Seriously, though. When does this shit stop?...

The problem with thinking up snappy witticisms every time you sleepwalk is that, if you sleepwalk as often as I do, eventually you run out.

As of this morning, I’ve run out.

At just about one o’clock this morning, I found myself standing beside my bed. My hands were filled with paper and I knew there was more. The rest of my research lay elsewhere. I didn’t know how it had become so scattered. There was some behind the dresser. My hands empty, I knelt down beside the dresser to reach back there and…

I realized something was wrong. Wasn’t it too late to be doing research? Shouldn’t I be in bed?

But my research…

Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping?

The research…

As my bicameral mind slugged it out, I thought I’d do something else. It looked like I was awake, anyway. Earlier, I’d flossed rather viciously as one of my back teeth and it was bugging me so I rinsed with a little Listerine and…

The research…

I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong.

Maybe it’s downstairs.

If the thought of someone sleepwalking down a flight of stairs strikes you as scary – well, it does me, too, because last night was the first time I remembered what it was like. Vic, can we pad the stairs? You see, I realize now just how much sleepwalking is like getting two signals on a TV. Eventually, as I wake up, they blend together but it’s really hard to make that happen. And I think this might come close to explaining my hallucinations, too. (What else is sleepwalking if not hallucinating in your sleep?) Going down stairs is like having two, transparent images of stairs, dancing about in front of each other. So, I stepped onto the first step and – thankfully, just about then, I remembered something Vicky had said about a stair railing and grabbed onto ours – there were two sets of stairs, one wavering before another. It was a slow descent.

After a while, I made my way down to the livingroom… then, I realized that I’d been sleepwalking. No research. No papers. Just me in my pajama bottoms.

After an hour or so, a strange realization occurred to me. Whether it be about codes or plans or research, most of my sleepwalking while I’ve been with Vicky has been about searching for knowledge. Obviously, I’m looking for some kind of answer. (Climbing Maya asked “What is success?” Daughter of a One-Armed Man asks “What is love?”) But I don’t know how I’m going to find it in my sleep.

Vicky and I have been talking about getting me help – mental help. The plan is to get a referral from my family doctor, which sucks because I have to go in and say, “Hi. I’m a loony. Can you tell me where to get some help?” Maybe that’s what’s causing the delay? That and I remember my sessions with “Dr. Doom” and how fruitful they were.

But I gotta do something. One reality is hard enough.

Sometimes I feel like the human equivalent of Jenga.

And it doesn’t end there, either. I figure I should write these things down for a time when I do get treatment. Today, as I write this, I’m having my worst day in some time. I’ve already had three people talking to me who weren’t here. (I can’t remember what they said or who they were.) I’m running into a lot of problems with what can only be described as interference. It’s like I’m receiving another signal. Sometimes, it’s verbal and my words are all flummoxed. Other times, it’s worse than that and I can’t even understand words. This changes minute by minute. It’s kind of like a storm, too, in the sense that I’m waiting for it to blow over.

An important distinction to make at this point is that, for the most part, I can tell what is real and what is just in my head. Some small things are slightly confusing but I’m handling it. My point is that I can still function; it’s just difficult.

Anyway, yeah, I need help.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting at work and doing as little as possible… just in case.

Humanism

A Day at Indian Beach, Oregon

My brother, the videographer, is making relaxation videos. See if you can watch this one without falling asleep!

... yes, it IS intentional!

And now, a word about fatness…

I know I regularly give myself 31 flavors of shit over how fat I am. This entry is not about that.

Look, I know I’m overweight. That can’t be denied. I am twenty or so pounds over my “acting weight”. Yes, I need to be more active. I admit that.

But, come on, people! What the fuck is the deal with all you fat motherfuckers out there? Holy shit! I read an article today on teenagers getting gastric bypass surgery. Teenagers! What the fuck ever happened to taking a walk, for fuck’s sake? Haven’t you people ever heard of the starving people in the third world? Ever think of leaving them a cookie?

No shit, man. We are a bunch of fat, lazy fucks who don’t deserve the Twinkie we gorge on if our kids are turning to gastric bypass surgery! Whatever happened to that being a last resort? Now, it’s a fucking fad! The scar is a fucking fashion statement!

Listen to me: “I ate 46 cows” is not a bragging right! Okay? Put down that Moon Pie and cut it the fuck out!

….

(Odds are I’ll be ending up at Tommy’s sometime soon… maybe not tomorrow but soon… so I’ll call “hypocrite” before anyone else can.)

I once wrote a book that insisted God is love…

Last night, Vicky and I were sitting out on our patio, talking. (Something we seem to be doing less and less of as we get busier and busier.) We were talking about the new book I’m working on, where I mention the religion is a dangerous distraction, up there with materialism, social order, and pop culture. Now, Vicky was raised in a nice, Lutheran church filled with nice, Lutheran people. She has some difficulty as seeing religion as being anything but a power for good.

But she’s not so naïve that she can’t. “I guess I’d be okay with a religion that didn’t teach hatred.”

“Which one’s that?” I asked.

“You know. One that taught love.”

“Which one’s that?” I honestly wanted to know.

(I wouldn’t include Buddhism, because Buddhism isn’t even a religion in the Western sense, with a personal deity to worship.)

Sadly, even her nice Lutheran church filled with nice Lutheran people taught hate. Just look at the Bible. It’s filled with hate. And, as much as you might want to claim that the God of the New Testament is a God of Love (see the Sermon on the Mount for some really good sentiments), you honestly have to admit – at the very least – that the hate taught in the Bible dulls the shine just a bit. As for myself, I wouldn’t want any child of mine being taught that a book of hate should instruct them on how to live.

You can toss out the Old Testament right away. That book is filled with hatred towards non-Jews, women, and nearly everyone else. And believers in an Old Testament god are still out there, which is scary enough. But then, you get to the New Testament – the “feel good” Bible. Almost immediately, however, you have to throw out Revelation, a book based on the Return of the Old Testament God. Revelation, which was never written to be about the end of the world as we know it, says that if you don’t love a loving god, he will FUCK YOU UP! Okay, so that’s gone, then.

Surely, the remaining bits of the Bible must be filled with love?

Matthew has Jesus saying he’ll destroy families (10:34-37), condemns those who don’t care for his preaching (11:20-24), talks in “Bush Speak” (12:30), condemns questioners (12:31-32), and justifies anti-Semitism (27:25). John has Jesus giving some of that old-time religious hatred: if you’re “unclean” you go to hell (3:29), if you don’t kowtow to Christians you get fucked (6:11), and non-believers go straight to hell (16:16). Luke casts God himself as a violent slave-owner (12:46-47), says that only a few people actually get saved (13:23-30), and other viciousness (19:22-27). Finally, John casts people into hell for thought crime (3:18, 36), is anti-Semitic (5:16, 18) (7:1) (7:13) (8:44) (11:8) (19:7, 12, 14-15) (20:19), says that non-believers will go to hell (8:24) (12:48) (14:6) (15:6).

And those are just the Apostles… makes Jesus sound like a hell of a guy, doesn’t it?

Then, we get into the rest… I won't bore you with the details suffice it to say there are more than 80 more bits of anti-Semitic, anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-unbeliever crap.

I, too, would probably have less of a problem with a religion that didn’t teach hate.

But what of those nice Lutherans? What of nice people of faith who are good despite their religion? Well, that’s the answer, isn’t it? They aren’t good because of their religion but, rather, in spite of it. I’m not saying there are no good people out there. I’m saying that good, religious people are overcoming a handicap. For that, I am grateful.

But think how much better we’d all be without our handicaps and without anyone teaching us to hate…

Three small words…

(I thought I’d grab the lyrics to an old, old song called “Three small words” for this blog… and came up with a bajillion hits for Josie & The Pussycats! NO!)

Every morning, before I leave from work, Vicky and I have our ritual. It may sound familiar to some of you married folk out there.

I leave first so, before I do, I creep up to Vicky’s bedside. I lean over her. I kiss her on the cheek. “I love you, darling,” I tell her. “Have a good day.”

Vicky, her eyes squinched tightly, gives me a kind of grumble and says, “Mmmme Mmmmmu Mmmmmem.”

This means "I Love You, too"... I think...

Rules to live by…

Calling them Commandments just sounds so didactic, so immutable. This is probably why so many Christian fundamentalists want the big 10 posted, well, everywhere. But didn’t Jesus himself say (or get quoted as saying) that his word wiped out everything that came before it? Wouldn’t even a good Christian need to throw away the big 10 in favor of HIS word?

I’ve been reading a lot on alternate commandments recently. (This thanks to Richard Dawkins' book, The God Delusion, which is recommendably excellent.) Even the Jews have moved past Moses’ tired, old rules, in favor of a more humane way of living. So, here are some alternatives snatched off the web. Not bad ways to live, really. I wouldn’t mind seeing more people living along these lines.


(1) Do not do to others what you would not want them to do to you.

(2) In all things, strive to cause no harm.

(3) Treat your fellow human beings, your fellow living things, and the world in general with love, honesty, faithfulness and respect.

(4) Do not overlook evil or shrink from administering justice, but always be ready to forgive wrongdoing freely admitted and honestly regretted.

(5) Live life with a sense of joy and wonder.

(6) Always seek to be learning something new.

(7) Test all things; always check your ideas against the facts, and be ready to discard even a cherished belief if it does not conform to them.

(8) Never seek to censor or cut yourself off from dissent; always respect the right of others to disagree with you.

(9) Form independent opinions on the basis of your own reason and experience; do not allow yourself to be led blindly by others.

(10) Question everything.

Lift the ban...

Personally, I don't want to see anyone in the armed forces - call me a commie. But when faced with such discrimination, I have to admit I am torn.

Is there a way we can ban both straights and gays?

You are judged by the company you keep…

What can we say about “Scooter” Libby, we who were not privy to the inner workings of his trial?

Well, we can say – as Vicky often says – that any grown man who calls himself “Scooter” is definitely suspect, if only of severely arrested development.

We can also say, after this past week, that if we are to judge people by the company they keep this man is horribly guilty.

Look at his prime defenders, those who are pushing hardest for a Presidential Pardon: Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Delay, Wolfowitz. All known liars. All responsible for leading our nation into bloody and illegal war. All power brokers for the rich and defilers of the rights of the meek.

With a sentence of 30 months of easy time, you’d think this man was going to Guantanamo, or worse. But having constructed a life of lies with friends who are equally and infamously known for lies, it’s important to keep in mind that the company he keeps shows us that worse is exactly what he should have received.

Key-riste!...

So, I've been wondering why Christians get so offended when you insult their religion.

... It's cause he's hanging on a cross, isn't it? Picking on a God that gets himself nailed up onto a cross is kind of like teasing the slow kid.

This probably also explains why Christians are so warlike...

Compensate much?

Hate the war, love the warrior…

As part of my job, I’ve been doing some research on Military Spouses… and I’ve been making myself sick.

I just don’t get it. Reading page after page written by military spouses, I get the distinct feeling like they really get absorbed in the drama of having their spouse at risk. It’s like, “Oh, poor me! My husband/wife is risking his/her life and I’ll be all alone!” It’s truly pathetic.

How can I say this? Well, consider the fact that we have an all-volunteer army/navy/marine/etc. These people wanted to be in the service; no one forced them. (You could say that economic conditions forced them, which is entirely true in some cases but a conversation for another time. Right now, let’s assume they could have made the same amount working at Wal-Mart… which, in some cases, they could.) So, their spouses could have told them not to. I mean, seriously, if they loved their spouse, they could have said, “I don’t want you joining up and risking your life.” (Before you say that maybe they didn’t know, I’d add that ignorance is no excuse. What the hell did they expect joining the army to mean, anyway?) They could have also refrained from marrying someone in the service or with the inclination to join the service. There’s also divorce.

So, there are a lot of ways NOT to be a military spouse.

But what offends me most, what really sickens me, isn’t the amount of drama these people bring on themselves. No. What really sickens me is how these people can claim to support their spouse – love their spouse – but have no qualms with the war itself. If anyone should be protesting the war, it should be the friends and families of everyone who is over there! Are they really so blind that they still think we’re clearing out those WMDs (there were none, folks!) or bringing the benefits of Democracy to those people (hello, Vietnam!)?

Imagine how quickly this war would be over if everyone with a loved on in Iraq took to the streets? Hundreds of thousands of people marching would quickly get every person they claim to love out of harm’s way. But they can’t be bothered with that, for the most part. (I applaud anyone who speaks out in protest.)

And don't tell me they are "providing support" because the argument that allowing your loved one to engage in life-threatening and downright stupid behavior is "supportive" just doesn't hold up.

The same goes for any parent who isn’t outraged about global warming. How can you claim to love your children while giving them the gift of a ruined world?

It makes me sick.

1/10th of 15…

You heard me right… those of you who know what the hell I’m talking about… I’ve reached the 10,000 word mark in my new novel, Daughter of a One-Armed Man. (It’s a working title – what can I say?) You may know that I use 100,000 words as the benchmark for novel length and this puts me 1/10th of the way through.

This is also the time when I usually tell you what the hell this is all about and when I look for readers to see what kind of response the book elicits. My stock of readers is running very weak right about now. I have Jenn proofreading Climbing Maya for me – and, at the rate she keeps conveniently losing her copy, I’m not feeling particularly good about that one. Vicky’s proofreading A Grand Canyon – Part Two. (It’s like an industry, I tell you!) What I need to do is kidnap some literary critic and chain him up in my basement.

… What I need to do is build a basement…

Oh well. I’ve just gotta find someone.

Meanwhile, what the hell is this book all about, anyway?

As with all of my books, I’m trying to do something just a little different. First of all, this is definitely a “Big Message” book. So, to keep people focused, I’ve decided to write without any of the seven or so words people sometimes find offensive. (Though I’m still allowing myself to use words such as “war” and “peace” and “science” and “global warming”.) I don’t want to hear people telling me that the book is no good because the word “shit” appears in it, which is what those who wish to avoid the argument so often tend to do.

So, what’s the argument about?

This book, in its own round-about way, is a book with a question at its core. At the core of Climbing Maya was the question, “What is success?” At the core of Daughter of a One-Armed Man lies the question, “What is love?” (What can I say? I decided to give myself a little break after Climbing Maya.)

What is love? How can anyone who claims to love their child allow them to fight in a war? How can anyone who claims to love someone allow them to be bamboozled by religions that promote intolerance and war? Could I really say I loved Vicky if I was ambivalent to global warming, something that’s going to make her life quite difficult in coming years? How can anyone tolerate capitalist greed and claim to love their children?

Do people believe that oil spills don’t affect the quality of the world in which they live, the quality of the world in which their loved ones live? Wouldn’t the eradication of the bees and the frogs and the polar bears have some affect on the life of your loved one?

How can we be willing to say, “I love you but could care less about the crappy world in which you live?”

It seems to me that our fundamental understanding of the concept of love is faulty, just as our understanding of the concept of success is – as mine was before I wrote Climbing Maya. It needs to be corrected… and I have nothing better to do.

Is this a serious, philosophical novel? Yes… it also includes a cab-driving polar bear in Bermuda shorts named Peanut Butter… and a godlike fisherman who refuses to admit to being god… the daughter of a wood nymph who travels to Los Angeles to find her true love… and the ultimate answer that is bound to have a lot of readers disagreeing. What? Where’s the philosophy, you ask? Well, there are also arguments about overpopulation, plants the bring power and power plants, saying goodbye to the birds and bees and frogs and so much else, the usefulness of hemp, the death of coral reefs, Wal-Mart guilt, cell phone waste, whatever happened to brotherly love, Las Vegas logic, what could be gained by simply not being so goddamed greedy, and so much more…

…

This book also holds a special place in my heart. In the 15 years I was with Rosa, I wrote seven novels. By writing this book, I’ll have completed eight in the three years I’ve been with Vicky. (Which is to say that maybe, then, I’ll take a little break…)

And what of the fine people on Coffee Cake Island?...

So, if you’re Danish you come from Denmark.

But what if you’re blueberry muffin?

Planned obsolescence… or something…

I got an email today, asking me if that’s the entire A Grand Canyon (the book, not the canyon) posted on The Digital Word or just part one. It’s just part one… so far. They’ve just forgotten (so far) to mention that.

That should be resolved soon, though… making this entry pathetically short and quickly irrelevant.

Or so you’d think!

This also gives me an opportunity to talk about this whole “multi-part” thing. Why did I do it? How did it happen? Where are my keys?

As some of you may know, I began writing A Grand Canyon a few years ago, shortly before Vicky and I were married. The whole idea was to get all those old feelings out of my system and delete the backlog of emails I’d saved over the span of five or so years. Did it work? Of course, not! (I still need to delete those pesky emails!) But it showed me, and I think the book displays this, just how hard it is for anyone to get through a severe case of depression. It helped open me up to other people’s feelings and needs, knowing how my own were so miscommunicated and how terrified I was of them.

When I completed the book, I put it away. I thought I’d never look at it again.

Dig – this book was not written for publication because I assumed no publisher would touch it. After all, I’m nobody important. I’m just a guy.

And then, Blanche read it. And I was amazed at what she saw. Without realizing it, I’d written some kind of testament for the severely depressed, some kind of (dare I say) self-help book! Only, it didn’t give advice; it gave examples. I could easily have called it “Don’t Do This”.

Which is why I dedicated it to the other broken people out there. I’m one of you, putting myself back together a day at a time.

And then, The Digital Word came along. Listen, I have plenty of novels I’m still trying to get published – plenty I’m not as well, thanks to hundreds of rejection letters. I still think these novels are good; I just get tired of beating my head against a wall. So, although I didn’t anticipate publication, I felt A Grand Canyon made a perfect fit – a good book that traditional publishers would probably not get rich off of.

Most of the ebooks on TDW (pardon my abbreviation) are shorter by comparison, so I decided to create something different. I serialized A Grand Canyon into two parts, each of them costing less than a regular book (the combined price being comparable). Not only are you getting more but you’re getting a chance to try it out before you pay for it all.

So, there you go.

Now, buy it! (maybe?)

I don't give a fuck about Shrub's watch!...

Hello! People! I know you're easily distracted but come the fuck on! Global warming? Remember that? The illegal war? Ring a bell?

Yeah, I've had a team working on this over the past few weeks, and what we've come up with can be reduced to two fundamental concepts. One: People aren't wearing enough hats. Two: Matter is energy. In the universe there are many energy fields which we cannot normally perceive. Some energies have a spiritual source which act upon a person's soul. However, this "soul" does not exist ab initio as orthodox Christianity teaches; it has to be brought into existence by a process of guided self-observation. However, this is rarely achieved owing to man's unique ability to be distracted from spiritual matters by everyday trivia.

That link to the right means there’s books a’sellin…

Can I admit something to you?

I’m getting tired of saying this.

This is just the third time I’m mentioning it and I’m getting pretty damned tired of it. (I just sent out two mass emails.)

So, let’s get through this as quickly as we can, yes?

My 9th book, A Grand Canyon, is now on sale at The Digital Word. You can follow the link to the right – or this motherfucking one – and snap that puppy up for some cheap change!

Part One is now on sale, with Part Two sure to follow.

With an luck, an audiobook (for people just dying to hear my voice) (anyone? anyone?) will follow.

Shalome!

Vicky boozes up the Wii…

We’ve owned it… what? Two days now?

Oh sure. It was bound to happen. Vicky and I make a family of klutzes. We’re going to have to pad the walls when we have a child because, odds are, she will be colliding with everything.

Don’t believe me?

Whenever you load a game in the Wii, it displays a screen cautioning you to basically CLEAR THE AREA. There’s a whole lot of swinging and flailing going on; you have to be careful.

And we were… for the first day.

Last night, Vicky had made herself a Bahama Mama (of sorts). She was introduced to Bahama Mamas while we were in the Bahamas and now makes Bahama Mamas (of sorts) at home whenever she… is home…Well, she likes them when it’s hot and it’s summer and – oh fuck it.

Anyway, she made herself a Bahama Mama (of sorts) last night and put it on the table just as she took the Wii controller.

Yes, I should have warned her – but this is Vicky we’re talking about here. VICKY!

She was playing tennis… and she swung. And swung.

And swung.

And swung.

And swung.

And swung her hand right into the glass, spilling Bahama Mama (of sorts) and ice all over the damned place!

For just a split second, I could see that look on her face: My drink! My beautiful drink!

Yes, her Bahama Mama (of sorts) was history and I was running for the paper towels. But I couldn’t stop laughing because, torn between her booze and her tennis game, she failed utterly at both.

But she held back her tears.

Held them back.

Held them – for just a minute… and made herself another Bahama Mama (of sorts).

(Then, she kicked my ass at golf.)

The hook that sinks into you…

If there’s one “normal” thing about my mind, it’s that I cannot predict what it’s going to do next – and that unpredictability is constant… so I know to expect it…

Case in point: hallucinations. I have two kinds, generally. Type A are those full-blown, never existed, never will, aren’t real, and you’re fucking imagining it kinds. Thankfully, I’m not writing about one of those today. Type 2 are the kinds that did exist, did happen, were real… and you’re also imagining them. They are moments when my brain skips and lands in sometime other than the present, so I’m not experiencing the sensory input of today, but rather of another time.

This happens especially when I’m in some place with lots of memories. Going to my mom’s house is like a trip and fall and broken hip down memory lane for me and I have to shut out the things I think I see that aren’t really there. Oh, there are worse too… but I won’t get into those.

Today’s happened as I stood outside of work. I don’t have a key to the building so, when I show up too early, there’s some waiting involved.

You see, many years ago, when I worked for Best Life in Irvine, I would often stay late while Rosa was in school and, with us only owning one car, I would wait for her to come and pick me up once she got out. Sometimes, it got rather late. Occasionally, when it grew especially late, I would sit out in the front lobby and read, because I could see the headlights pull up from there. So, there I’d be, sitting in the lobby… and when it grew dark, sometimes I’d just sit in the dark.

And I’d see the headlights pull up. And I’d leave the building and see Rosa smiling at me from inside the car.

I don’t talk about this much. It’s kind of the daily workings of any relationship. (Ok, any relationship with one car.)

But then, this morning, my brain skipped – and I was standing outside of Best Life on a winter’s evening with Rosa waving and smiling at me from inside a Nissan Sentra. And I had to close my eyes and quietly tell myself (it takes practice) that what I was experiencing was not real. Your heart tends to race at a time like that and you just have to breathe deeply and tell yourself that it’s okay – just accept it.

I didn’t open my eyes for a while. I’m never sure what I’ll see. Times like that remind me that I need to seek treatment of some kind because I’m not as well as I claim to be.

I opened my eyes. Once again, I stood outside of my building – real time.

I’ve said it before. Why can’t I hallucinate winning lotto numbers?

(I later had a dream involving a topless Vicky so, you know, it goes where it will.)

I can’t wash dishes to save my life…

This is the world as Vicky sees it…

One-eyed, violent, middle-eastern terrorist: Ju call that dished washed gringo? (Turns out he speaks Spanish or something. Who knew?) I will put a bullet through your head if you don’t wash it right.

Me: (Setting the dish down and putting my head up against the barrel of the gun.) Go ahead.

Vicky hates the way I do dishes.

To be honest… in competition, I probably wouldn’t place.

My Vicky…

Sometimes, I get the feeling that there are two Vickys in there. There’s the one she wants everyone to see, and that’s the controlling, controlled, practical, and practiced Vicky. This Vicky serves her well and has helped her through the years. Then, there’s the other Vicky. I don’t get to see it very often because, I think, she probably feels it best to keep it hidden away for protection.

But I think that Vicky will come out a lot more once we have a baby. This is a gut feeling but I believe she won’t need to protect that second Vicky from a baby and will show it more. Who is this second Vicky? I got to see it for a few moments this weekend.

Saturday morning, Vicky and I went down to Seal Beach for a bit of breakfast. Okay, honestly, we probably could have picked a better place to eat. The spot we chose wasn’t the worst in the world but it wasn’t the best, either. Anyway, we had made our choice and we stuck to it – all in all, it was a 6. But that’s okay, because it was what we had planned for after that I was looking forward to. Together, we walked down to the beach, crossed the sand, and walked on the solid part of the shore where the tide leaves the ground firm and wet.

We were on the beach at low tide, and it was pretty low. I got to see Vicky’s eyes light up at the wonder of something we didn’t often experience, and at the children playing, and at all the birds. We held hands as we walked and talked about a lot of nothing. (The “nothing” for this weekend was getting A Grand Canyon ready for purchase.)

Suddenly, Vicky saw a starfish wash ashore. She picked it up and looked at it and, discerning that it was still alive, flung it back into the water. You gotta love someone who cares about starfish.

Then, we started watching the fish out in the water. This was a first for my adult life. We actually saw fish jumping up out of the water – at Seal Beach! It was amazing! (Who would have thought anything could live in that water?) We watched as dozens of fish leapt and cavorted… and then we watched the pelicans making dives at them. So, a little nature still exists out there… surprisingly!

For all of our busy, day to day, structure and goal-driven craziness, my favorite times with Vicky are these, when I can hold hands and walk together and I can see that smiling (dare I say “innocent”?) look in her eyes when she knows she is loved and can let down her guard for just a second.

Wii… are pooped…

(I honestly didn't mean for this to sound like a Nintendo ad... but I can't help it! It kicks ass!)

Vicky and I just got done bowling a couple games and playing more than ten matches in tennis… and it was all imaginary… Sure. Tell our bodies that!

Yes, we broke down and bought a Wii. Funnest damn thing we’ve seen in a while!

We had been holding back from buying a new console. After all, we really didn’t NEED one. But I wanted it because I heard it got you off your ass and that’s something the two of us sorely need.

Setting it up wasn’t too hard – five or ten minutes later, we were moving.

The free game pack, Wii Sports, will never win awards for graphics. But it’s a TON of fun! We were swinging tennis rackets and bowling and – I kid you not, we are both sweating!

(Of course, it’s also very hot today, so…)

This was mostly Vicky’s idea – though I did quite a bit of prodding – and I’m glad she decided to go for it. It’s a lot of fun. How I’m ever going to fit in WoW time, I’ll never know – it’s just a good thing we don’t watch a lot of TV because we’ll be playing it from now on.

Polls don't mean dick...

I’m getting really tired of listening critics of Shrub gloat over his low approval ratings.

He’s waged illegal war, stripped us of our most inalienable rights, surrendered the surplus to the mega-rich. His cronies have subverted the Justice system, destroyed entire government structures meant to protect us, tapped our phones illegally – and we don’t know what the fuck else because they won’t tell us what they do!

Stop telling me how low his approval ratings are. That doesn’t count for shit! Get the motherfucker out of office!

It’s called impeachment and he’s already broken enough laws to warrant it. So get your warrants into gear!

What’s the word, anyway?…

It’s called The Digital Word.

It’s a website, going live next week, that was created by a few friends of mine. Well, they wanted one of my books. And I gave them one.

How’s that for simple?

… What? You want more?

The first thing I had to decide was which of my 14 books was the hardest to get published that I felt might click in this venue. What’s this venue? Let’s call it guerilla publishing. Ebooks, Audio books – basically chucking it up against a wall and seeing if it sticks.

For those of you unfamiliar with my book, A Grand Canyon, it goes something like this… a one, two, three, four – Several years ago, before Vicky and I got married, I wanted to dump all the old cargo from the previous thirty-something years, all the bitterness and hurt and hate and sadness. I also wanted to answer the question my child might one day ask, “Daddy, how did you and mommy meet?”

So, I went a little overboard!

It’s a book about how I lost my way and lost my wife. It’s a book about my divorce and the results of my divorce. It’s a book about losing myself, finding myself, and finding happiness as well.

Oh, and Vicky’s in it, too.

You might notice a new link to the right. Well, once the site goes live, I’ll be sure to update it for you and keep you posted as to what’s going on there.

In the meantime, I’ll keep writing.

SiCKO Trailer...

A little knowledge could make anyone sick.

Restoring Habeas Corpus...

Remember when they took it away?

Middle-Aged lazies…

When people ask me, “So, Ken, how fat are you?”, which they do with startling regularity, I often reply to the stranger at the ice cream section at the grocery store of the employees at Del Taco who are still unknown by name though I see them several times each day, “Shut up or I’ll roll on top of you.”

… Middle age is not being very good to me.

Yesterday, we went to see Stephanie in her latest show at the Long Beach Playhouse. Now, it’s too late for a review but Vic and I both thought it was very good. Steph is a very talented, and funny, actress who is always fun to watch. (You know, until they put up those darker curtains…) The worst part of the whole thing, of course, was just sitting in a theater. Vicky has no problem with it; she enjoys it. I feel like the horse being led off to the mucilage factory, while all my friends are running the Kentucky Derby. I physically itch to get back on stage; it’s awful. Of course, in two months I’ll be back in school, so… oh well.

And then, there’s my supreme fatness… which would make for a good title… “Introducing, His Supreme Fatness!”

… I’m just saying.

I am totally willing to own up to my rotundity. After we left the theater, Vicky and I had to run an errand at the mall. We needed a new filter for our fridge. (One Path – All the excitement of a list of errands…) While we were at the mall, I thought we’d look for some new jeans. My old ones had gotten… well, old. Ratty. Worn and torn. I was in need. The thing is, though, that I’ve gotten so incredibly fat that I only know of one brand of jeans that – what’s that word? – oh yes, FITS MY FAT ASS.

It’s sad.

But you gotta love Vicky for going out of her way to appeal to my vanity. Rather than saying, “Just wear a thirty-eight waist you supremely arrogant, fat, tubby piece of shit,” she took me to a place that sold 36’s that fit.

And I can still cling to my illusion of… well… who am I kidding?

Then, it was home to do chores.

Fun, huh?

I’m sure you want to hear all about it but I’ll spare you… THIS TIME!

When I awoke this morning, I was about to explain why I couldn’t run for office as a Democrat, because I’m no longer a Democrat, when the alarm went off. “Just a moment,” I said, and rolled over to hit the alarm. Then, I realized, I was awake. See, here’s the thing: Vicky had run for Congress. She had joined the race as the only Democrat and, when the Republican nominee had dropped out in disgrace, Vicky was unopposed.

And she won! President Obama was there with his wife… which must mean that Vicky’s “Obama Fever” is catching in my subconscious. I’m not ready to give my support this early but my dreaming mind must have other ideas… anyway, they were at the victory party. Barack and I were talking about the future of the Democratic Party – which, as “awake Ken”, can I just say is not a happy thought – and then Vicky was announced the winner. People flooded around her and I was standing off on the side. The first lady said, “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to congratulate her later.” But I looked at her and said, “I don’t think I’m going to wait.” And I headed into the crowd.

Suddenly, Oliver Platt (yes, the actor) takes me to one side and suggests that I should run. I told him that wouldn’t be a good idea, but he insisted – and Oliver Platt’s a big guy, hard to refuse. So, I said, “Let’s go outside,” and we did. And we were outside of a small business park, which was a strange transition but I ignored it. “I can't run for office as a Democrat because I stopped being a Democrat a long time ago, and I’ll tell you why.” Then, the alarm went off. I said to him, “Just a moment,” but never completed that sentence.

And I never congratulated Vicky. So, I rolled over, kissed Vicky’s bare back and said, “Congratulation.”

I guess I woke her because she turned and asked, “What?”

“Congratulations,” I repeated.

She said something like, “What the hell are you talking about?”

So, I put one arm around her and kissed her again and told her about her victory. Then, I told her about the dream before that. Vicky and I had been at home when Tim Clostio called. He said that he had decided that I was incapable of forgiveness and that I was too judgmental and so he would never speak to me again. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up the phone.

Vicky said, “I was dreaming that I was dreaming that we were having sex and then I woke up and we were having sex and then you woke me up.”

“We could have sex,” I suggested.

I thought it was a pretty good idea – so did Vicky – but then, I saw the time and my list of morning chores started ticking off in my head: iron, get ready for work, have breakfast, make lunch… I miss those days when you could just blow things off. When you could call in sick and spend the whole day in bed. Thankfully, I’m still at an age where I don’t need any pills of any kind. But… well, I awoke with a little bit of a head cold and Vicky had a headache and I had to start getting ready or I’d be late. We’re both still too new at our jobs to just call in, willy nilly, for a day of sex.

So, I backpedaled and went into the other room and started to iron a shirt.

Middle age sucks. Spontaneity doesn’t fade because we can’t do it; it fades because we don’t have time to do it. It becomes harder to throw off all of our plans because there are just so damned many of them. I want to act but I have one book I’m beginning to write, another book I’m getting ready for distribution, and school starts soon. I want to stay home and have sex (with Vicky, of course) but I don’t want to screw up this job even if it is for another brand of screwing. I think that Vicky must get awfully bored with that. I hope not. Hopefully, there’s still enough of the impetuous, exciting, young me somewhere amongst my tonnage to offset the tedious, boring, older me.

… I’m just grateful I don’t need any pills…

Curses am us…

I’ve been saying a new curse word lately… actually, it’s more of a phrase than a word.

I said it just today.

“Holy Crap in a Hat!”

I couldn’t help wonder what that might be. It’s a nice phrase, I think, pulls that old swear word “Crap”, which isn’t even thought of as a swear word any more, out of retirement and gives it good company. But what could it mean?

A shit in someone’s fedora that has been sanctioned by God?

… sure. Why not?

A Rosa by any other name…

I keep trying to deny it… but I guess it really is happening.

Vicky is proofreading A Grand Canyon for me, a memoir I wrote a couple years ago for the express purpose of just generally getting it out of my head. The book covers the years between 2000 and 2005… and more…

Vicky’s proofing it for me because, as strange as this is going to sound, it’s going to be published.

Now, hold on, buckaroos! It’s just being published as an E-Book. That’s all. It’s no big deal.

The interesting thing is that I have to change all the names to protect the guilty.

So, that’s Tim Clostio.

Tim Murphy.

Sean Deyo.

Chris Anzalone.

Stephen Gomer.

Sherryl.

Deanna.

Teresa.

And, yes, Rosa Piedra. Everybody gets a new name. (It’s kind of like heaven in that way…) I figure I’ll change her last name from Piedra (which means “stone”) to something similar, like Arido (which means “barren”… cause I’m evil that way).

What I don’t have is a good first name for her. So, I figured I’d open that up to you, the readers. Any ideas for a new name for Rosa?… you know, one I can’t get sued with…

(And, in case you’re wondering, Vicky’s name stays the same. She can sue me later.)

Always just one step behind… or two…

Or three… or, in this case, maybe a couple of decades.

Anyway, Vicky and I finally settled down to watch the season finale of Jericho last night. Did I say “season finale”? What the producers didn’t know was that it was the SERIES finale, so they left us with this great cliffhanger, hanging right off the edge of mediocrity! Jericho was a good idea for a show whose writers couldn’t quite get their shit together. It looked like they were about to get a story together, rather than making us wait even longer for one to start, and the truck was pulling up with the script when –

It ended.

One of the funniest cliffhangers I’ve ever seen, because they’ll be left there in perpetuity (unless certain squirrels get their way).

One storyline I wasn’t too fond of had to do with one of the girls from Jericho finding her way into an army camp. “Who do you represent?” she asked.

“The United States,” a colonel tells her.

It isn’t until the closing moments that we see the American flag flying overhead… or is it? It’s a twisted reminder of the flag – something only Hollywood could come up with. Somehow, in the months after the series began, everyone (except the people of good old Jericho, of course) has forgotten exactly what the flag looked like… sure… I believe that…

It reminded me – far too heavy-handedly – of a 1987 miniseries with Kris (Kross) Kristopherson, called Amerika. It was a miniseries about people in the US being stripped of their liberties, forgetting what freedom was, and… wait a minute! They’re the same show! Okay, maybe not. In Amerika, the US was taken over by Soviets. In Jericho, the US is taken over by bad writers. Basically, though, the same thing.

Both of these shows preach the same gospel: Don’t take your liberties for granted. The hilarity of this concept, TV telling us to be mindful, is only eclipsed by the fact that Jericho was cancelled after subterranean ratings. Not only was TV the worst media through which to teach that lesson, no one wanted to hear it.

And so, we bid farewell to Jericho and hope some of the actors, who weren’t that bad, find work somewhere in a better show… just be wary of anything by Sorkin. The man kicks motherfucking writing ASS… but people would rather watch crap.

And now from the “I didn’t know they had an omen for that” department…

As most of you know, I am not the kind of person to read into things. I don’t believe things happen “for a reason” nor do I subscribe to the idea that saying something makes it true.

On the other hand, there are times when I can’t help but wonder what a more superstitious Ken would think when faced with certain situations.

Case in point: The Mystery of the Breaking Glasses.

Vicky and I got a set of glasses for our wedding. Tall and solid, we saw a long and happy future of drinking plenty of alcoholic beverages ahead of us.

Now, not even two years later, we’ve been breaking the glasses like crazy. We’re almost out of glasses!

What might this mean? Any soothsayers out there, for sooth?

I’m thinking it means that Vicky and I get to pick up a new set of glasses! That’ll be fun! And since we break them so easily, I’m thinking we should get something extremely fragile and see if we can waste them inside of a week.

Wives get mad…

Another universal axiom brought to you by the folks at One Path… or one of them, at least.

And you can tell when she’s mad because she gets that tone in her voice, that “don’t fuck with me” tone. I’m not talking about getting pissed off, either. This is just her plain, everyday anger.

See, we were on the phone and she was trying to talk to me on speaker.

“Are you running late?” I asked her.

“Fisbit mern mernum gagspiel,” I heard her say.

“Because if you are, I won’t bother you,” I tried again.

“Srcjkloat mbnaindrg spasplaspla,” she seemed to reply.

“Honey, I can’t understand you when you’re on speak,” I finally told her.

Then, she switched to the regular phone and said, “What?!” And, in that one word, I knew I’d gone too far. In my selfish insistence on hearing the words that she spoke, I’d given her every reason she needed to kill me.

… this is why I never piss her off… not in the same room, at least…

So, I quickly got her off the phone so she could fume for the rest of the day and draw pictures of me being decapitated on her notepad at work.

Before I hung up, I said, “I love you.” Sometimes, that also means, “Please don’t kill me in my sleep.”

I went to Arizona and all I got was this stupid blog…

Okay, that’s not entirely true.

But you’ll have to cut me some slack. Vicky and I were gone for three days, with lots to recall, and I’m feeling kind of sick… but we’ll leave that part alone.

The point of the trip was to visit my ailing father – not that it turned out that way… I’m just saying…

Vicky and I left in my little Honda early on Saturday, hoping to beat all of the massive, holiday traffic. Vicky gets nervous when I drive, not that I’m a bad driver. I just think she freaks out at the idea of my little Honda being surrounded by hungry-looking SUVs. They towered over us almost the entire way, as we drove from one desert to another to another to another… not a lot of scenery out on I-10…

I hadn’t slept much the night before. It was one of those nights filled with bad dreams, sleepwalking, and insomnia… you know, the usual stuff… So, driving wasn’t much of a pleasure and I didn’t dare tell Vicky about how desperately I wanted to sleep… you know, as I drove! Thankfully, Vicky wanted to stop a couple of times, giving me an opportunity to stretch my legs. We stopped by this little, Mexican restaurant (somewhere off Jackson Street and Indio Boulevard) that had once been something else, the kind of place that could be very dicey, certainly uncertain, not where smart people go. And so, we went. And we were so happy we did! With a name like Taco Jalisco, you don’t expect much but the service was good and the people were nice and the food – oh my god! It became a “Mexican food weekend” and this was my favorite place, by far. The chili verde I ordered with very fresh and tasty and Vicky’s fish taco’s were perfect and authentic. Yeah, we loved that place.

But we had to get back on the road. By the time we hit Arizona, we stopped for gas and Vicky picked up a Monster energy drink, which gave us a different kind of gas, one we weren’t hoping for… basically, I burped the rest of the way to Phoenix, these toxic, paint-peeling kind of burps that threatened to put me in jail for the most unique homicide in history.

Ah, but then, we were there! We pulled up in front of our hotel, checked in, got to our room – and I just crashed!

… but I couldn’t sleep. Dammit.

So, we went to dinner. Dwight and Blanche met us at the hotel, so we didn’t have to do any more driving. This also meant we got to drink! Dwight had picked out a nice place for us in Scottsdale. While he drove, he had to show us his Tom Tom… over and over… and over…

As we drove, we passed AssMann Electronics. We got out of his car to see the Valley Ho. (There was a lot of laugher.)

He took us to the Old Town Tortilla Factory, not a bad place, especially when someone else is paying. Vicky and I took advantage by drinking a couple margaritas and tequila shots. My urge to drink probably started when Dwight sat down at the table and said, “So, Ken, guess what. I’ve been published.”… and I had to reply, “That’s great, Dwight.” Now, Dwight’s not a writer, in case you’re wondering. In fact, he wasn’t published – he was sourced. Someone had interviewed him and included part of it in a trade article. So, it only seemed fair for me to drink at his expense.

Thankfully, the word (when we got around to it) was that my dad was doing better. It was good to see Blanche back to her old self, knowing that her husband (and my dad) wouldn’t be dying this week, at least. So, we all kidded around and ate and then I launched into a typical tirade about all the research I’ve been doing (birds and bees and other dying things) and, soon, dinner was over.

Vicky, Dwight and I hit a little casino where Vicky enjoyed some LET IT RIDE and I enjoyed some beer and cigarettes. But I didn’t enjoy it enough because the casino was so small, they didn’t really have any place to sit down. Oh well. And Vicky lost. Oh well.

We got back to the hotel and trudged up to bed.

This bed… it wasn’t great. See, our new bed at home is great. This thing was like the LUMPMASTER SUPREME… ick. And, of course, I couldn’t sleep.

So, I let Vicky sleep and I went downstairs. I sat out by the pool and had a few smokes and did what I normally do when I’m insomniatic, smoking, alone, and bored, I tried to turn my brain off. Sometimes, this leads me to all kinds of fun hallucinations. This time, surprisingly, I began to grow tired. I decided to return to the room and try to sleep, which I did, and I actually fell asleep by about 2am… waking up at 4am… and 6am… and 8am… But, hey, sleep is sleep!

We hit the Cracker Barrel for breakfast with Dwight but I can’t say anything good about the breakfast. It turned out that the biscuits and gravy were the way to go and we all went the wrong way… dammit. But Vicky and I found a cast iron skillet we’ve been looking for and paid only $40. (The pan was $20… the lid was another $20. Can you say “highway robbery”? Oh well…)

Vicky and were going to head on over to see the folks in the afternoon but decided to drive over to the mall first.

This is the part where you’ll probably start to laugh… you’ve been waiting a long time, I know. Vicky and I started our trip at the mall by getting pedicures… both of us… together…

I’d never had a pedicure before but Vicky had been insisting for several month that I try one. For some reason, that day and in that place, I broke down… but I really shouldn’t have.

We went to this day-spa kind of place and were sent into the back room where they do the various “cures” and things. (I’m a guy. What do I know?) Shortly, two girls walked out to greet us. Now, here’s the thing. I was there with my wife… you know? So, I was glad neither of the girls were the kind I usually find attractive. I could sit next to my wife – MY WIFE – and just get through this.

The girl who was… um… servicing me was this petite, blonde named Darcy. I don’t go for blondes… normally.

See, this gets into some very strange territory. My wife is sitting right next to me while this blonde is rubbing my feet, scrubbing, massaging… after a while, I pretty much just wanted to toss Darcy on the floor and roll on top of her like the large walrus that I am. Actually, that’s not it. I wanted to fuck her! You know, as I sat beside MY WIFE!

Conflicted? You bet!

And, on top of that, my feet are VERY ticklish.

All told: My wife beside me + wanting to bone the chick massaging my feet + having my whole body spasm as a result of being tickled by this little hottie massaging my feet while MY WIFE is sitting right beside me = NO MORE FOR ME, THANK YOU! I’ve had my fill with possible infidelities, even the thought of another is too much for me. Granted, I think about other women… lots of them… all the time… hey, I’m a guy, you know?!... but this never, EVER happens while my wife is sitting right beside me!!!

And that's the last you'll ever hear about that...

Anyway, after that, we actually had a great time, walking the mall, enjoying the atmosphere. We stopped by Williams Sonoma to find out that a cast iron skillet there would have cost us a cool $100! We had a coffee and bought some books and… what? Was there something else we were supposed to do?

… OH right! Visit my dad!

So, we got back on the road, headed out… and the road circled around and brought us back to the mall…

Okay, so I had Vicky call my dad but I should inform you that directions just weren’t going to help. Nope. We were intent on getting lost. And we did – and we had a great time doing it! See, we knew where my Dad and Blanche were in relation to where we were, so we knew we couldn’t get really lost, just a little lost, and that was fun.

But when we got to the house, my Dad and my brother were arguing about directions. Dad thinks he knows all the shortcuts and Dwight thinks his Tom Tom is God’s cure for maps. Meanwhile, Vicky and I just like getting lost.

And if that wasn’t bad enough… So, I brought Dad’s birthday present to him early this year. (Heck, we were out there anyway, right?) Dad hadn’t given Dwight the kind of approval Dwight had wanted with regards to the article that had sourced him. Guess what happens when you put those together… Dad loved his gift, Dwight felt scorned, so Dwight pulled out his Tom Tom and… I was just glad when we left.

After spending the last few months being a model son and brother, I’ve decided to put a moratorium on any more activities with my family for one month!

But I had to get through this visit, first. We all got in our cars and drove down the street to La Casa Blanca, The White House. Dad and Dwight were making comments about this White House as opposed to the one in Washington. Vicky shut them up by telling them how any comparison ends because, “I don’t think they want Mexicans in that White House.” I may be misquoting her but she got them good and I laughed quite a bit. (Later, she added, “Unless their name is Gonzales.” But, then, I can’t imagine any Mexican would want to be near him.)

More wonderful Mexican food and a couple of huge margaritas later, with Vicky and I picking up the tab this time, and the visit was over – all too early. I had dreaded seeing my dad, afraid of how poorly he might be doing. Then, when I saw him, I wished I had spent more time with him. But that’s the way I goes, I guess.

That night, Vicky and I hit one more casino, Casino Arizona. Vicky hit the LET IT RIDE table, which ended up hitting her, and I discovered Malibu and Coke… yum! I drank about five of those and a couple of beers and was feeling good. Wait, scratch that. Dwight came by and we got into it over his views on homosexuals, which are archaic at best, downright hateful the rest of the time. So, I was forced to get in his face and try to set him straight. But, unsurprisingly, nothing changed his views. He’s too old and stubborn to learn anything new but I’ll keep trying to turn him away from a life of hatred and intolerance because I love him.

Okay, and I might have started chain smoking and blowing it all in his face in an effort to get him to leave…. maybe…

On Monday, our drive home took around eight hours. So, I don’t think I’ll be driving out there any time soon. I hope I don’t have to, at least.

We stopped at a roadside place for lunch. The breakfast buffet was just wrapping up. “What’s on the lunch buffet,” I asked because, hey, a buffet is a buffet!

“I dunno,” the waitress said and walked away.

And… we waited. We waited for an awfully long time. As we waited, I commented on the Steak Buffet that was advertised for dinner. When we finally felt we could wait no longer, that we really had to get back on the road, fed or not, as we were getting up, the waitress returned.

“Did you see what was in the buffet?” Vicky asked. After all, the lunch buffet was already almost a quarter of an hour late.

“Chicken,” the waitress replied. “That’s all I saw.”

“Well, tell you what,” I said, “we’ll get something else.” We opened the page to order burgers because Vicky had a hankering for a good hamburger.

“If you’re gonna order a burger,” the waitress warned us, “I should tell you that we’re all our of burger meat.”

Of course. And on a holiday weekend, too.

As we walked out, still hungry, Vicky commented, “You think they could just grind up some steak, perhaps???”

I have to say that the best part of the weekend was hanging out with Vicky for a couple of days. Our normal lives have us moving to fast to spend more than a few hours at a time together. I really enjoyed us hanging around. We felt more like a couple than we have in some time.

Now, we just have to recuperate…

Since when did we need to petition for this?...

How's this for a revolutionary thought:

"The public airwaves should be used for the public good. The government must protect our airwaves from corporate gatekeepers who would stifle innovation and competition in the wireless Internet market."

Yes, you should sign this petition.

The Moment of Responsibility...

Vicky doesn't get it.

Why would I want to write a book about things that I find so distasteful such as what we're doing to our planet and ourselves, how we snuggle down in a cocoon of lies and bury ourselves away from a truth that becomes less escapable every day. But that's what a writer does, I think, look for the uncomfortable truths of life. Success comes when you can face them and speak them to people.

I've been spending a lot of time this week, looking at uncomfortable truths and talking about them here on the blog. As I told Vicky this evening, my style is to allow them to infect me, to bruise me in a way and display those bruises in my writing.

So, get ready for something new. I don't usually write poetry any more. I try to stay pretty far away from it, for my own reasons. But there are times when it is inescapable.

Here's one I just wrote. It is not about suicide, however much you might see that. It is about that moment that comes when you decide to face the truth and you realize the wasted life that has dominated you up until then. It is called The Moment of Responsibility...


Won’t you please kill this man bothering me?
He’s got hair like an ape and the mind of a flea.
A back broke with excuses
A mind on the shelf
Can’t you please kill him?
This man is myself.


Can’t you please kill this man I can’t contend.
No sense of compassion nor boon will he lend.
Concrete eye covers
To ensure he won’t see
Can’t you please kill him?
This person is me.


I need you to kill him
And let this be clear
Mere survival means death
And so death is more dear.
It is life that we seek
Not the bliss of the dumb
Call it sacrifice, mercy, whatever you like
But let me be the one.

Why I feel so out of touch…

Sometimes, I feel like I should have never stopped acting, like writing just isn’t right for me. (No pun intended.) People loved me when I acted. I was adulated. I was admired. As a writer, I piss people off. I even make my wife tell me to shut up.

Let me give you an example.

I started doing research for the new book this week by looking into the state of the birds and the bees… and the frogs. As you probably saw from yesterday’s blog, the information I learned was not encouraging.

So, I told Vicky. I mean, after all, we’re interested in bringing a new life into this world. You’d think she’d want to know what kind of world we’re bringing this new life to, right? I thought so. So, I told her about how the West Nile Virus is killing off the crows. I told her about the decimation of 2/3 of domestic honeybees and 90% of feral bees. I told her about how the frogs will all be dead in our lifetime.

But she didn’t want to hear about it. She’d rather not think about those things.

And I was dumbfounded. I thought she’d be different from everyone else – because it seems that the entire world would rather go on with their suicidal ways, ignoring the obvious dangers. (Dead bees = less or no pollination = less or no food = less or no people!)

It’s making me sick.

Which is one of the reasons I want to write this book. I don’t know if anyone will want to read it, of course. I feel like a madman shouting from rooftops… or, worse still, tilting at windmills.

Look at how we chose to spend our money.

If we decided to skip one movie this year – one of the hundreds of movies that came out every year – we could make the world a better place. If those who invested in movies spent their money on causes that helped the earth instead of funding one, single film, the world would be helped. You want numbers? Spiderman 3 cost $258 million dollars to produce. With that budget, you could fund:

Greenpeace
Friends of the Earth
Environmental Defense Fund
The Wilderness Society
The Earth Liberation Front
World Wide Fund for Nature
Earth First

You could fund all of these groups – and then some – for an entire year! How’s that for a choice? One movie – a single movie – two hours of your life – or funding to help save your children’s lives for one year!

Can’t get away from your movies?

Okay, how about this, then: Each day, Las Vegas uses 6,000 megawatts of power to power all of its dazzling lights, its casinos, shows, and attractions. The US DoE provides an average cost for each kilowatt at 9.86 cents. It took me a while to get the math right – Kw hours versus days, etc – and when I did, I did it again. It couldn’t have been right. But it was…

Every hour, Las Vegas uses nearly 25 million dollars. That’s not counting the water or the gas or the pollutants that come out of the cars the drive out there just to gamble for that hour – that’s just the electricity. Every day, it costs over 14 billion dollars to light the town. In one half hour, visitors to the Strip (just the Strip) spend tens of millions of dollars in gambling alone!

Now, imagine for just one second what could be done if you didn’t go to Las Vegas for one hour. Imagine what could happen if you didn’t go for one day. Imagine what the world would be like if the investors who got filthy rich off of Las Vegas said, “We will shut down for one day and put that money into cleaning up the environment.”

Just one day.

Imagine.

But when I mention this to Vicky – my love, above whom I hold no other – she gets mad at me as if I’m trying to take something away from her. Just suggesting that we miss one movie or don’t go to Las Vegas for one hour and I’m suddenly Jo Stalin. And it’s not just her. It’s everybody.

We live in a society where people stopped suggesting sacrifice a long time ago, where selfishness is indoctrinated from the toys we give our children that costs hundreds of dollars apiece, where greed is the highest virtue and to even question that is the greatest sin.

It was once suggested that the goal of a parent is to provide a better life for their children than they had, but today we leave our children nuclear waste, the waste of war, deforestation, climate change, extinctions, and on and on – and we teach them to leave it to their kids, should the world last long enough. The last laugh, it seems, is on the people who get here last.

How the hell are we ever going to protect our children when we won’t even give up a half hour of putting our money in a machine that blinks for us? (Yes, I’m talking about Vegas.)

I can hear it said that it's probably better just to ignore it all. After all, ignorance really is bliss. But where would that leave us?

So, yes, I feel completely out of touch. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m a latter day Cassandra.

But I hope that's not true.

Time to feed the worms…

You’re not going to believe me but I’ll tell you anyway because it’s true. I finished the first draft of my new horror novel, Wormfood, today. I don’t know how I did it but it’s got to be some kind of record breaker!

Lori (once a devout reader on these here shores) used to always ask me to do that “Write a book in a month” competition that pops up every November or so but I would say, “Are you kidding? I can’t write a book in a month!” Well, it looks like I have.

I’ll take that martini, now!

So, what’s ahead?

Listen, I have plenty of books to work on selling for the rest of the decade so I can take a long break now. I earned it. I won’t, of course.

I applied for Cal State Fullerton last night – yep, paid my $55 and everything. I think my timing was good and I should get accepted. With classes starting in August, I should be busy with classes until I run out of things to try and sell.

This, of course, won’t stop me from trying to crank out one more book in the meantime.

The working title is Daughter of a One-Armed Man, and as I’ve mentioned it’ll be a parable and a fable. It’s the story of a guy living in a world going to hell and how he realizes the responsibility he holds in it. It’s about love. Love for a woman, love for a child, love for family, people, nation – love for a world. All are interconnected.

What if you heard that the every feline species would be dead within our lifetimes? It would probably piss you off, right? But the every species of frog is dying off and we don't care. What if 2/3 of humanity dropped dead in one lifetime? It would trouble you, wouldn't it? But 2/3 of all domestic honey bees have died off since 1950 and nobody knows why - and nobody cares. You may not understand why you should care about frogs but bees ensure that we have food. As Einstein said, when the bees die, so does man. Still don't care?

Would you want your loved one to suffer the hell of a world filled with poisons, global catastrophes brought on by climate change, values eradicated by senseless, endless war, and a starvation of meaning? Of course, not. And yet, we all live here and we all allow it. Every day, we ignore the world around us and think that by doing so we protect the ones we love. We have been lulled to sleep by our refusal to be held responsible. It’s time to wake up.

After all, I couldn’t follow up Climbing Maya with just a zombie book. Writing stories is no longer quite enough for me. Now that I’ve written something meaningful, I want some more of that.

So the worms can rest for a while. I’ll probably work on rewrites for Wormfood before the end of summer but I’m in no rush. Like I said, I’ve got plenty of other things to do.

More virgin birth than you can shake a stick at...

Back on January 24th, I showed you how lizards are putting that whole "virgin birth" myth to shame.

(Don't worry, my Christian friends. It's all metaphorical.)

Well, according to this recent report, sharks are jumping on the virgin birth bandwagon! And, from all I've heard, they are ATHEISTS!!!

Yesterday, today was tomorrow...

I looked at my watch today, the watch I never learned how to set and so when the time “changes” I am forced to perform complex mathematical equations to determine the correct time, the watch whose alarm is set at 8pm (or 9pm, depending) and will remain set until 8pm (or 9pm, depending) until the day it dies, the watch Noriko gave me and will forever remain special, and realized it’s May 22.

… what? You were expecting more, perhaps?

You ever have one of those days that passes you by so quickly that you forget to take notice? Maybe it was a weekend day that went to fast or a day at work that flew by? Maybe it was an old wedding anniversary?

In my case, I never thought I would accidentally miss May 21 and not take notice. I never thought a May 21 would pass without feeling some deep, incontrovertible pain.

You see, that used to be my wedding anniversary. I was married before on May 21, 1988.

I can’t imagine missing or forgetting September 24 but, I suppose, these landmarks along the road of life are fleeting and it actually is possible to miss them. I feel strange admitting that, because I can remember the pain my divorce brought for all of those years and I can remember the love that I felt during my dozen years of marriage.

… but, and I kept help smiling as I write this, none of it really matters. It mattered then. It matters far less now.

It would be obvious to say that I have a new wife and that I love her very much. But loving Vicky does not reduce the love I once felt for another – the purpose of love is never to diminish. Quite simply, married or not, in love or not, I am a different person.

So, I started thinking about how different I am and it began to play out in my mind as one of those mass mailings your friends email around. Favorite ice cream? Favorite character on Heroes? Favorite Jelly Belly? And I thought I’d list them now, knowing that they’ll change next week, next month, and next year. They are meant to change… Everything Changes.

In 1988, I thought I’d never get divorced.
In 2000 (the year of my divorce), I thought I’d never get married.
Today, I’m sure of and aim for neither.

In 1988, I never wanted children.
In 2000, I never thought I’d have children.
Today, I want Vicky and I to have children.

In 1988, I was sure my acting career was over.
In 2000, I was sure it had just begun.
Today, it’s like the motorcycle Vicky keeps saying we’ll get me. Sure, but where would we put it?

In 1988, I had written one novel.
In 2000, I had written seven novels.
Today, I have written 13 novels (give or take), am finishing the 14th, and am preparing to write my 15th… damn!

In 1988, I knew I had to be published to give my life as a writer meaning.
In 2000, I was certain I had to be published to give my life as a writer meaning.
Today, my life has enough meaning and publication would be a nice bonus.

In 1988, I played far too many video games.
In 2000, I played far too many video games.
Today, I play far too many video games!

In 1988, I held everyone else to a very high standard.
In 2000, I held myself to a very high standard.
Today, I’m trying to go easy on everyone.

In 1988, my in-laws hated me.
In 2000, a few of my ex-in-laws loved me.
Today, my in-laws love me and I think I’ll keep them!

In 1988, I read comic books.
In 2000, I sold comic books.
Today, I watch comic books on TV!!!!

In 1988, I read fiction.
In 2000, I read a little fiction.
Today, I never read fiction any more, just non-fiction. What the hell?

In 1988, my musical tastes were way behind the times.
In 2000, my musical tastes were way behind the times.
Today, my musical tastes are way behind the – THEY’RE JUST FINE, THANK YOU!

In 1988, I admired sci-fi films.
In 2000, I admired Woody Allen films.
Today, I admire Bergman films… who says I’m not getting old?

In 1988, I was a dirty, young man.
In 2000, I was a dirty, middle-aged man.
Today, I am in training for the Dirty Old Man-o-lympics!

In 1988, I was employed as a Benefits Assistant who did some writing.
In 2000, I was employed as a Technical Writer.
Today, I’m employed as an Assistant Marketing Manager. (Things may be looking up!)

In 1988, I had taken some college courses and failed miserably!
In 2000, I had my Associates degree.
Today, I’m preparing (with Vicky’s generous help) to go back and finish my Bachelors! Boo-yah!

In 1988, I wore my hair long.
In 2000, I wore my hair long.
Today, it’s growing, baby! It’s growing!

Now, just in terms of the last two:

In 2000, my deepest regret was in failing one of my closest friends.
Today, my deepest regret has been in failing one of my closest friends.

In 2000, I wanted to write big books on a grand scale.
Today, I like writing small books on an intimate scale.

In 2000, I would never eat sushi.
Today, I love to eat sushi… with Vicky… at a restaurant… There’s just no way for this NOT to sound dirty…

Times change. People change. Hair styles change. Interest rates fluctuate. The point here is that all of these statistics are meaningless by themselves. One day, you’re a young man filled with promise who has nothing but regrets and self-abasement. The next, you’re older and the promise ain’t there so much but you know things can be worse and they ain’t so bad now, anyway.

Thank heaven for time, I guess.

Not too good but I am well…

It’s my own fault, really. There are times when the happy-go-lucky side of Ken slips away and reveals deeper, darker sides and sometimes, I have to admit, I can be a real bastard of a Grammarian.

I try not to correct people’s grammar most of the time. Honestly. But I do spend a lot of time with Vicky so, like it or not, she does tend to catch a few corrections from my direction.

One of them, that I must have repeated a few times, is the difference between “well” and “good”. “Good”, as a reflection of quality, functions perfectly well as a predicate adjective. For the intransitive verb, however, “well” is preferable to “good”. And so, I tend to push that.

You see the mistake, don’t you?

I pushed a little too much!

While we were out this weekend, I gave the response “Good” when asked, “How are you?” And I didn’t provide this response just once! I gave it twice!!!!

And Vicky was in full gloat mode.

Dammit.

This, of course, led me like a drowning man to a life raft straight to my Elements of Style, a great resource when mired in rhetorical tar pits. It turns out, and Vicky’s going to hate me for this, that I was correct in responding “Good” when I did. Because I could have been referring to my state of mind rather than my physically being, making this the appropriate response in that instance.

... What? These can't ALL be about my books! ;-)

Just so we're clear...

"God has told me!"

- stated a couple thousand years ago makes you a prophet.

- stated any time recently makes you crazy or a liar.

- stated at a Republican convention makes you the next candidate!

Free Speech that's less than free...

Bill Moyers wrote this week:

It's time to send an SOS for the least among us — I mean small independent magazines. They are always struggling to survive while making a unique contribution to the conversation of democracy. Magazines like NATIONAL REVIEW, THE AMERICAN PROSPECT, SOJOURNERS, THE AMERICAN CONSERVATIVE, THE NATION, WASHINGTON MONTHLY, MOTHER JONES, IN THESE TIMES, WORLD MAGAZINE, THE CHRISTIAN CENTURY, CHRISTIANITY TODAY, COLUMBIA JOURNALISM REVIEW, REASON and many others.

The Internet may be the way of the future, but for today much of what you read on the Web is generated by newspapers and small magazines. They may be devoted to a cause, a party, a worldview, an issue, an idea, or to one eccentric person's vision of what could be, but they nourish the public debate. America wouldn't be the same without them.

Our founding fathers knew this; knew that a low-cost postal incentive was crucial to giving voice to ideas from outside the main tent. So they made sure such publications would get a break in the cost of reaching their readers. That's now in jeopardy. An impending rate hike, worked out by postal regulators, with almost no public input but plenty of corporate lobbying, would reward big publishers like Time Warner, while forcing these smaller periodicals into higher subscription fees, big cutbacks and even bankruptcy.

It's not too late. The postal service is a monopoly, but if its governors, and especially members of Congress, hear from enough citizens, they could have a change of heart. So, liberal or conservative, left or right, libertarian, vegetarian, communitarian or Unitarian, or simply good Samaritan, let's make ourselves heard.

(You can catch his program every Friday night on PBS, by the way.)

Speaking out for free speech shouldn't turn your stomach. It's a priviledge we take too much for granted, which we would be lost without. Speaking out on this one issue won't take much of your time - it should only be the beginning. Or are you happy with the idea of your children not enjoying the same rights as you?

On the Urgency of the Well-Set Calendar…

This entry is not about writing.

Let me tell you again, this entry is NOT about writing.

It’s about not writing.

I am not writing about writing but about not writing.

Are we clear?

Good.

I long for the days when I could be bored. (Yes, there’s a point. Let me wax for a moment…) Until I hit my 20’s, I went through life just waiting for something to happen. Ah, how I miss those days.

So, it looks like I’ll be starting school in the fall, going to Cal State Fullerton to complete my Bachelor’s degree. There’s no more putting it off. Vicky won’t let me. I’d be happy to fill the remainder of my days writing books and playing video games (and maybe even acting again one day!) but Vicky has it in her head that I should get my degree.

… dammit.

I am a bit worried, I’ll let you know. It’s been a while since I was last in school and I wasn’t that great at it to begin with. (I mean, look! I just ended a sentence with a preposition! What do you think that says about my academic achievements???) This doesn’t seem to hold much water for Vicky. She’d rather see me fail than not try… and I’m still wondering if that’s a good thing…

That gives me about three months before I start. (The fall semester beings on August 16.)

Three months left to do what I want.

And what do I want to do?

I want to write another book, of course!

Listen, I know how it sounds! I sound like I’m on literary crack! But I’ve been so productive of late that I can’t help think I should use it while I got it. You know – if you’re falling anyway, you might as well dive!

The present novel is nearing completion of its first draft. I’m at 63,000 words right now and the aim is about 80,000. (I knew this would be a short book going in.) I can probably whip out the rest in another week or so.

So…

That leaves me with another three months or so…

Plenty of time to crank out one more…

If only I had an idea!

I had one of those long talks with myself the other day. What do you really want to write about, I asked.

Clearly, I want to write about ethics. I want to write about being a better person. I want to write about how people can continue driving their cars as huge chunks of ice melt away before us. Where’s the outrage? How can we insist on our daily greed? How can we not be offended by the poor and the hungry who live right next door? How is it that we could allow our government to say its protecting forests by cutting them down? Don’t we see how stories on the news about families winning the lottery only encourage greed and discourage planning? Why do we allow such shortsighted folly as war and greed, anyway? How did the suburban dream of the house with the white, picket fence and 2.5 kids turn into the million dollar house with no yard, cramped up against its neighbor, and a plasma TV and a refrigerator with a TV built into it and an SUV in the garage and 2.5 kids in private school, prepping for college, insisting on games that cost hundreds of dollars to keep them away from the scary, scary world outside?

I want to write about how “I Want” has become the newest and most important commandment.

Our ever-increasing desires are outstripping our ability to live in the world around us. We’re gobbling up everything in sight and only wanting more.

There’s something very wrong with that.

So, I’ve decided to write a fable, a morality tale, a parable. I’ve decided to put a new spin on Socialism and state the obvious, “If you want to save the planet, you’ve got to stop acting like you own it.” It’s a story about a guy who turns off the wrong road, somewhere between California and Oregon, to find his life’s dream. It’ll cost everything he has. He’ll meet people confused about geography, a one-armed man, and a traveling polar bear (cause you take cold wherever you can get it in a globe that’s warmed up). “If you’re not willing to risk everything, you don’t deserve anything.”

That’s next.

Then, school. That’ll be like a break.

Surprises, Magic, Acting, and Writing…

Vicky and I were out on our patio last night. Relaxing. Talking. Dying for a smoke. (Me, not her.)

I was talking to her about the progress on my present book, which is seeming more and more like the most masturbatory exercise in fiction writing – sex and death all the way – but a hell of a lot of fun just the same. “Somehow, I got my main character up on a rooftop and I’ve set the building on fire. I have no idea how that happened or where I’m going with it.”

“See? That part I just don’t understand,” she said to me.

Well, the thing is, I don’t understand it, either. But that’s how it works. That’s what makes it all worthwhile. It is what makes it FUN.

There’s a similar moment when you’re acting that comes on you after you know your lines. You’re in a performance and all of a sudden you are no longer playing the part, you are the part. And the words are coming out of you like it was your own idea. This doesn’t happen all the time, mind you. But when it does… it’s FUN.

So, I thought I’d talk about this today because something else has been troubling me of late… I’ll get to that in a minute.

So, what am I talking about? How is it that you (as the writer) can be surprised by your own story or that you (as the actor) can be surprised by your part? You know, that story you’ve been thinking about for months or that part you’ve been rehearsing for just as long. It doesn’t seem to make sense, really. In fact, it sounds downright counterintuitive.

… yes, well, that’s what makes it magic.

And it really is. That’s why so many people want to be artists, because of the magic. I can tell you that this moment also occurs when you’re in a band, and suddenly all of the members are acting as one and it’s totally spontaneous. I’m sure the same thing occurs in painting and in dance and in cooking, which is also an art form, after all.

Here’s the thing. You know it and you know you know it. You’ve brought yourself up to the keyboard or the stage or whatever and you have rehearsed or prepared in some way to such a degree that you are ready. Now, the next part may strike some people differently, but this is what happens to me – then, you ignore everything. A part of you says, “Yes, of course, all that preparation was useful but why don’t we just do it… THIS WAY!”

I imagine that happens to me on stage somewhere around my eyes. I know, thinking back on my last performance in “Something To Hide”, it began when I got a glass in my hand (and, trust me, with all the drinking I did in that show, it didn’t take long). My character held his drink differently than I did so I knew when I held my glass in a certain way HE was in control. What happens to the rehearsing? Well, you’ve done it so many times that it’s a part of you, isn’t it? You can be comfortable taking your flight of fancy because you know how to fly, you see?

So, what about this guy up on the burning roof and that other thing I haven’t mentioned yet? Well, first let’s get the guy off the roof. See, I knew what this book was going to be about for a long time. It’s a very basic story: zombies. Okay? Of course, it has that La Salle twist but I knew all about it. And that’s probably why I put the guy on the roof! One thing to keep in mind about writing, is that I get to work all of my muscles: writer, actor, director, producer, set designer, prop guy, grip. Everything. So, like with acting, I prepare and then – zing – I go THAT WAY!

The FUN is not in the preparation. Strangely enough, the FUN is in defying that preparation, saying, “You thought that was good? Just wait!” Stepping as close to the edge of the stage without falling off. Risking failure. That’s where the real FUN lies.

Now, as an unpublished novelist, I should warn you that this could all be very, very wrong. I could suck the proverbial mule. Okay? Don’t listen to me!

Which brings me to my other issue. I’ve been reading a lot about REWRITING lately. All the experts seem to stress and push and sledgehammer you with the idea that once you’ve written something, you must immediately doubt yourself so fiercely that you throw away what you’ve just written and REWRITE IT.

… sounds goofy to me.

Now, I will grant you that I think some rewriting is important. I’ve done quite a bit in my time. Still, with just about everything I write, I usually know what I’m looking for enough so that my rewrites change only about 10% of the total written work. Is 10% too much? Too little? I don’t know. Again, I have not seen one novel published. Not one. Not a sausage. Bugger all.

Unfortunately, I’m beginning to think that this old dog is running out of tricks he can learn. If someone told me that, as an artist, my job is to play it safe, not only would I not learn how, I would not WANT to learn how. I like heading into the darkness and seeing where it goes. And if an expert – a mother-fucking, best-selling novelist – told me that rewrites should, as a rule, change 80% of the original draft, I would just have to resign myself to never being published.

All I can say is, it’s like being in love. You know what’s right and what’s wrong and you often just don’t care.

It’s just more fun this way.

I think I see a divorce forthcoming...

Either that, or Vicky's going to kill me when she sees this.

Two words: Portable WoW!

A few words about my husband

First, he is 100% on the mark...cinnamon cluster fuck...this cereal sucks donkey ass! We've had Weight Watchers cereals that are actually pretty good, but this one...if you even think you might want to try it, smack yourself from me.

Second, Ken is already a cool guy. He was a cool guy when I met him, when we dated, before we got married and he still is. His coolness is not because he is an actor or a writer. It is simply because of the person that he is, that is why I fell in love with him. Oh, and he is cool because he loves me too.

No More Jericho!...

No more Jericho!

We're free!!

Vicky's been making me watch this terrible, loophole ridden like swiss cheese, no logic mess of a show all season! Now, I'm free! I'm free! I can watch something really good like Studio 6....

What?

The cancelled that, too???

Mother fuck.

I come not to praise him but to bury him...

A preacher in the US died yesterday. He was a preacher of hatred and intolerance and, before we breathe even the smallest sigh of relief, we should keep in mind that there are dozens of hate-mongers waiting to take his place.

Hatred trumps tolerance at this point in time in the US. None of us should be so blind that we don't see it. And the only way we're going to diminish its power is to stop preaching it. Stop preaching it to each other. Stop preaching it to our children.

This preacher was fairly well known and powerful. It is up to us to undo all the evil that he spread upon the earth. You might want to start now.