a recount!
And what’s all this Jones shit mean, anyway?
“An anonymous generation”, according to Wikipedia. The period in which I was born is known as that… anonymous. But, again, some can claim to be Boomers… but not if you were born in 1965.
Then, you were… anonymous…
Fuckin’ A.
But, at least, I'm not alone. Isn't that right, Ti... I mean, "Anonymous"!
I’ve always been grateful for the fact that I’m not a Baby Boomer. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hold anything against them. Baby Boomers got to go to Woodstock. Baby Boomers contributed to changing Civil Rights (if they were on the right side). Baby Boomers got to see The Beatles play on Ed Sullivan. Baby Boomers had it good.
But I never wanted to be a Baby Boomer because Baby Boomers are old. And Shrub’s a Boomer. ‘Nuff said.
I always thought I was part of Generation X. What a cool name: X! The unknown! Maya! An entire generation of illusion! Bitchin’!
… But I’m not.
Excuse me?
I’m not.
I took a mental double-take on that one when I found out. I am not a Generation X’er.
Son of a bitch.
Does that mean I’m a –
No. I’m not a Boomer, either.
Thank God in all his cock-sucking glory.
… wait a minute. If I’m not a Gen X’er… and I’m not a Baby Boomer… what the hell am I?
You won’t believe me when I tell you – and I know that because I didn’t believe it, either – but there’s a whole generation in between! It’s another “lost generation”. You never hear about them.
Generation… Jones.
… the fuck? Jones?
Jones.
I don’t believe it.
See, the problem is that, while the Baby Boomer generation stretched from 1942-1964 (putting me safely a year out of reach), Generation X didn’t kick in until a couple of years later. It goes from 1966-1980.
That’s right. That leaves 1965 out in the snodgrass of generations. Mother fucker.
And that’s not all. Generation Jones goes from 1954-1965. That means that 90% of those people (birth rates being equal) are also Baby Boomers! I have to share my fucking generation with a bunch of fucking Boomers! That’s not fair!
I demand a recount!
And what’s all this Jones shit mean, anyway?
“An anonymous generation”, according to Wikipedia. The period in which I was born is known as that… anonymous. But, again, some can claim to be Boomers… but not if you were born in 1965.
Then, you were… anonymous…
Fuckin’ A.
But, at least, I'm not alone. Isn't that right, Ti... I mean, "Anonymous"!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Save Studio 60...
For those of you who love the show, Studio 60, as much as Vicky and I, here's a site for you:
Save Studio 60!
There are a lot of reasons to love this show - well written, topical without being sensationalistic, original, funny, on and on. And, of course, there's the one reason to hate it - they haven't hired me. But don't hold that against them - after all, they won't be able to if they go off the air.
(You hear that, Sorkin! Now, you scratch my back!)
Save Studio 60!
There are a lot of reasons to love this show - well written, topical without being sensationalistic, original, funny, on and on. And, of course, there's the one reason to hate it - they haven't hired me. But don't hold that against them - after all, they won't be able to if they go off the air.
(You hear that, Sorkin! Now, you scratch my back!)
Monday, March 26, 2007
Why Eight US Attorneys Matter…
I’m surprised by the level of confusion surrounding Attorney General (and unofficial Torture-Czar) Gonzales and his firings of eight US attorneys. You’re probably heard that there’s a big uproar. Congress doesn’t like it. Shrub’s saying they were presidential appointees and he should be allowed to fire people he appointed.
The story gets reported through such a myopic lens every time I see it. The importance of the issue has become washed away beneath a tide of talking points and even I was left wondering (mind you, it was nearly 5am and I was on a treadmill), “Why should Congress care if Shrub wants to fire his own people?”
It’s that “why” that everyone is forgetting.
It’s why these people were fired. Some were fired because Shrub’s people wanted them to persecute Democrats, which is wrong. Some were fired because Shrub’s people didn’t want them to prosecute Republicans who had been caught breaking the law (such as in San Diego), which is also wrong.
Why is it wrong?
Because when the justice system no longer serves to determine what is just and, instead, determines who is just about had it, it is no longer a justice system. When the justice system stops serving the law and, instead, serves a monarchical master, it is no longer a justice system. To be blunt, when the justice system becomes one man’s personal vendetta machine, it is no longer a justice system.
We’ve all allowed our rights to be slowly stripped away from us. Unlawful search and seizure. Habeas corpus. Torture. One by one, more and more.
We’ve let them take away our day in court.
Are we also going to allow these evil, greedy, power mad fiends to run off with the court, as well?
That’s why it matters. As late in the day as it is, as much as we’ve allowed them to do to us, it is our chance – and that of Congress – to say, “You’ve had enough. You cannot do this, too.”
Have they no shame, those soulless cockroaches in the White House? No. They don’t.
Thankfully, people are starting to see that.
The story gets reported through such a myopic lens every time I see it. The importance of the issue has become washed away beneath a tide of talking points and even I was left wondering (mind you, it was nearly 5am and I was on a treadmill), “Why should Congress care if Shrub wants to fire his own people?”
It’s that “why” that everyone is forgetting.
It’s why these people were fired. Some were fired because Shrub’s people wanted them to persecute Democrats, which is wrong. Some were fired because Shrub’s people didn’t want them to prosecute Republicans who had been caught breaking the law (such as in San Diego), which is also wrong.
Why is it wrong?
Because when the justice system no longer serves to determine what is just and, instead, determines who is just about had it, it is no longer a justice system. When the justice system stops serving the law and, instead, serves a monarchical master, it is no longer a justice system. To be blunt, when the justice system becomes one man’s personal vendetta machine, it is no longer a justice system.
We’ve all allowed our rights to be slowly stripped away from us. Unlawful search and seizure. Habeas corpus. Torture. One by one, more and more.
We’ve let them take away our day in court.
Are we also going to allow these evil, greedy, power mad fiends to run off with the court, as well?
That’s why it matters. As late in the day as it is, as much as we’ve allowed them to do to us, it is our chance – and that of Congress – to say, “You’ve had enough. You cannot do this, too.”
Have they no shame, those soulless cockroaches in the White House? No. They don’t.
Thankfully, people are starting to see that.
Soldiers who "Just Say NO"...
(... or "Now these are some troops I can support!")
The (so very not)Right likes to come up with slogans. It's nice to see some of the troops liking this one.
It looks like over 3,000 troops deserted last year. I say we support our troops in their efforts not to slaughter a nation that never did anything to us.
Good going, soldiers!
The (so very not)Right likes to come up with slogans. It's nice to see some of the troops liking this one.
It looks like over 3,000 troops deserted last year. I say we support our troops in their efforts not to slaughter a nation that never did anything to us.
Good going, soldiers!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
New Job: Week One…
You’d think, with a title like that, that this would be a continuing feature. It’s not. You don’t want to read about my job every week any more than I want to write about it every week.
But I do want to write about it this week to let you know how things are turning out.
Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way. Yes, I get paid hourly and, yes, there’s not a lot of time off. But, you know what? I was treated like an hourly employee the last place I was at, although I was salary, so it’s not that bad.
(I’d like more time off, of course… who wouldn't?)
The thing about this job that kind of has me blown away is the amount of faith people have in me. I’ve met with the Director of Marketing and the Director of Sales a few times and they are sure I’ll do a good job. And the great thing is, it’s not just talk.
So far, this week, I’ve taken charge of designing a new web site and setting up some corporate partnerships. They would never have let me take charge like this at IMC or at Linksys!
The big difference between then and now is that now I have a lot of expectations but not a lot of pressure. At the other places, there was tons of pressure with low expectations. Let me explain. At IMC, I was swamped with work but either very little of it was important (not menial) or I wouldn’t be trusted to do the job on my own. At the new place, they expect me to do things like design web sites and create partnerships but nobody is looking over my shoulder.
I’m treated more like an adult. I like that.
… oh, and I have an office with a window, so…
But I do want to write about it this week to let you know how things are turning out.
Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way. Yes, I get paid hourly and, yes, there’s not a lot of time off. But, you know what? I was treated like an hourly employee the last place I was at, although I was salary, so it’s not that bad.
(I’d like more time off, of course… who wouldn't?)
The thing about this job that kind of has me blown away is the amount of faith people have in me. I’ve met with the Director of Marketing and the Director of Sales a few times and they are sure I’ll do a good job. And the great thing is, it’s not just talk.
So far, this week, I’ve taken charge of designing a new web site and setting up some corporate partnerships. They would never have let me take charge like this at IMC or at Linksys!
The big difference between then and now is that now I have a lot of expectations but not a lot of pressure. At the other places, there was tons of pressure with low expectations. Let me explain. At IMC, I was swamped with work but either very little of it was important (not menial) or I wouldn’t be trusted to do the job on my own. At the new place, they expect me to do things like design web sites and create partnerships but nobody is looking over my shoulder.
I’m treated more like an adult. I like that.
… oh, and I have an office with a window, so…
What is sanity, anyway?…
“What happens in thirty or forty years? Are you going to be a crazy, old man?”
Vicky’s concerned for my sanity the way a mother is concerned her child will break his neck when first riding a bicycle.
So, let me give this to you straight. Yes, after my divorce things were bad. I had a hard time of it. But now, it’s really not so troubling. I find it humorous when I had the odd hallucination. As I said to Vicky, “I just have a different relationship with reality.”
Vicky asked, “What about what people think about you?”
I told her that those who know me know I’m fine. If they don’t, more’s the pity for them.
But I want to talk for a minute about sanity because I can’t help but see a huge cue card that reads “IRONY”. There are people right now who are trying to bring the world to a horrible war… excuse me, another horrible war. They did it with Afghanistan. They did it with Iraq. Now, they’re doing it with Iran. These people are considered sane.
There are people who believe that torture is a good thing. That our nation has every right to act inhumanely towards others just because we can. These, too, are considered sane.
There are people right now who strongly believe that industry should not be regulated and who are just as strongly appalled with their dog is poisoned through tainted food. Again, sane people.
Some people think there is a place where we go after we die, that angels with wings live there, that a big bossman lives there with a rule book filled against which he judges us so that if we do not behave correctly we are sent to a place full of fire and pain and torture and sorrow and filth and anquish – and that he loves you. Sane.
So, please, don’t talk to me about sanity. Comparatively, anything I experience is completely benign.
Vicky’s concerned for my sanity the way a mother is concerned her child will break his neck when first riding a bicycle.
So, let me give this to you straight. Yes, after my divorce things were bad. I had a hard time of it. But now, it’s really not so troubling. I find it humorous when I had the odd hallucination. As I said to Vicky, “I just have a different relationship with reality.”
Vicky asked, “What about what people think about you?”
I told her that those who know me know I’m fine. If they don’t, more’s the pity for them.
But I want to talk for a minute about sanity because I can’t help but see a huge cue card that reads “IRONY”. There are people right now who are trying to bring the world to a horrible war… excuse me, another horrible war. They did it with Afghanistan. They did it with Iraq. Now, they’re doing it with Iran. These people are considered sane.
There are people who believe that torture is a good thing. That our nation has every right to act inhumanely towards others just because we can. These, too, are considered sane.
There are people right now who strongly believe that industry should not be regulated and who are just as strongly appalled with their dog is poisoned through tainted food. Again, sane people.
Some people think there is a place where we go after we die, that angels with wings live there, that a big bossman lives there with a rule book filled against which he judges us so that if we do not behave correctly we are sent to a place full of fire and pain and torture and sorrow and filth and anquish – and that he loves you. Sane.
So, please, don’t talk to me about sanity. Comparatively, anything I experience is completely benign.
Challenge: Week.... um....
Okay! I admit it! It's my fault!
Faced with the choice between going to a Weight Watchers's meeting this morning or spending last night celebrating my first week at my new job (more on that later)... I convinced Vicky to be bad. So, we celebrated.
Well, hey! Come on! First week!
I'm sure the "Challenges" will continue soon.
Faced with the choice between going to a Weight Watchers's meeting this morning or spending last night celebrating my first week at my new job (more on that later)... I convinced Vicky to be bad. So, we celebrated.
Well, hey! Come on! First week!
I'm sure the "Challenges" will continue soon.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Questions for the Ether...
What do you do if you're actually gay but don't realize it because you're too busy enjoying being heterosexual?
Here’s something I never write about…
It takes an awful lot to be able to see both sides of a story… so when you realize I don’t, just understand that, okay?
Vicky’s birthday is coming up on April 13th (keep those cards and gifts coming!), just as I get started on this new job. Terrific! In fact, I don’t get my first paycheck (which is only half a paycheck – one week’s worth) until a week before. Great! And I had to take a pay cut to get this job, which means that it will be very, very small. Fantastic!
Sounds pretty shitty, doesn’t it?
It gets worse.
I wanted to get Vicky a nice gift but I’m pretty much broke and we really can’t afford too much, which is not conducive to the great, capitalist birthdays she’s used to – her nickname ain’t “Princess” for nothing, folks. (I appreciate condolences; I prefer cash.)
And, yes, it gets worse.
“I want (blank),” Vicky told me. I can’t tell you what she told me… let’s call it… “Samophlange” for all of you WoW-heads. She said, “I want samophlange. It’s a beautiful samophlange and I want it!”
The problem with this, however, was that I wanted to get her (blank). I can’t tell you what I want to get her (she may be reading!)… let’s just call it… “HalyjoOsmet” for reasons unknown.
I can’t get her samophlange because I’d like to get her HalyjoOsmet. I think she’d prefer HalyjoOsmet. I know she’d love HalyjoOsmet. The thing is, I can’t afford both samophlange and HalyjoOsmet. In fact, I can barely afford HalyjoOsmet!
But she kept pushing samophlange into my face. She absolutely had to have samophlange. It got to the point where I didn’t want to buy her anything, let alone samophlange or HalyjoOsmet.
When you are insistent about wanting something, pushy even, it makes it difficult to buy you that something.
Anyway, her birthday isn’t for a few weeks. I’m hoping the samophlange versus HalyjoOsmet dispute comes to some settlement.
There’s no real point to this entry – nothing you can do, unless you can send me enough money for a samophlange – I just figured that, after six months of talking about how wonderful Vicky is, I could be allowed one gripe.
I’ll shut up now… for now…
Vicky’s birthday is coming up on April 13th (keep those cards and gifts coming!), just as I get started on this new job. Terrific! In fact, I don’t get my first paycheck (which is only half a paycheck – one week’s worth) until a week before. Great! And I had to take a pay cut to get this job, which means that it will be very, very small. Fantastic!
Sounds pretty shitty, doesn’t it?
It gets worse.
I wanted to get Vicky a nice gift but I’m pretty much broke and we really can’t afford too much, which is not conducive to the great, capitalist birthdays she’s used to – her nickname ain’t “Princess” for nothing, folks. (I appreciate condolences; I prefer cash.)
And, yes, it gets worse.
“I want (blank),” Vicky told me. I can’t tell you what she told me… let’s call it… “Samophlange” for all of you WoW-heads. She said, “I want samophlange. It’s a beautiful samophlange and I want it!”
The problem with this, however, was that I wanted to get her (blank). I can’t tell you what I want to get her (she may be reading!)… let’s just call it… “HalyjoOsmet” for reasons unknown.
I can’t get her samophlange because I’d like to get her HalyjoOsmet. I think she’d prefer HalyjoOsmet. I know she’d love HalyjoOsmet. The thing is, I can’t afford both samophlange and HalyjoOsmet. In fact, I can barely afford HalyjoOsmet!
But she kept pushing samophlange into my face. She absolutely had to have samophlange. It got to the point where I didn’t want to buy her anything, let alone samophlange or HalyjoOsmet.
When you are insistent about wanting something, pushy even, it makes it difficult to buy you that something.
Anyway, her birthday isn’t for a few weeks. I’m hoping the samophlange versus HalyjoOsmet dispute comes to some settlement.
There’s no real point to this entry – nothing you can do, unless you can send me enough money for a samophlange – I just figured that, after six months of talking about how wonderful Vicky is, I could be allowed one gripe.
I’ll shut up now… for now…
Billy Boylan Goes Up…
This one is especially for any of my friends from the stage who may still read.
Let’s see if you can figure this one out.
(It’s a dream from last night, btw.)
So, I’m cast in 40 Carats again, reprising my role as Billy Boylan, the ex with the heart of gold. I guess it’s only fitting; after all, I’m about Billy’s age now. And I’m wearing the goatee again. (The goatee’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble – ha na ha na, the goatee’s back!)
The rest of the actors are looking at me as if I was a star! (Which, in a way, I was – the star of my own dream!)
Sherryl’s the director. She played the lead when I was in 40 Carats about a million years ago.
We’re outside of this immense amphitheatre – the thing literally dwarfs the city around it. We’re WAY in the back and, as the show is about to begin, I decide to do a quick line drill in my head. I’ve often done this when I’ve acted (all these past tenses are really bumming me out!). You just drill through your lines in the scene where you’re about to appear.
… Except for one minor thing. I couldn’t remember my first line.
No problem. Grab a script. Open it up. Find that first line!
The script was this enormous stack of papers, phonebook thick, and I started scrolling through.
Sherryl walks up beside me, holding a clipboard and giving me a very expectant, “It’s gonna start soon”, look. (Though the last time I knew of a director being backstage with a clipboard, during a show, was in the fourth grade!)
Now, somewhere in there, I realized I was dreaming. I thought, “Billy Boylan?! Cool! I just have to remember that first line!”
So, off I dived through the script.
And dived.
And dived.
…. I might have dove… it’s early…
Anyway, the script started to literally fall to pieces in my hands – the size of a phonebook! So, I’m trying to hold together this immense stack of papers, trying to find the line, and trying very hard to not wake up because I really wanted to play Billy Boylan again.
When I realized… Billy Boylan did not appear anywhere in the script.
I checked again.
Nothing.
I looked at Sherryl. She smiled back at me.
“I should go,” I thought. “I’m not in this play.”
And I woke up.
… Extra points to you if you don’t say “I think you want to act again.”
Let’s see if you can figure this one out.
(It’s a dream from last night, btw.)
So, I’m cast in 40 Carats again, reprising my role as Billy Boylan, the ex with the heart of gold. I guess it’s only fitting; after all, I’m about Billy’s age now. And I’m wearing the goatee again. (The goatee’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble – ha na ha na, the goatee’s back!)
The rest of the actors are looking at me as if I was a star! (Which, in a way, I was – the star of my own dream!)
Sherryl’s the director. She played the lead when I was in 40 Carats about a million years ago.
We’re outside of this immense amphitheatre – the thing literally dwarfs the city around it. We’re WAY in the back and, as the show is about to begin, I decide to do a quick line drill in my head. I’ve often done this when I’ve acted (all these past tenses are really bumming me out!). You just drill through your lines in the scene where you’re about to appear.
… Except for one minor thing. I couldn’t remember my first line.
No problem. Grab a script. Open it up. Find that first line!
The script was this enormous stack of papers, phonebook thick, and I started scrolling through.
Sherryl walks up beside me, holding a clipboard and giving me a very expectant, “It’s gonna start soon”, look. (Though the last time I knew of a director being backstage with a clipboard, during a show, was in the fourth grade!)
Now, somewhere in there, I realized I was dreaming. I thought, “Billy Boylan?! Cool! I just have to remember that first line!”
So, off I dived through the script.
And dived.
And dived.
…. I might have dove… it’s early…
Anyway, the script started to literally fall to pieces in my hands – the size of a phonebook! So, I’m trying to hold together this immense stack of papers, trying to find the line, and trying very hard to not wake up because I really wanted to play Billy Boylan again.
When I realized… Billy Boylan did not appear anywhere in the script.
I checked again.
Nothing.
I looked at Sherryl. She smiled back at me.
“I should go,” I thought. “I’m not in this play.”
And I woke up.
… Extra points to you if you don’t say “I think you want to act again.”
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The inevitable dread after speaking…
I’m guessing its residual stress – six months of unemployment will get you some stress, my friends – or the sudden whack to my sleep schedule or the oddity of feeling wanted… either way, I had another funky afternoon.
Someone kept watching me, sneaking peeks just around my office door.
Of course, there was no one there. I was hallucinating it. And the funny thing about hallucinating is that it doesn’t just stop when you realize you’re hallucinating. Oh, no. It keeps going. And it’s just as annoying then, too.
So, for about an hour, I kept looking over my left shoulder to see what it was that was sneaking peaks and, as soon as it did, it would dart back out of view… of course.
But that’s not what this is about.
This is about what happened last night.
“Is this supposed to make me happy?” Vicky asked in response to my story about the raindrops that weren’t there that were falling on my head. It was clear that she wasn’t.
“What do you mean?” I asked… probably too innocently.
See, the thing is Vicky doesn’t particularly like it when I hallucinate. In fact, she pretty much hates it. I’m sure she remembers stories of things I did “before” and is afraid of Ken landing in some hospital with cushioned walls.
I probably should be more sensitive about her feelings, too.
But from my perspective, things are fine. After all, I’ve been hallucinating (on and off) for about half a decade now and I’ve been able to manage just fine – AND I’m not getting any visits from my ex-wife! So, things could be worse. And talking about it actually helps me feel like less of a freak!
But, for Vicky, this just started a couple of years ago – and she’s probably wondering when it’s going to stop.
I really don’t know. Yes, I worry, too, but I try to make a game of it. When you consider how badly I was damaged and for how long, a little non-existent rain, someone playing “I spy”, even spotting the living dead on the freeway, it isn’t all bad.
Don't worry, Vic. It’s a long distance from eccentric to loony.
Someone kept watching me, sneaking peeks just around my office door.
Of course, there was no one there. I was hallucinating it. And the funny thing about hallucinating is that it doesn’t just stop when you realize you’re hallucinating. Oh, no. It keeps going. And it’s just as annoying then, too.
So, for about an hour, I kept looking over my left shoulder to see what it was that was sneaking peaks and, as soon as it did, it would dart back out of view… of course.
But that’s not what this is about.
This is about what happened last night.
“Is this supposed to make me happy?” Vicky asked in response to my story about the raindrops that weren’t there that were falling on my head. It was clear that she wasn’t.
“What do you mean?” I asked… probably too innocently.
See, the thing is Vicky doesn’t particularly like it when I hallucinate. In fact, she pretty much hates it. I’m sure she remembers stories of things I did “before” and is afraid of Ken landing in some hospital with cushioned walls.
I probably should be more sensitive about her feelings, too.
But from my perspective, things are fine. After all, I’ve been hallucinating (on and off) for about half a decade now and I’ve been able to manage just fine – AND I’m not getting any visits from my ex-wife! So, things could be worse. And talking about it actually helps me feel like less of a freak!
But, for Vicky, this just started a couple of years ago – and she’s probably wondering when it’s going to stop.
I really don’t know. Yes, I worry, too, but I try to make a game of it. When you consider how badly I was damaged and for how long, a little non-existent rain, someone playing “I spy”, even spotting the living dead on the freeway, it isn’t all bad.
Don't worry, Vic. It’s a long distance from eccentric to loony.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Strangest - Hallucination - Ever...
So, I'm sitting in my office... again...
I'm leaning over my desk, trying to read/trying not to fall asleep...
I feel water drip down on my jacket sleeve - actually, through my jacket sleeve. I don't feel the moisture, just the impact. Then, I feel it on my back. On my sleeve, lower this time. On my back, in a different spot. On my head...
This was kind of strange because I was indoors, on the top floor, and it wasn't raining outside...
Drip. Drip.
And when it landed on my head, it wasn't wet.
Drip, onto my head again. Dry.
It took that long for me to realize that I was hallucinating... rain... indoors...
I did what any normal person (who hallucinates rain indoors) would do. I got up and left!
Thankfully the rain (that I was hallucinating) stopped...
I'm leaning over my desk, trying to read/trying not to fall asleep...
I feel water drip down on my jacket sleeve - actually, through my jacket sleeve. I don't feel the moisture, just the impact. Then, I feel it on my back. On my sleeve, lower this time. On my back, in a different spot. On my head...
This was kind of strange because I was indoors, on the top floor, and it wasn't raining outside...
Drip. Drip.
And when it landed on my head, it wasn't wet.
Drip, onto my head again. Dry.
It took that long for me to realize that I was hallucinating... rain... indoors...
I did what any normal person (who hallucinates rain indoors) would do. I got up and left!
Thankfully the rain (that I was hallucinating) stopped...
Here's something fun...
So, I was sitting in my office today doing some research... Did I mention I have an office? With a window? Jealous, yet? (Don't be! I had to take a cut in pay.)
Anyway, if you've ever wanted to know everything about your job or what you think you'd like your job to be, head on over to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.
(This is fun, Ken?)
Actually, yes!
The Occupational Outlook Handbook is especially fun. When you look up writers, you find that we make a lot of money and are in great demand... then again, what do they know?
When you look up actor, it just says "LOL"...
Anyway, if you've ever wanted to know everything about your job or what you think you'd like your job to be, head on over to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.
(This is fun, Ken?)
Actually, yes!
The Occupational Outlook Handbook is especially fun. When you look up writers, you find that we make a lot of money and are in great demand... then again, what do they know?
When you look up actor, it just says "LOL"...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Time to celebrate...
Six months is an awful long time to wait - and that's basically what Vicky did. I scrambled, applying for every job I could (including those I knew I wouldn't get or would hate - I needed an income!). For six months, people would assure me I would get a job soon... and it got boring.
So, last night we celebrated.
It was a small celebration but we loved it.
About five or so months ago, Vicky and I were heading back from a disasterous vacation at our favorite place in the world (or, at least, California) and decided to do some wine tasting along the way. At the last vineyard, we happened across a miracle.
Vicky got her four or eight or seventy-two tastes at the winery - I'd stopped tasting because I had to drive in a straight line (fucking traffic laws!) - when we saw something peculiar... chocolate. I'm sorry, did I say peculiar? I meant "something that stirred the lust in our very bones"! Chocoloate! We luvs the chocolate!
But... hold on... back up... chocolate? At a winery?
"It's for our late harvest zin," the attendent told us.
But Vicky had already gulped down her tastes! And as her eyes welled up, looking at me with a mix of piteousness and chocolate lust, I asked, "I haven't had my tastes yet, could I get a taste of that?"
"Sure," I was told.
Vicky, having been my wife officially for a year, knew that by "my taste" I could only have meant "her taste".
So, let's cut to the chase. Here's the link to the winery - don't worry if the late harvest zin is a little pricey, it's worth it! Get some dark chocolates. Vicky bought a small box of Godiva truffles after we got home and we promised to have them as soon as I got a job. (As I said, six months is a long wait!) You take a bite of chocolate, eat it, and then you wash it down with a sip of wine.
... what's it like?
Well, when Vicky had a taste at the winery... her knees buckled.
Enjoy!
Friday, March 16, 2007
Vicky’s not Perfect - or - Payback’s a Bitch…
For those of you who think that I think that Vicky’s perfect… let me set you straight.
She’s been wonderful these past six months. She really helped me get through it.
But let’s not dwell on the past.
Last night, I said to Vicky, “Tomorrow’s my last day of unemployment, so I’m going to sleep in. I don’t want to be woken up. I just want to sleep in.”
This morning, Vicky somehow arranged for two alarm clocks to go off, while she was in the shower. This is particularly remarkable because they were in two different rooms, one of which she wasn’t even in. And she set them to go off while she was in the shower! That takes planning, friends.
I’m thinking that, either consciously or unconsciously, she figured I’ve slept in enough.
She’s been wonderful these past six months. She really helped me get through it.
But let’s not dwell on the past.
Last night, I said to Vicky, “Tomorrow’s my last day of unemployment, so I’m going to sleep in. I don’t want to be woken up. I just want to sleep in.”
This morning, Vicky somehow arranged for two alarm clocks to go off, while she was in the shower. This is particularly remarkable because they were in two different rooms, one of which she wasn’t even in. And she set them to go off while she was in the shower! That takes planning, friends.
I’m thinking that, either consciously or unconsciously, she figured I’ve slept in enough.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The job…
It sure took its sweet time. I mean, I must have gone on at least 50 interviews and applied for hundreds of jobs! My last unemployment check came this week – we’re talking eleventh hour (and forty-seven minutes)!
I’m sure many of you guessed the minute I mentioned I was buying stuff.
Yep, I got a job. Starting on Monday, my title will be Assistant Marketing Manager – Medical Division. Now, while that sounds like a 7-11 employee, I assure you it’s not. It’s not much of a management position, either. Basically, I’ll be writing marketing material and managing collateral production for the medical division of a school.
Yikes!
When Monday comes around, I’ll be joining the rest of you – well, the majority of you – in complaining about my lack of time off. Just try not to remind me I just had six months of it!
Whatever happens, I’ll keep you posted.
Now that our lives are returning to a bit of normalcy, you’d think the little woman would want to get knocked up – ah, but no! Seems as though Vicky, too, is on the hunt for a better job. But, never fear, I'm sure I'll start… um… knocking soon.
I’m sure many of you guessed the minute I mentioned I was buying stuff.
Yep, I got a job. Starting on Monday, my title will be Assistant Marketing Manager – Medical Division. Now, while that sounds like a 7-11 employee, I assure you it’s not. It’s not much of a management position, either. Basically, I’ll be writing marketing material and managing collateral production for the medical division of a school.
Yikes!
When Monday comes around, I’ll be joining the rest of you – well, the majority of you – in complaining about my lack of time off. Just try not to remind me I just had six months of it!
Whatever happens, I’ll keep you posted.
Now that our lives are returning to a bit of normalcy, you’d think the little woman would want to get knocked up – ah, but no! Seems as though Vicky, too, is on the hunt for a better job. But, never fear, I'm sure I'll start… um… knocking soon.
I want to be a clone…
Well, I did it.
And I’m not really sure if it’s a good thing.
I mean, I like it and all. I just feel a little… dirty.
I bought an iPod.
Yes, I’m one of them!
But Vicky’s been flaunting hers for over a year now, even after my old one died a sad and premature death by broken volume control about six months ago.
I got the iPod and I got the arm strap. So now I’m another one of those jogging zombies at the gym, plugged in…
… and I kinda like it.
And I’m not really sure if it’s a good thing.
I mean, I like it and all. I just feel a little… dirty.
I bought an iPod.
Yes, I’m one of them!
But Vicky’s been flaunting hers for over a year now, even after my old one died a sad and premature death by broken volume control about six months ago.
I got the iPod and I got the arm strap. So now I’m another one of those jogging zombies at the gym, plugged in…
… and I kinda like it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Over 2000 days since 9/11…
I want you to sit down for a minute and think about something.
Think about how poorly things were handled after Katrina. Think about the billions Shrub has wasted in senseless wars. Think about the 3000+ American dead in Iraq as opposed to the 2000 or so dead after 9/11. Think about the scandal after scandal that Shrub’s people have perpetuated. Think about the limits imposed by Shrub’s people on your civil rights.
And realize that’s just the beginning.
Now, seriously, which was worse? 9/11? Or Shrub?
Who are the terrorists?
Think about how poorly things were handled after Katrina. Think about the billions Shrub has wasted in senseless wars. Think about the 3000+ American dead in Iraq as opposed to the 2000 or so dead after 9/11. Think about the scandal after scandal that Shrub’s people have perpetuated. Think about the limits imposed by Shrub’s people on your civil rights.
And realize that’s just the beginning.
Now, seriously, which was worse? 9/11? Or Shrub?
Who are the terrorists?
The one about Chacos…
We live in a time when accusations, aspersions against one’s character are usually and expediently as forgotten as last month’s lotto numbers. I’m not so lucky. I tend to take things rather seriously. (Those who have worked with me in comedies could tell you that I take comedy even more seriously.)
And so it was that Vicky and I were out the other night, looking for new sandals. My old ones had gotten, well, old… like wearing a pair of old rat pelts. Either the sandals were rotting or my feet were – actually, it was both. It was time for a new pair! So, Vicky and I went around what used to be called the Orange Mall, from one store to another, looking at sandals.
And all of them – I mean all of them – I looked – all of them were made in China.
About a year ago, when I was speaking out against torture, the accusation was made on this website that by purchasing any electronic device – any electronic device – I supported slave labor and was, therefore, a hypocrite. It didn’t matter it I tried in every way to be a good person; the profligation of electronic components from China made any call for ethical rationality moot.
Now, I don’t believe that for a minute and I didn’t believe the person’s comment. It wasn’t the comment that I took personally but, rather, the thought that the other 2,117 readers last year believed him. The thought that I would be so poorly thought of, along with the idea that this individual could be so thoughtless in his expression, was just sad.
So, I couldn’t buy sandals made in China. I know you think I’m being silly – Vicky sure did – but the thought that anyone might think I’m a hypocrite, especially if I was one knowingly and intentionally, just didn’t sit right. Surely, we could find some sandals made somewhere else…
… right?
… Hello?
… Anybody?
The answer is, surprisingly, NO! Even when we went to REI, we found that all of their sandals were made in China. China, it seems, corners the market on casual feet.
And then, after I started to discuss this problem with the salesman, he pulled out the Chacos. Made in Colorado by an environmentally-conscious company – they exist? – they seemed to be everything I wanted. But, were they comfortable?
Damn, yes! Strangely, they’re a little heavy, but I figure that’s like getting a little workout when you’re relaxing – bonus!
Then, we saw the price… and I paid $72 for a little peace of mind. Oh well. It was worth it.
I can’t know that everything I have has been made by the most reputable of companies. I can only try my best to make sure this is the case. It’s the trying that counts. I can only pity those who would argue that the difficulty makes it not worth the while.
(Those readers who know about the news I have – just be patient. It’s coming. Relax.)
And so it was that Vicky and I were out the other night, looking for new sandals. My old ones had gotten, well, old… like wearing a pair of old rat pelts. Either the sandals were rotting or my feet were – actually, it was both. It was time for a new pair! So, Vicky and I went around what used to be called the Orange Mall, from one store to another, looking at sandals.
And all of them – I mean all of them – I looked – all of them were made in China.
About a year ago, when I was speaking out against torture, the accusation was made on this website that by purchasing any electronic device – any electronic device – I supported slave labor and was, therefore, a hypocrite. It didn’t matter it I tried in every way to be a good person; the profligation of electronic components from China made any call for ethical rationality moot.
Now, I don’t believe that for a minute and I didn’t believe the person’s comment. It wasn’t the comment that I took personally but, rather, the thought that the other 2,117 readers last year believed him. The thought that I would be so poorly thought of, along with the idea that this individual could be so thoughtless in his expression, was just sad.
So, I couldn’t buy sandals made in China. I know you think I’m being silly – Vicky sure did – but the thought that anyone might think I’m a hypocrite, especially if I was one knowingly and intentionally, just didn’t sit right. Surely, we could find some sandals made somewhere else…
… right?
… Hello?
… Anybody?
The answer is, surprisingly, NO! Even when we went to REI, we found that all of their sandals were made in China. China, it seems, corners the market on casual feet.
And then, after I started to discuss this problem with the salesman, he pulled out the Chacos. Made in Colorado by an environmentally-conscious company – they exist? – they seemed to be everything I wanted. But, were they comfortable?
Damn, yes! Strangely, they’re a little heavy, but I figure that’s like getting a little workout when you’re relaxing – bonus!
Then, we saw the price… and I paid $72 for a little peace of mind. Oh well. It was worth it.
I can’t know that everything I have has been made by the most reputable of companies. I can only try my best to make sure this is the case. It’s the trying that counts. I can only pity those who would argue that the difficulty makes it not worth the while.
(Those readers who know about the news I have – just be patient. It’s coming. Relax.)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Some things you can't just throw away...
I'm sitting here, at my desk, cleaning things a bit before I go to bed. (Truth be told, it's too bloody hot to sleep!)
Before we got married, Vicky and I were looking for quotes we could incorporate into the marriage. We found a lot of good ones but, in the end, didn't use any of them. Now, as I clean out old emails, I found this one I sent to Vic. Little did we know how appropriate it would have been...
Thus we see that the all-important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing, and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself.
—R. H. Blyth
Before we got married, Vicky and I were looking for quotes we could incorporate into the marriage. We found a lot of good ones but, in the end, didn't use any of them. Now, as I clean out old emails, I found this one I sent to Vic. Little did we know how appropriate it would have been...
Thus we see that the all-important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing, and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself.
—R. H. Blyth
Saturday, March 10, 2007
A Rose by any other name…
I make it a point not to mention her in this blog… though you probably wouldn’t know it, seeing as how I have over a dozen times since we started. This is supposed to be about the life that Vicky and I share together. So, you’ll forgive me if I do, because it is, and we should because we do also.
Anyway…
I found it by accident. You probably won’t believe that but it’s true. Her MySpace page (the last resort for the pedophile and the sexually-repressed twelve-year-old) doesn’t even bear her name. Not only is last name different, so is the first. She took her gay lover’s last name and as for the first…
I’m lazy. Just try to swallow that. Instead of saying complete names, I often fall into the horrible habit of shortening them. I call Vicky “Vic”. I call Tim… well, “Tim”. And I used to call my first wife “Rose”. I guess it stuck, because that’s what she’s calling herself on the MySpace page.
Yep. There she was, in a picture so idyllic Normal Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better one were he hopped up on X. Oh, sure. She may be completely in denial but that’s not the point. And I didn’t realize that until I spent the entire day dwelling on it.
Does it matter that her gay lover is, well, gay? Or that her motto to have no regrets is abominable considering all the things she has done that are regrettable? Or that she spouts the importance of friendship, a woman who turned her back on her oldest friend when she died? Not really.
It was easy for me to think that’s what this was all about. But, honestly, that’s a different life. If she’s in denial, that’s her business. Frankly, I hope she lives a happy and full life. All that really concerned me was how seeing her face again affected me. And it did affect me, I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever fully shake the loss I experienced.
So, I sat and I thought about it.
Here’s what I decided.
She’s in Oregon now and I wish her the best. My life really has changed since I lost her because, somehow, so have I. The chains that once tied her to me are like gossamer, and as quickly as I stumbled on her MySpace page, I was able to close it down.
But, more importantly, I realized something that has been with me all along. I learned a lot of lessons from “Rose”, and they made me more able to be a better husband with “Vic”. And I looked at the pictures on that MySpace page, pictures of her taken only months or weeks ago, and I realized – as I always do – that I never held her enough, that I never kissed her enough, that I never showed her how much I loved nearly as much as I could.
There’s nothing I can do about that now. But I know someone who deserves my devotion so much more, and I should never forget what it feels like to lose the woman you love – it reminds me how important it is that I show Vicky how much I love her and hold her and kiss her every day.
One day, like it or not, I’ll lose Vicky. All I can do is try to make it as far in the future as possible, and make sure that in all the days between I show her how loved she is.
So, we went out for sushi tonight, and I rubbed her back. We came home and I kissed her. We went upstairs and… well, you can’t do that enough, either.
Anyway…
I found it by accident. You probably won’t believe that but it’s true. Her MySpace page (the last resort for the pedophile and the sexually-repressed twelve-year-old) doesn’t even bear her name. Not only is last name different, so is the first. She took her gay lover’s last name and as for the first…
I’m lazy. Just try to swallow that. Instead of saying complete names, I often fall into the horrible habit of shortening them. I call Vicky “Vic”. I call Tim… well, “Tim”. And I used to call my first wife “Rose”. I guess it stuck, because that’s what she’s calling herself on the MySpace page.
Yep. There she was, in a picture so idyllic Normal Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better one were he hopped up on X. Oh, sure. She may be completely in denial but that’s not the point. And I didn’t realize that until I spent the entire day dwelling on it.
Does it matter that her gay lover is, well, gay? Or that her motto to have no regrets is abominable considering all the things she has done that are regrettable? Or that she spouts the importance of friendship, a woman who turned her back on her oldest friend when she died? Not really.
It was easy for me to think that’s what this was all about. But, honestly, that’s a different life. If she’s in denial, that’s her business. Frankly, I hope she lives a happy and full life. All that really concerned me was how seeing her face again affected me. And it did affect me, I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever fully shake the loss I experienced.
So, I sat and I thought about it.
Here’s what I decided.
She’s in Oregon now and I wish her the best. My life really has changed since I lost her because, somehow, so have I. The chains that once tied her to me are like gossamer, and as quickly as I stumbled on her MySpace page, I was able to close it down.
But, more importantly, I realized something that has been with me all along. I learned a lot of lessons from “Rose”, and they made me more able to be a better husband with “Vic”. And I looked at the pictures on that MySpace page, pictures of her taken only months or weeks ago, and I realized – as I always do – that I never held her enough, that I never kissed her enough, that I never showed her how much I loved nearly as much as I could.
There’s nothing I can do about that now. But I know someone who deserves my devotion so much more, and I should never forget what it feels like to lose the woman you love – it reminds me how important it is that I show Vicky how much I love her and hold her and kiss her every day.
One day, like it or not, I’ll lose Vicky. All I can do is try to make it as far in the future as possible, and make sure that in all the days between I show her how loved she is.
So, we went out for sushi tonight, and I rubbed her back. We came home and I kissed her. We went upstairs and… well, you can’t do that enough, either.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
This is not to say they haven't been doing a good job...
... but I'm also reminded why I'm not a Democrat.
(I'm Green.)
It looks like the Democrats in the House are forming an exploratory committee into global warming. Well, ain't that dandy! It's about time somebody looked into this whole -
WHAT THE FUCK?!
Didn't we all agree that Katrina was enough?
... calm down... calm down... breathe... just breathe...
oil lobbyists are allowed to give money to Democrats too...
(I'm Green.)
It looks like the Democrats in the House are forming an exploratory committee into global warming. Well, ain't that dandy! It's about time somebody looked into this whole -
WHAT THE FUCK?!
Didn't we all agree that Katrina was enough?
... calm down... calm down... breathe... just breathe...
oil lobbyists are allowed to give money to Democrats too...
A word on Lionel Stander…
Most of my readers won’t know who Lionel Stander is. Few are going to care. That’s just how it works out. But just try to read it, and when I get to words like “talkie” or “Capra” or even “Hart to Hart”… maybe, take a shot.
See the thing is I knew who Lionel Stander was all along. And I liked him. But my perception of him as a bit player made me ignore him in a way, which was too bad.
He’s the guy who gave the impassioned appeal to Longfellow Deeds in Frank Capra’s “Mr. Deeds Goes To Town”. There he was, working with Frank Capra, opposite of Gary Cooper. Wild. I always liked him in that movie. Next to Cooper, he’s probably the best thing about it.
But I didn’t feel like writing about him until the other day when I was watching one of Harold Lloyd’s talkies, “The Milky Way”. Lloyd plays a naïve milkman who gets duped into being a boxer who may ultimately have to take a fall. Yes, that plot: innocent gets duped into doing something against his values. The first time I tried to watch it, I couldn’t because I could see where it was going. Then, yesterday, I tried to watch it again and I put aside my assumptions and, sure enough, it didn’t go anywhere near there!
Stander plays a guy named Spider, a lovable goof – but Lloyd was such a nice guy in real life, I don’t think he liked anything other than lovable goofs in his films. And Stander is pretty damned funny! I didn’t think I’d be laughing out loud to something from the 1930’s.
So, I came over to my computer and IMDB’d the guy… and I was surprised. Not only had Stander been quite an actor, appearing in over 100 films, but the longevity! He was working from the 1930’s to the 1990’s!
And that’s not the best part. Stander was subpoenaed by the very first House Un-American Activities Committee. Stander was a communist and unapologetically so. He was one of the guys thrown under the bus by such un-American bastards as Ronald Reagan, back in the day. (Yes, turncoats and hypocrites are often elected to office.)
Blacklisted, the guy worked his way back up, appearing in Scorsese and Polanski pictures, by and by.
But the worst part for me is how the palooka ended his life: as Max on TV’s Hart to Hart, a below-mediocre crime drama about the wealthy and beautiful beating the mean and ugly. Yeah… reality TV. Stander played the unapologetically unbeautiful one. Thank you, Stander.
In a quote he gave about the show, he said, “I'm in a television program that is always among the top 20, that's shown in 67 countries in the world, helping lobotomize the entire world". He knew it wasn’t art. He liked the paycheck. And, as a guy who’d worked as long and as hard, who could blame him.
And then, he died at age 86.
I don’t really know why I’m writing about Lionel Stander except that he was one of those actors just on the fringes who could make a dull scene come to life. He never really got his due – he got much less. But he brings a smile to my face when I watch some old movies (God knows I’d never watch reruns of Hart to Hart) and for that I am grateful.
See the thing is I knew who Lionel Stander was all along. And I liked him. But my perception of him as a bit player made me ignore him in a way, which was too bad.
He’s the guy who gave the impassioned appeal to Longfellow Deeds in Frank Capra’s “Mr. Deeds Goes To Town”. There he was, working with Frank Capra, opposite of Gary Cooper. Wild. I always liked him in that movie. Next to Cooper, he’s probably the best thing about it.
But I didn’t feel like writing about him until the other day when I was watching one of Harold Lloyd’s talkies, “The Milky Way”. Lloyd plays a naïve milkman who gets duped into being a boxer who may ultimately have to take a fall. Yes, that plot: innocent gets duped into doing something against his values. The first time I tried to watch it, I couldn’t because I could see where it was going. Then, yesterday, I tried to watch it again and I put aside my assumptions and, sure enough, it didn’t go anywhere near there!
Stander plays a guy named Spider, a lovable goof – but Lloyd was such a nice guy in real life, I don’t think he liked anything other than lovable goofs in his films. And Stander is pretty damned funny! I didn’t think I’d be laughing out loud to something from the 1930’s.
So, I came over to my computer and IMDB’d the guy… and I was surprised. Not only had Stander been quite an actor, appearing in over 100 films, but the longevity! He was working from the 1930’s to the 1990’s!
And that’s not the best part. Stander was subpoenaed by the very first House Un-American Activities Committee. Stander was a communist and unapologetically so. He was one of the guys thrown under the bus by such un-American bastards as Ronald Reagan, back in the day. (Yes, turncoats and hypocrites are often elected to office.)
Blacklisted, the guy worked his way back up, appearing in Scorsese and Polanski pictures, by and by.
But the worst part for me is how the palooka ended his life: as Max on TV’s Hart to Hart, a below-mediocre crime drama about the wealthy and beautiful beating the mean and ugly. Yeah… reality TV. Stander played the unapologetically unbeautiful one. Thank you, Stander.
In a quote he gave about the show, he said, “I'm in a television program that is always among the top 20, that's shown in 67 countries in the world, helping lobotomize the entire world". He knew it wasn’t art. He liked the paycheck. And, as a guy who’d worked as long and as hard, who could blame him.
And then, he died at age 86.
I don’t really know why I’m writing about Lionel Stander except that he was one of those actors just on the fringes who could make a dull scene come to life. He never really got his due – he got much less. But he brings a smile to my face when I watch some old movies (God knows I’d never watch reruns of Hart to Hart) and for that I am grateful.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Because American Concentration Camps were such a great idea the first time around...
Believe it or not, I thought the idea of locking up a whole lot of innocent people for no reason but their heritage was a rotten idea long before I married a half-Japanese woman. (Yes, I'm talking about the Japanese internment in WWII... not the internment of blacks since then...)
That said, the people on the right seem to still think it's a great idea. Michelle Malkin, this hideous woman, has written In Defense of Internment. She thinks it would be a good idea to lock up a whole lot of innocent people of middle-eastern descent... you know, for fun.
The real terrorists aren't just brown and poor, folks.
That said, the people on the right seem to still think it's a great idea. Michelle Malkin, this hideous woman, has written In Defense of Internment. She thinks it would be a good idea to lock up a whole lot of innocent people of middle-eastern descent... you know, for fun.
The real terrorists aren't just brown and poor, folks.
Challenge: Week 6...
Okay, so not much of a challenge because, well, I've been sick.
I'm feeling better now but I wasn't much up for making all the people at the WW meeting sick, ya know?
So, we'll have to wait until this weekend.
Stay tuned, fat fans!
I'm feeling better now but I wasn't much up for making all the people at the WW meeting sick, ya know?
So, we'll have to wait until this weekend.
Stay tuned, fat fans!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
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