Happy Birthday to me... Two whole weeks early...

Vicky spoils me - but I don't mind.

Yesterday, we went out looking at bikes. The intent was not to buy - but you know how that works, right? Seriously, why the hell look?

Our first stop was Jax, a southern California chain. We walked in, it was nicely laid out, not crowded or overrun... with help or service... In fact, no one even spoke to us. On top of that, they appeared to sell only one brand of bike, Trek, which I've read a few less than flattering things about. Out we walked...

After that, we went right to Orange Cycle. This place is right by the Orange Circle and although they're always busy there is a reason for that. Bottom line is they're a good shop and they know their stuff. Vicky and I have brought both of our bikes down there. My bike got a cheapo tune-up - they don't throw in stuff you don't need - and I got set up with some lights and a cycling computer. I also got my kevlars there; they just slapped them right on. Vicky's bike got a cheapo tune-up, too. They didn't charge her much; her bike was in pretty good shape. You have to wait a bit but that's because everyone brings their bike there; I'd worry if they weren't busy.

So, when we went in they were busy, as expected. Al, one of the guys, came right up to us though, and asked, "What do you need?" Now, listen, I've been reading a lot of stuff on bikes but I'm still basically a novice. I gave him our price range, told him what kind of riding I was going to be doing, what kind I've done, what I'm presently riding - and just like that, bam, he found one for me. It was over $100 below my limit but it had more features than I thought I'd be able to afford. I asked him if I could take it out for a test and he said, "Sure. Let's go." They're no-nonsense attitude works well because they're not gonna waste your time, either.

Outside, we were put in Zak's hands. He fitted the bike for me. We talked about the different kind of riding I should expect and he said, "Take it around the block and tell me what you think." Allrighty, then. Off I went. Now, the bike that has served me so well for these past seven years is a 15 year-old mountain bike. Heavy with kevlar tires that make it more heavy - so this new one took off like a sleek weasel and I was out on the road before I knew what hit me... and speaking of things hitting me, only then did I realize I was riding sans helmet. That kind of freaked me out a bit. But, too late for that, I decided just to take it in and enjoy it. The block zipped by in what felt like seconds and I was back.

"What did you think?" Zak asked. I told him about a couple of problem areas and he made a couple more adjustments - and out I went again. This time, I rode for two blocks, relishing in the very different gearing and the unbearable lightness of biking - I swear, I could have lifted the bike and myself right off the road! It felt really good.

The bike, which in case you haven't guessed already is now my new bike - my early birthday present - is a Giant TCR2. It was priced at $1250 but I got it for $899. In case you're wondering, yes, it really sells for $1250. A little web searching brought up prices exceeding that. Better still, it comes with Michelin Kevlar tires, not stock tires. I was shocked at how light they were, compared to the Armadillos on my other bike. So, better tires and a cheaper price. It was a pretty fair deal. I had them hook me up with lights for those late night and early morning rides and a cycling computer - because I'm taking this one on my first century ride: 100 miles. I don't know when but it's just the bike for the job.

This morning, I took the bike out at 5:30am. I didn't know how far I'd go but I wanted to get some time and miles on it. I didn't even make it to the river before I realized two important things: First, I went fast. Very fast. This was good. Second, I was cold. Very cold. This was bad. And sadly, they were both related, because I wouldn't have been so cold if I hadn't gone so fast. I'm going to need to adjust to this new bike in more ways that I expected.

Give me time.

Crappy day syndrome...

You ever have one of those days that starts out bad and just continues to get worse? Even when you think, "Well, the bright side is it can't possible get worse," it gets worse still!

Welcome to my day.

The worst part about it, though, was that I rode my bike into work. Now, if you think a crappy day can really bring you down, imagine how stripped of gumption you'd be if you had to bike home! Got that? Now, imagine how hard it would be to bike ten more miles on top of that - because that's generally the plan for tonight.

I'm writing this down so you know you're not alone. I'm on the Crappy Day Express, too... the one that's busted an axle and gone off the tracks and is waiting for Pete's sake to get moving and FUCKING END ALREADY!!!!

... and if it sticks around for the weekend, I'm really going to be pissed...

Desperate Louse-wives...

It's generally acknowledged (in my house, at least) that Desperate Housewives has gone nowhere but downhill - fast - since its first season. Vicky and I have still watched it, though, hoping it would get better.

After watching the 5th season's premiere episode last night, however, I can assure you it's just not going to happen. Vicky and I were relieved in a way, thinking it was the show's final season... um... it's not!

After last night, I'm going to hate watching this show, but I will... for Vicky, because I already avoid several other shows she enjoys. I'm going to hate watching it but it'll give Vicky and I something to hate together. I'm not going to hate it because of the actresses or their characters; Vicky and I have rooted for them all. I'm not going to hate it because of the history; we've stuck it out through thick and thin. You want to know what I hate? I hate how obviously bored the creator, Marc Cherry, has become and how he's grown to detest his characters. That's the only explanation I can come up with. Take a look at the run-down:

Susan Mayer fell in love with Mike. Then, she lost him. Then, she got him. Then, she lost him. Then, she got her hair done. Then, she did some other stuff. Then, she got him, again... and again... This season, there's not even a pretense as to why she lost him. She dumped him because... of no fault of his own... But you know that by the end of the season she'll get him again.

Lynette Scavo has parenting issues. She always has. So does her husband. Every fucking season. I'm sick of it. Now? She still has parenting issues. The family needs to be locked up.

Bree Van de Camp isn't happy unless she's made everyone in the world feel like shit on her heel. We all enjoy watching her machinations - but this season, she's basically asking for pity because... she sucks... and not even in a way that would make Olsen look slightly less pussy-whipped.

Finally, there's Gabby and Carlos. Vicky and I have loved Gabby and Carlos. We couldn't wait for them to find their way to each other. Now, they're happily together (and you know Carlos will see again by season's end) and they're the Scavo's in year 4 of parenting, lousy at it and getting worse every day.

The thing is that Cherry can't find a story unless people are unhappy, which is fine in season one but he keeps returning to that well. He's returned so often, he's digging the well deeper and deeper and digging himself deeper as well. I can't imagine the actors finding a whole of fun in playing out the same storylines and if he really enjoyed the characters he'd give them something interesting to do!! Give us something interesting to watch!!

This isn't like Jericho. Vicky and I watched Jericho BECAUSE it was bad. We enjoyed how confused they were about basic science. But these lousy spouses aren't even fun to watch. They're the pathetic neighbors people talk about in disgust but never want to have to talk to.

So, let this serve as a warning: You have better things to do. Meanwhile, I'll make this sacrifice for my marriage.

Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a house...

Milestones to report.

I passed 16 miles this morning. It hurt a great deal and I really had to push it but I did it, which will make the 13 miles to work this Friday that much easier! It'll be nice riding to work again (and getting a day off from the 22 freeway!!!).

When I got home, I jumped into the shower to wash off the bugs - ick! After, I thought I'd step on the scale and listen to it scream in agony... but it didn't. In fact...

... I went downstairs to the Wii to confirm my findings on WiiFit.

Holy crap! I've finally dropped beneath 250 pounds!!! It's a shock because I've been working on this since before May! And I've been riding pretty regularly since July, waiting for something good to happen. I've been feeling healthier (okay, except for the recent cold!) but haven't found any luck on the scale at all. Finally, I can see a change!

Mind you, I'm far from my target weight... really far... really fucking far, but it's a step in the right direction.

And about time!

And back to 10...

Okay, actually 11.33. That's what I rode yesterday after spending two days struggling to so much as pedal.

Here's something they don't tell you: If you take a few days off, you're fucked. Really, we should be seriously hitting them for not telling us that.

I took a few days off from cycling - okay, about a week - and starting again was torture. Vicky tried to remind me that I wasn't completely over my cold but that didn't matter because I shouldn't have had to start off at square one all over again! Dammit!

And that's pretty much what I'm doing, struggling to carry myself just a wee bit over 10 miles, straining to take the smallest hills, killing myself just to go 14 mph! It's murder! And I hate it!

I can't wait until I can go further!

By the way, here are a few things I learned about my bike over the weekend. I knew it wasn't the best bike out there... and I hate being right. It's a 1993 model mountain bike. Its steel frame and kevlar tires add a lot of weight to the equation and keep me slow. But, you know what? I'm okay with that. I mean, the primary goal is to help me lose weight and struggling with a heavier bike may actually be good for me.

It could also give me a stroke.

Which would mean I'd have to start all over again... dammit...

From 50 to 5 in just a couple of weeks...

(Alternate title: When you fall of a horse... kill it. Kill it and eat it. Then, eat some more. Then, kick it - beat it with a tire iron - revel in its innards - ... I'm sorry, where was I?)

Did I mention that I've been sick? Well, I have. I've been sick now for over a week... it sucks.

But I've been dying to get back on my bike, especially after my 50 mile ride. I've wanted to get off the river trail, move into some hills, take on some different scenery... but then, I got sick. Dammit.

Still, last night I gathered myself up and decided it was time to start cycling again. I even lubed up the chain - which isn't the metaphor Vicky thought I was going for when I told her, I actually lubed up the chain! I felt like a real bike mechanic dude and, anyway, I'd done so much riding the chain was squeaking quite a bit.

This morning, I went out at about 5:45 and rode. I rode and rode and returned, sweating, heaving, my nose running, at 6:20, feeling like I'd done myself proud.

... then, I saw the stats from my odometer: 5.5 miles, 11.9 mph average... crap.

Well, time to shoot for 10, I guess.

Anti-smoking that came before Anti-smoking...

Today marks nine months since I quit smoking, with only one three-cigarette detour at my father's memorial service. I officially quit on Christmas Day 2007 and since that time have come to appreciate things like cycling, deep breathing... air...

But my personal anti-smoking marker - at nine months, it's like an anti-smoking baby! - falls serindipitously on the anniversary of another anti-smoking point in history. I'm talking about the move of physicians to stop smoking. No, not in the 1960's. We're talking a long time before then.

September 25, 1878, Dr. Charles Drysdale issued his warnings against smoking.

Well over a hundred years ago.

Thanks, doc. I'm glad I finally listened.

Smackin' my kid around...

Okay. Okay. Not yet.

I don't even have a kid.

But I think about what kind of parent I'll be when I do have one and I hope I'll be good at it.

There's an article on Slate that has me thinking this morning about just that. I often hear people give arguments for and against whopping on a kid. "My kid knows I'll hit him if he misbehaves." "Kids who don't get hit think they can get away with anything."

... not very convincing.

One point this article makes is: Opponents of corporal punishment also advance moral and legal arguments. If you hit another adult you can be arrested and sued, after all, so shouldn't our smallest, weakest citizens have a right to equal or even more-than-equal protection under the law? In this country, if you do the same thing to your dog that you do to your child, you're more likely to get in trouble for mistreating the dog.

Anyway, it's an interesting read and worth your time.

Vicky and Ken: Year Three...

Just weeks after we met, I told her I loved her.

We set a date before we knew it.

After a couple of months, I was on one knee in her mother's restaurant, proposing.

Though I hadn't sworn off marriage, I never really thought I'd meet someone I'd actually want to marry - let alone rush headlong into it at the speed with which Vicky and I were wed.

Now, I'm not going to tell you Vicky is perfect. Don't misunderstand me. She's not.

But every day, when I'm at work, I look forward to seeing her face. My hand instinctively goes for hers. There's nothing better than spending a day with her.

Vicky sometimes complains that, while I'm quick to tell people I love her, I never seem to mention reasons why. And she's right. And I've done a lot of meditating on that problem... and she's right. But it's like trying to find reasons why you love air. Seriously. You take the smoggiest skies. You take the dirtiest air. Bet you wouldn't want to breathe anything else. Sure, there's cleaner air but that's still air. You can only think of one reason why, too, and that's because you'd die if you breathed anything else.

Take it from someone who knows.

Give me Vicky at her worst and there's nobody else I'd rather have by my side. Would I rather have her at her best - well, that goes without saying. Fortunately, the days she's at her worst are few and far between.

... this isn't coming across nearly as romantic as I'd hoped...

Vicky's fond of saying, usually when I'm sick, "In sickness and in health, right?" She repeats snips of our wedding vows back to me as if to say, "You'll make it up to me." I'm grateful that she gets how I can't always be at my best, either, that she allows me my humanity. That's a reason why I love her so much. There's more, of course, because in those times when I can't carry my fair share, she takes the heavier part of the load. That's why I love her so much. And while I'd probably point it out - "By the way, did you notice how I've been taking care of Shipoopi and Suki every day when I get home?" - she doesn't bother... mostly because she knows I'm so fucking neurotic I kick myself when I don't do enough. That's why I love her so much. In short, Vicky's got my back. She looks out for me. She's the best friend I have in the whole world and I probably don't deserve her and she probably deserves far better than me.

... and, yes. That's why I love her so much - but that's not quite it.

I love her because she's Vicky. That's why I love her so much.

On waiting the day before...

On the day before my third wedding anniversary, I find myself with an uncommon lack of anything to write about. In fact, I kind of wish it was Wednesday so I can write about the actual anniversary. And it's this impatience that reminds me very well of another impatience... and gives me something to write about...

The day before my wedding, for me, was a wasted day. Basically, I watched time pass and thought about the tuxedo that waited for me in Clostio's hotel room.

Clostio, my best man, was staying at a hotel in Garden Grove and Sean drove me over there in the middle of the day. He couldn't stick around long, Megan was sick, so he dropped me off and was on his way. Clostio and I didn't really have anything planned so we mulled about while I looked at my tuxedo and figured I had a full day before I'd get to wear it. Then, we walked, which is something we normally did. We hoofed it up Garden Grove Boulevard to Harbor, stopping at the Dairy Queen for fattenning foods - I was off my diet - and several smokes. I don't remember what we talked about while we were there but the memory of us talking is a good one; I haven't seen Clostio in a couple of years.

We walked and walked, just passing time as the sky turned dark.

I couldn't sleep. I walked around in the middle of the night.

The next morning crawled by as I got my hair cut, and Sean, Clostio, and I hit Denny's for breakfast... and we waited. Now, for a little context, Vicky and her friends were having a blast, whooping it up - but I wasn't having quite so much fun. The truth is I wanted more than anything to see Vicky and to marry her. There were a variety of reasons ranging from me being afraid I'd lose my nerve to just simply that I loved her. It wasn't so much that I wanted to get it over with; I just wanted to do it!

So, not surprisingly, I arrived at The Hacienda on the day of my wedding early. Easily an hour early! The guy at the door said they were still setting up. I, standing there in my tux, almost running in place, asked if the "groom group" could just hang out in the "groom's room". "No," he told me, calmly as though he was talking to a crazy person. "We're still setting up."

I replied, "Of course, you are," and got back in Jeff's car.

Back at the hotel, I was a wreck, pacing, gesticulating, and - yes - smoking.

Gail said, "Just get it out of your system. We can get the smell out." So the smoke was followed by gum, cologne, antibacterial hand wash... "It's good that you're nervous," she said. "You're supposed to be nervous. It shows you don't take this lightly."

Take it lightly? Obviously, Gail did not know with whom she was dealing.

Now, it's the day before our third anniversary. I'm barely getting over a cold and I really hope I'm over it tomorrow. I'd like to lay a big fat kiss - or ten - on my wife but I don't want to get her sick; it would be a bad way to start year four, you know? But the impatience is familiar and, when we go out tomorrow night, I'll probably be ready an hour early.

Obama's got one, too!...

I know. I know. The big news today is McSame and his 13 cars, multi-millions, outta touch, yada yada yada - Isn't it enough that he has horrible policies and lies a lot?

Listen, the real news, for those of you paying attention is Obama and his family's one car. Vicky always says we couldn't make it with just one car but it's going to be harder for her to maintain that argument now that we know Obama and Vicky have...

The same car!!!

That's right. I guess Vicky doesn't need an Obumbersticker cause she has the whole damn car to show her support.

(No truth to the rumor that we planned it this way.)

Just wondering...

Ever have one of those colds that made you think that buying stock in Kleenex might not be such a bad idea??

Before and After...

I know I've been writing quite a bit about cycling lately. Consider it my addiction. But I promise to cut back soon, on the writing if not the cycling. I'm presently at a point where I keep hitting markers, landmarks if you will, where I exceed what I thought was possible.

... and this afternoon, my sinuses began to cry "Headcold! Headcold!"

Damn. I've fought off so many headcolds since my last that I should be thankful but all I can think of is "Not now! My last ride of the week is tomorrow! I'm missing days this week! I don't want to be sick, too!!"

I think it's just tough luck.

So, today, I thought I'd sit here with my increasingly stuffed-up head and my sneezes and my body aches and look back at how much I've accomplished since I started cycling. Once I started, I realized, I have quite a bit to be proud of.

For instance, the day I was offered my current job I took a long bike ride: 10 miles. Now, I'm up to 50. My daily ride is up to 17 1/2 miles. It used to take me three rest stops to do that. Now, I ride it straight through. Back then, I was lucky to hit 20 mph if I really pushed myself, and could only do it for a very short time. Now, I can maintain speeds of up to 18 and 19 mph for pretty good distances. My normal speed used to be 10 mph, now its about 14.

When I first started cycling, I wore what shorts and t-shirts I had. I still do, but on long rides I wear cycling shorts and t-shirt to keep my cool and, um, padded. My bike now has headlights and taillights and a cyclocomputer on which I've logged nearly 700 miles!

Most importantly, though, is the difference I feel from one year or even five years ago. I didn't cycle five years ago. I'd try to jog now and then, blow out my knee, smoke and drink. Cycling doesn't take its toll on my knee nearly so much and, better still, I don't smoke and my drinking isn't nearly at the same level. (Though sometimes I really feel like tying one on!) Body aches aren't as bad and go away much faster. Hell, I rode 50 miles on Sunday and had recovered by Sunday night!

So, here I sit, sniffling, dreaming about what the future holds. And what is that? Well, I want to do more 50 mile rides, hopefully every Sunday. I also want to start changing up my routes, which includes leaving the security of the Santa Ana River Trail for more street riding. I think I can do that if I chose my streets wisely. That'll introduce more hills and a wider range, all of which will be good for me. Beyond that, though, I would really like to get a proper road bike. As I've mentioned here before, my bike is kind of cobbled together from one given to me by a friend. A real road bike will help me improve my performance and increase my range.

Once I get over this cold...

Short-haired Ken...

I'm not going to say my hair has gotten long, but is has grown far too long for my helmet. I must look like Animal (the Muppet) with my helmet on and all this hair sticking out at every angle!

Well, it's Animal no more after tonight because I'm going for my Wedding Anniversary cut tonight. I'm going to Terrilynn (who's name I am probably mispelling), the same woman who cut my hair on the day of my wedding.

I remember it very clearly. It was the first time she and I had met but Vicky had assured me she'd do a good job, and this was important because, after all, it was my wedding day. She washed my hair, I sat down in front of her mirror, and she asked, "So, what do you want done?" I told her how Vicky liked my hair short - so I wanted it really short. Really, really short. But I wanted it to look cool and I needed to look awesome because I'd be getting married in a few hours. I told her I'd trust her completely... and she want to work.

Meanwhile, Clostio was outside, smoking and sweating over the toast he'd have to give in a few hours at the reception, and Sean was basically writing it for him, which is ironic because Clostio was the writer.

For those who haven't seen what my hair looked like on that day, you can check our photo site. It was short but I told her, "Go shorter." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yeah. Go ahead." So, she went shorter. As she cut, I told her about how nervous I was about the wedding, about what a mess I'd made out of my first marriage and how important it was for me to make Vicky happy.

Meanwhile, Vicky and her friends were partying it up, having a grand, old time. She wasn't nervous at all.

But I knew better.

My favorite part of the hair cut were the little accents she put in by twisting my hair. That's probably not going to happen so much tonight because I know I'll be back on my bike tomorrow morning, fucking up any genius Terrilynn puts in my hair, making a mess of her hard work.

Little traditions like this are important to me. They make things like my marriage more sacred, in a way. It's my way of saying, "I am still the man who loves you so much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you."

... besides, I don't think Vicky likes the idea of being married to Animal.

What it's like at 50.35...

I told myself yesterday that I would write about the whole ride today. But details slip from your mind as quickly in real life as when you wake from a dream. The thing that remains most clear to me now is the pain.

And the hurting.

And the misery.

And the pain.

So, let me tell you about it.

I woke up early Sunday morning, giving myself plenty of time to check my bike out, loud up my gear and my food, and dress in my new cycling clothes. Vicky had gone with my down to REI, where I found another pair of cycling shorts, to save my fat ass, along with an orange shirt (that we thought was made of spandex but is actually bamboo!). I had second thoughts about wearing a shirt over that - it was cold out - but decided to let my body temp take care of me. I'd generate enough heat on the road.

As soon as I hit the trail, I began to have my doubts. Cyclists, and there were already plenty of them out there, were wearing these sleeves on their arms. Not attached to their clothes, they looked like 80's leg warmers for your arms: Arm Warmers! And sure enough, I've since found them online - what will they think of next? But I was sure things would warm up eventually and I was making good time. I hit the beach in less than 90 minutes and took in the increasingly familiar sight. Now, the first time I rode to the beach, I was already tired when I got there. This time, hitting the beach was only half the job. Looking up the misty, overcast coast, I was anxious for part two.

The beach was already becoming crowded, even that early, and I veered in and out of groups as I rode. There's a speed limit on the beach of 10 mph and I observed it just as I observe every speed limit... I tried to keep it under 12... Getting to the pier was no problem but, from there, the path narrows significantly and I realized why so many riders were on the street. They were doing 15, 16, 17 mph or more and I was stuck waiting on slowpoke crowds that couldn't go any faster than their feet - seven miles per hour... six miles per hour. Finally, I had to put the brakes on my impatience. It wasn't for speed that I was riding but for the thrill of riding.

Once I started taking in the scenery instead of wondering when I'd reach that spot ahead or how I could increase my speed, I began to enjoy just how beautiful the beach really was. Sure, the western horizon was littered with oil rigs and the east side of PCH has spawned an ugly new growth of oil pipelines and I had to narrow my focus a bit but then I began to see new things I could never see from the street. Flocks of surfers and armies of children, beautiful little parks, stretches that looked right out of some old movie with their squat, little, wood fences, an array of life and story that made being there the best thing possible. And I shared the trail with other cyclists, with joggers, with roller-bladers, and I saw how un-cynical we all were, such a change from everyday life. How can you be cynical when you're trying to improve your life by getting just a bit more fit?

I reached a zone, a whole stretch of coast, where I felt oblivious to any weariness, any fatique both bodily and existentially. I realized I was "that guy". "That guy" is the guy you watch on TV or see in a movie and think, "I wish I could do that. I'd like to do that." I was doing that and everything was good.

I stopped just past the 25 mile mark for an asian pear, some beef jerky, and a few Jelly Belly Sport beans. I had a 20 minute break, enjoying the sea air, the cool morning, the women surfers pulling wet suits over their bikinis - hey, I'm a guy - and then, I was back on the road. I was surprised at how fast the coast passed me by or visa versa. As I neared the Santa Ana River, I thought, "I should find a bathroom and take a leak before I get on the river trail. You don't know how long it'll be before you find another bathroom." Only, I thought that after I'd passed the last bathroom - and I turned onto the river trail without taking a bathroom break!

Dammit. Oh well, I thought, there's a park by the 405 freeway. I'll use the bathroom there. Only, that park had no bathroom. Oh well, I thought, there's a part just after 17th street. I'll use the bathroom there... or pee my pants! Now, in case you're wondering, 17th street is about six miles from home, 10 miles up the trail from the beach. I covered most of the ground on the way home having to pee!!!! On top of that, I was getting very tired. By the time I hit Segerstrom, not yet halfway home, I was losing my grip (my hands sore) and having a hard time keeping up the pace. When I hit the 17th street park, I raced to a place to park my bike, locked it up, raced inside... and realized I had just left my backpack with all my gear laying on the grass. "Hurry up! Hurry up!" I thought. After all, I was back in Santa Ana, my home town, and I knew better than to trust anyone!

But my backpack was still out there and my bike was fine - I'm such a fucking cynic. The sky was still overcast and it was nearing 11am. As I passed beneath the 22 freeway, however, I went from cool, overcast sky on one side - to sunny heat on the other. How the hell does that happen? I knew I was getting close so I gobbled more beans and poured on the speed.

I made it home after about 3.5 hours of riding... in pain... a lot of pain. But I did it. My first half-century. It doesn't matter how much I hurt today or how much I'll hurt after the next time. Pain isn't important; it's just inconvenient. I'll do this ride again and again and maybe, later, I'll go even further.

I just gotta stop hurting first...

Act One… the first act…

What can I tell you? I finished Act One of Murielle’s Big Date. Is it a better play than After You Fall? Probably. Is it a better play than any of my others? Absolutely.

Is it in any way meaningful or substantial? No fucking way.

Here’s the thing. Murielle’s Big Date is a fever dream. It comes out of me like a geyser from a place I didn’t know existed. It’s not as though I thought I wasn’t possible of silliness, extreme whimsy, bat-shit-whacko… I just didn’t think I could do it this consistently.

You have 40 pages of people being nuts, of joyous, in your face, randomness. A general fuck you to the world.

And I love it. Every bit.

After You Fall turned on the spigot.

Murielle’s Big Date is the surge of sewer water that exploded after.

(First one who says, "Now you have to write Act Two", gets slapped.)

I want to ride my bicycle - I want to ride my bike...

Who knows the song?

I'm getting ready to hit my first half century - that's a 50 mile ride. For you non-cyclists, that a very long ride for a big, fat fuck like me... laughable for anyone who's serious about biking. But I have to say in my own defense that, aside from being a big, fat fuck, I don't really have a bike for long rides. My bike was a hand-you-down from a friend and, while nice, not really suited to long distances. Vicky says she'd like to buy me a real road bike... but I don't have the heart to tell her how much that would cost.

So, in the meantime, 50 is my goal.

This morning, I tore through my morning ride. I was really proud of myself. I covered 16 miles in 72 minutes. My average speed was 14 miles per hour. According to Bicycling Magazine, that's considered "vigorous effort". When you hit 16 mph, you've entered the realm of "racing speed". Sure, I'm not there, yet. I may never get there. But I'm a damn lot faster than I was just a month or so ago when I was averaging 12 mph (light effort).

Tomorrow, I'm extending my weekly commute from 26 miles up past 30 miles to get some extra roadwork in. Then, on Saturday, I'll ride 30 miles up to the end of the Santa Ana River. That's all prelude to Sunday. The big day. That's when I'll go for the half century, down the river trail to the beach, up the coast to Warner Avenue, and back again!

This is all relatively new to me. Just last year, I was a regular smoker. There was no way I could get on a bike and go five miles, let alone 50! But I knew a change was needed. I didn't know what it would be and I didn't realize what I charge I'd get out of cycling until Vicky suggested we take a ride. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be over 250 pounds and...

Wait.

Hold on.

See, this is what's really bugging me. This morning I got on the scale and weighed myself. It read 250... and it didn't budge. Not an inch. Vicky heard two loud farts and I said, "Dammit! Farts don't weigh anything!" You'd think that after all this riding, I'd lose more weight. Granted, I've come down from the edge of 260 - only a few months ago - but you'd think I'd lose more.

Maybe after 50 miles. Maybe I have to start looking towards 75...

Eventually...

Not dead... yet...

I know the Large Hadron Collider has been causing some distress. Will it destroy the world? Will we all die?

Well, as part of the service here, here's a website that can always let you know if it's wiped us out, yet.

How Murielle got her big date...

Bored.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

See, the thing is I work with people who think it takes weeks to write two pages of copy. And I do that in hours. So, they can't generate enough to keep me busy... and I get bored.

I know I have to study for school. And I know I'll have three papers to write. But, right now, I'm bored.

I know I have a new book to write - but I can't do that without more information, which I'll mostly extract from my class in Epistemology. So, I've got a couple of months before that starts.

Hey! I know! Why not write a play filled with sex jokes and filthy language - you know, the kind I like to write. After You Fall turned out to be a nice dramedy but what about a balls out comedy?

Here's the thing: On the way in today, I had this conversation running through my head - which is usually how I know something wants to be written - between Murielle (a mid-20's modern girl) and Sam (a 21st century free spirit), talking about the virtues of having sex with whoever you want. Murielle is getting ready for her third date with a guy, who's coming over for dinner. Her neighbors, Sam and Angela (a middle-aged slut) give her advice but, mostly, they don't want another guy messing up Murielle's life. They each plan to test this new guy, Mark (a generally decent individual), in their own way - and generally make a mess of their date.

Murielle's Big Date is the name of the new show. Should be fun.

A final eulogy...

I want to thank everyone for being here. I think if my father were here… if he was alive right now, he’d…

If my father was alive right now…

If my father was alive right now, he’d be a very sick man.

Feel free to laugh. One of the few things my father and I shared was comedy. He left us when I was five or so and one of the few things he left behind was a comedy album by Don Adams – of Get Smart fame. I listened to it over and over again until I had it memorized. I memorized every scratch and tick as the album grew older and worn out and later performed them as sketches in school talent shows.

I didn’t have a father so much. I didn’t really know what that was like. But I had comedy.

When I started writing, I wrote comedy. And I would try to show what I wrote to my father. And he would give me this look that so many of those who knew him would always hope not to receive. It would say, “You are an idiot. A big one. With flashing lights and stereo sound. And now I have to pretend you’re not an idiot... and I really don’t want to do that. So, just between you and me – because I’m not going to say this out loud – You’re an idiot.”

My father communicated in looks. In the years I knew him, it was rarely with words. He was the master of the non-sequiter. I’d say, “Dad, I want to be a comedian when I grow up.” And he’d reply, “Don’t be so sure you’re growing up.” I’d say, “I think I want to be an actor.” And he’d reply, “Act like you’re in a silent movie.” He wasn’t exactly what you’d call nurturing… without laughing…

I can’t stand up here and tell you about my father’s faults. You just don’t have the time.

But we did have conversations. They were so few and far between, though, that I’d hold on like they were jewels of wisdom. Other times, he’d talk to me – a boy of 12 or 14 – about finances and what to look for when you’re buying a house and evil democrats. But I remember what he said when I was 16 or 17, when I’d discovered my muse, and said to him, “Dad, I think I want to be a writer.” He looked over his newspaper at me – he was frequently sequestered behind a singular, imposing wall of a newspaper – and said, “If you want to write, write.”

If you want to write, write. What an amazing gift that was, the summation of every artistic directive ever uttered, condensed, refined, clarified, and spoken to me at a time when I had no clue what writing or art even were. If you want to write, write. The only way you’ll ever become good at what you love to do is to go and do it as often as you can. So, I wrote. I wrote short stories, novels, and plays. I have grown to love writing the way you might love air, all as a result of this invaluable advice. If you want to write, write.

And then, I grew up… and I realized something.

This kid walks up to you. You’re trying to read your newspaper. Over and over, he’s bugged you, saying “I want to be a comedian” or “I want to be an actor.” And now, this time, the kid’s going on and on about this latest, teenage crush he has – not on a girl or even a sport. No, this time, he talks incessantly about how he wants to be a writer. What do you do? You loook over your paper and, in words as kind as you can muster – because what you really want to say is, “Can’t you shut your mouth for ten minutes?” – you say, “If you want to write, write.” Just leave me alone!

My father’s kindest words, his most informative passing of wisdom, always seemed strange to me. Oddly, it gives me some comfort to know he was probably just trying to shut me up.

My father was once an artist, too, so I’ve been told. I’ve heard rumors but we all know he was a musician. He left those dreams, whatever they were, behind at some point. I don’t know his level of regret but I can imagine what it must have been. So, I keep creating, acting, and writing, not because of my wonderful success – that much is clear – but because I am certain he felt some pride that I have not given up.

Most of my father’s life is a mystery to many of us. And I can say that however much I understood him, I doubt I ever really knew him. The way you understand that the sun will rise without knowing the formulae why. The way you might understand a poker hand without knowing if you’ll win. The way I, in my pursuit of wisdom, religion, and philosophy, can understand the value of faith without knowing it myself. I understood my father. But I never really knew him.

Once I heard he went AWOL while in the service, that he took off rebelliously, saying, “No more! I choose a new course for my life, one that doesn’t include militarism or violence or war.” And then, I asked him one day what that was all about. He said he never went AWOL, in that way he said things, that way that defied you to know him. He always seemed to speak through concrete walls. But then, he stopped himself – this was in 1988 after a long silence, when we found each other again and were trying to start a new chapter in our lives – and, remarkably, he explained that he’d been visiting a girl off the base and, without going into detail – wouldn’t want that – he said that he was there too long and didn’t get back to the base on time. He went AWOL cause of a girl – better than what I had made up in my mind in my attempt to figure him out.

I never expected to figure him out. So, on those few occasions when I saw him – and, believe me, they were few – I watched him very carefully. I became anthropological in my study of my father. This became very important from a very early age – 9 or so – and all because of this new person who entered his life: Blanche. You see, my parents had this horrible divorce with three kids who each ended up horribly scarred in his or her own way. Four years – ten years – twenty years after – all of us were branded, broken, bleeding, just mauled by the event.

And here comes Blanche. My first memory was of a time when Dad and Blanche brought the three of us – myself, Keith, and Audrey – to Disneyland. When my father did take us out, it was always to some Disney-centric event, where he would spend the day, the night, the hours, the entire time just going on and on about how much he hated Disney. But he fooled no one. Absolutely no one. So, we have Dad over there on one side, telling us how much he hated Tomorrowland and “Let’s go on that ride” and Blanche over there on the other side. She was smiling. She was completely at ease. She wasn’t neurotic – I didn’t even know what neurotic was and I could tell. She was, in short, some kind of freak. That’s what I was thinking at 9 years of age. What’s all that smiling about? She was a nice person and exactly what my father needed.

When I was 16, I studied my father coming home from work at lunch and calling someone to tell this person how his day was going. It took me a while to figure out that he was calling Blanche. I had no idea what it meant to tend your garden, to keep your relationship strong, but I learned from that. I’m not saying it was his idea – odds are it was something Blanche taught him – but I learned it from him. I never waited for him to tell me – and most of my father’s lessons were “Never act like that” but I learned just the same.

We didn’t really have a relationship until after 1988. After he had walked my bride down the aisle. After he had cried at my wedding – a thought that still leaves me kind of speechless. Most of our conversations consisted of, “Are you still working? Okay, here’s Blanche.” But it was something. The thing was, I didn’t care if he wasn’t a great father. He wasn’t a great father. But he was there.

Anyway, I got a perfect opportunity to do something I never got to do as a teenager: Rebel against my father. Towards the mid-1990’s, I was doing research on a book I was writing and the research consisted of studying the Communist Manifesto. Now, I’d done the long hair thing and I’d done the motorcycle thing, both of which turned my father’s eyes red. But the day I sat down on his sofa and plopped down a dog-eared copy of the Communist Manifesto, the day he came out and looked at it like it was – Dad had a phrase. “Gag a maggot on a gut cart” – He looked down at me, practically shaking with anger and disgust. He pointed at the book. He asked, “What is that doing there?”

I looked up and said, “Oh, hi dad. Yeah, I’m reading it.”

It was priceless. And there was little he could do. My father and I had this unspoken understanding about things like that. Kind of like “You missed your chance.” I had an incredibly amount of fun at his expense. Had this been 20 years before or even 10, he would have probably thrown me out of the house. But he grumbled. And I moved the book. And he sat down where it had been and turned on the TV.

I say we didn’t have a relationship until after 1988 but it really didn’t start until much later than that. We both had some adjusting to do. I was a liberal atheist. He was a right-wing whacko – and I only say that because he’s not here. But when my marriage fell apart eight years ago – I guess we both decided we’d adjusted enough and I began to see that he really did care about me. And I began to see the changes that were taking place, like his hair that went from black to gray to gone.

What do I mean? The story that best sums that up is about when my father first met Vicky, my second wife. I thought I had his number on this. He’d been close to my first wife and I had screwed things up there. My father’s sense of what was right would surely prevent him from welcoming Vicky into his life. This was clear to me and I was pretty nervous about the whole thing. I knew Blanche would accept Vicky but I was doubtful about my father until they came to our door, I showed them in, and my father gave Vicky a big hug as they both welcomed her into their lives.

Something was surely wrong.

And to make matters worse, at our rehearsal dinner, where I kind of expected that my father would insist on paying – his sense of what was right again – he told me he loved me. My father. I don’t think it was the first time he said it but I know it was the first time he sounded like he meant it, as though it wasn’t a formality. He believed it.

I didn’t know what to do. You know, you have a father like mine and being told something like that really throws you off balance. I told Vicky, “He’s gotta be sick or something.”

Sometimes, you don’t want to be right.

We all know about my father’s illness. Even as doctor after doctor was struck puzzled, he withered away. It was slow. It was agonizing. I found myself on the banks of an Egyptian river. By the time I realized what was happening, when I said to my wife, “I’m a writer. I should be interviewing him so I can write his story,” it was already too late. But I take from those three years something just as important as the knowledge of a father I never really knew. I know for sure that I loved my father and that my father loved me. As his illness, struck away pound upon pound of his mortal flesh, it also served to tear down the concrete encasements in which he’d wrapped himself for so many years. He became human, more loving, and more deserving of love.

And now, here we are.

As I have mentioned, I am an atheist, something my father was not too keen about. And so, my meditations on the life of this man do not include thoughts of what may come after. A few words come to mind, however, with which I would like to close.

“People are greedy. They ignore the blessing they have in this life to imagine something that comes after." My father’s passing reminds us all how blessed we are in this life. Even with a man who never felt entirely comfortable talking to me, I know I have been blessed with the relationship we finally grew into. It reminds us that every day is an opportunity to embrace the miracle that is life, something I saw my father grow to understand.

From Shakespeare, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts...” My father held down a lot of jobs in his life but the most amusing was when he worked for a cruise line. I used to tell a joke about that. “You don’t want to go to Mexico! You want to go to Alaska!” More than that, though, my father showed how change is possible in any life – if you want it.

Finally, from the Gospel of Thomas, “The father’s kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people do not see it.” So, it is easy to get caught up in details or the way things should be done. My father often got caught up in that dilemma, as do I, as I am sure do my brothers and sister.

Nobody is going to tell you my father was perfect. He can’t, anymore. He was often a shmuck. Other times, he could be a jerk. (See, my father hated it when I used swear words. To this day, he still hasn’t read any of my books or seen my plays… but I keep hoping…) The thing is, yes, he was a shmuck. And, very often, so am I. And are you. And you. And everyone here. And everyone else.

Thank you for coming.

Shipoopi's Big-Assed Adventure

Last night was it. Shipoopi was done fooling around. She barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked... and wouldn't shut up.

This is, of course, all Vicky's fault. I tried to tell Vicky from the beginning that Shipoopi has to get used to being on her own at night but Vicky insisted on staying up until 10pm or 11pm or 12am - until Shipoopi fell asleep. You can imagine what it's going to be like when we have a child.

So, last night, when Vicky wanted to go to sleep, Shipoopi started barking, because by that time she knew who was boss.

... I went to sleep.

Vicky brought Shipoopi up to our room and put her on the floor - but Shipoopi wasn't going to stand for that. She wanted up on the bed and wouldn't take "almost" for an answer. So, she barked and barked and... well, you get the picture.

When I awoke this morning, Shipoopi was in the bed with us. Vicky had broken quickly and put her there before going to sleep.

I can imagine what stopped her barking. She was surrounded by giant asses, staring her down! Must not move, she probably thought. The slightest sound might alert them and they'll roll over and crush me! So, she remained still all through the night. Still and silent, praying that neither of us farted.

... hey, she asked for it.

Damn you, Mister Sun...

For those of you keeping track, I've been cycling for a few weeks now. In fact, I passed the 500 mile mark on my odometer - so I've put in a little pedalling time. My usual schedule included cycling 25 or so miles every morning. I get up at 5am, head on out, and return in time to get ready for work.

... at least, I used to...

Thanks to the stupid tilt of the earth, and a sun that is less than reliable, the sun has been rising later and later every morning. Yesterday, it didn't rise until I was nearly back home. Most of my ride was spent in the darkness, despite my headlight, trying my hardest not to veer from the trail. Riding in the morning has been nice and refreshing but riding in the dark just plain sucks.

So, what do I do?

This morning, I started out 15 minutes later, hoping to catch the sunlight as I rode, but wouldn't you know it? The stupid sun rose even later! And, as I observe the Old Farmer's Almanac (the Internet is a fine thing, kids!), I notice it'll just keep getting later and later until the Autumnal time change, when it'll start all over again. Hell, by January, the sun won't be up until nearly 7am!

I guess this means summer is coming to a close, and just as I discover cycling!

Oh well. I guess I'll have to start leaving later, riding faster - or finding better excuses to flake...

And it's all because of...

Sunday afternoon, I sat on our love seat and announced to Vicky that I was happy.

I just finished my first 40-mile ride. I had a great shower and was wearing comfortable clothes. Vicky had set out some breakfast and we'd eaten it watching a little TV. She massaged my weary muscles. And we'd both pet our little menagerie, especially our newest member, the little 12-week old: Shipoopi.

It doesn't take much and, yet, things have to work out perfectly.

If my bike had broke down or if the water in the shower had been too cold or if my clothes reminded me how fat I am by being too tight or if there wasn't any breakfast or if she hadn't given me a massage or if there wasn't anything good on TV or if our pets weren't so sweet... even if you take that one item, if Shipoopi wasn't such a love-muffin, the perfection of that morning would have been popped like a soap bubble.

So, it's important to me to understand how much my happiness relies on so many others. Thousands of people - maybe more. The other riders on the trail. The people who keep the water running and the power on. The makers of my clothes. My wife - and everyone who made her as wonderful as she is. Those who bred and raised our pets before we had them. Even, though I hate to say it: TV execs. Sometimes, though rarely, their influence comes together to make me happy.

I'm not a big fan of thanking an imaginary God when it is so important to thank real people.

Thanks for the Sunday, folks.

Approaching half a century…

Cyclists refer to distance in strange ways. They call 100 miles a century. They call 50 miles half a century.

Well, today I rode down the Santa Ana River and up the coast. I snacked near the Huntington Beach Pier and rode my bike on back for a total of 40.5 miles, the longest single trip I’ve done. As an ex-smoker and guy who is pretty obviously overweight, it gives me a good deal of pride to know I can do that and sets my sights on a half century goal.

Vicky was very sweet, by the way. She had coffee brewing when I got home and we sat together with coffee and fruit and biscotti and watched the last of the Democratic National Convention – and wasn’t that amazing – while I rested my incredibly weary bones. She even gave me a massage.

So, today I’m feeling pretty good about my life.

Neurosis returns tomorrow – never fear.

Bad hair...

Sit! Stay! For god's sake, play dead!

This is the problem with my hair. It has reached that point where it's too long to be short but to short to be cool. So, it hates me. It hates me and it's trying to kill me.

Through embarrassment!

Fucking hair.

Stepping into my father’s shoes…

Blanche took Keith and I aside shortly before I left Arizona to give us a couple of things he wanted us to have. Keith got my dad’s bible. They both share the same name so it’s the perfect gift to leave. Many years ago, bible’s held entire family histories within their bindings and, in a metaphoric sense, the same thing was happening here. All I wanted were some cds I’d given him. The one thing we shared was a sense of humor and it seemed fitting, somehow, that we should share the same jokes that he enjoyed while he was alive.

Blanche asked if there was anything else we’d like of his.

She asked if we wanted his shoes.

Now, at the time, that innocent offer felt pretty damned ghoulish. It felt like stripping shoes off his body, eminently disrespectful. Only this morning – only moments ago – did the irony catch up to me. It didn’t sneak up, either. It crashed into the back of my head with the velocity of a small truck.

Walking in my father’s shoes.

You saw that, didn’t you?

I was wondering how I could tell you about the developments on the new book. How can I, I wondered, describe this journey I am only beginning to take? The answer came: Step into your father’s shoes.

Of course. You see, I wanted to interview my dad. I wanted to hear his whole life’s story. But I was too late and he died and I barely got a few words out of him. And then, I went home to this idea for a new book, and idea about free will and if it really existed and my theories and how they amount to little more than behavioralism on steroids. I wondered what’s the good of free will, if it really did exist. Surely, it’s not to make us more money or to get us more fame. Indeed, it seems more and more that it’s not for us at all. If anything, free will is a support system for future generations.

And that brought me to Avalokiteśvara, the Buddhist ideal of the bodhisattva, the individual with such compassion for the world that he rejects nirvana if it means just one person remains unsaved. It might sound analogous to Jesus Christ but it’s more than that. Some Buddhists see Avalokiteśvara as really existing but I know idealized versions of anything are no more likely to exist than absolute evil – so I can blaspheme in any number of religious traditions and call Avalokiteśvara more a goal than a thing, a goal of what we can be, each of us. Bodhisattvas are people and, so, Avalokiteśvara can be the ideal of all peoples. (This is a primary difference between eastern and western thought. In the west, Christians try to live a Christ-like existence – some, at least – but not to be Christ. In the east, the goal of Buddhists is to become Buddha, to waken to your Buddha nature.)

Evolution. That’s what I’m talking about.

If Climbing Maya told how to be successful in your life, this book would tell how all of humanity can fulfill its potential. It’s the obvious next step.

Now, you might think I sound pretty smart but that’s only one part of the story. Because after I returned home, I started thinking about how I could portray my father in a book like this. He could have been an archeologist, I thought, and I could be the son who carries on his work! … um, no. My dad was no archeologist. He was just a guy. Okay… I imagined he could have been a university professor and I would be the son who found all of his notes! … no, no, no. The problem was, how could I start a story that led to Avalokiteśvara unless I had a father who sent me down that road?

I couldn’t. Because my father would never send me there. My father was no archaeologist, no college professor. He didn’t truck with eastern religion. He didn’t contemplate free will. My father’s last words to me were words of regret, about how much he wished he could have done for his children. And when he asked for forgiveness, I gave it gladly. That’s the man I wanted to write about because he is all men. He wanted more for his children; he felt he hadn’t done enough. That’s the man who would inspire…

And that’s when the truck slammed into the back of my head.

My dad didn’t leave me any archaeological ruins or teacher’s notes. He left me a legacy of regret, of how I wished I had done better. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The beauty of my theories on free will is that change is possible; it’s just slow. Free will is the gift of one generation to the next and we can be the people we hope to be; it just takes a while.

The key to this book is honesty, just as it was with Climbing Maya. This will be marketed as fiction but that doesn’t mean I have to lie.

I just have to remember my dad and stand in his shoes.

Letting me be me…

Sometimes, I think people have trouble pinning me down. I can be very “out there’ at times, vocal about my opinions and just about anything. Other times, though, I can be reserved… downright neurotic.

I’ll give you an example.

This past weekend, I met lots of my father’s family but I didn’t network with them. It’s not just that I had other things on my mind; I didn’t feel comfortable. Well, there was one person who made me comfortable. My aunt Pam… probably because she was a nice person and, therefore, completely unlike any blood relative. (Okay, that’s harsh… completely unlike 99% of my blood relatives.) I took down her contact information.

… and then came the point where I began to wonder what to do with it.

I could send her the link to our photo site.

I could send her an email.

I could send her a link to One Path… oh, wait… no, I couldn’t. Because she’d tell Blanche or Dwight or, god forbid, my mother. I wouldn’t want my mother reading my blog because… um… why, again? I forgot.

Here’s the thing: I haven’t provided any of my family with links to my blogs because, deep down… further… further… under that… move that aside… down there… further… take the stairs… down the – there you go… further… right, down there… deep down, I want to be liked. And One Path and My Side – okay, especially My Side – can sometimes be ever so slightly offensive.

But that’s me, right? And if I never share my blogs with my family, I’m hiding away a part of myself.

And that’s not good.

But I worry.

Perhaps my fucking cussing will turn them away… cunt.

Maybe my atheism and mocking of idiotic, religious afterlife insurance will make them angry.

Possibly my expression of my political views and my beliefs that Democrats and Republicans can both tend to be morons could just keep them from liking me.

But, if they stop liking me because of that… well, I guess they never did like me, did they? So, I guess this is the time to finally come out of the closet.

NO. NOT THAT CLOSET.

It’s time to open up the blinds, pull back the shades, draw the curtains and let the real Ken come through – the one nobody likes!

… wait…

Memorial Day…

My mom and I hit the road shortly after 1pm on Friday. It was a long drive through early traffic that made you think everyone in the world had decided to hit Arizona through the SoCal route but it was actually just southern California being its own, obnoxious, damned self.

Driving my mom to my father’s memorial seemed like a stupid idea at first. Then, it started to look like the dumbest idea I’d ever had. She started talking about bringing our own water and packing trail mix and, sure enough, she brought the water and the trail mix – but I quickly talked her out of any idea of actually living off the stuff. (In truth, the trail mix went home with her, unopened.) It was important to me that I pay for this trip. My mom’s on a fixed income and it’s important to me that I help where I can. Talking her into that wasn’t easy; I kind of had to get in her face about it.

After a while, I even began to enjoy the drive a bit. We talked a lot about my father and my family history. I told my mom about things going on with Vicky and me. I told her about the new play. We avoided dangerous topics like politics or religion but without having to skirt the issue; we just had plenty of other things to talk about. We made very good time and arrived at our hotel before it was even dark.

By that time, my mom seemed to have accepted that I’d be paying for everything. So, she acquiesced when I checked in for us both, putting down my credit card. But then, I learned that my mom’s traveling experience is far less accomplished than my own. I don’t really consider myself a world traveler or anything but I found myself having to explain little things – things that are little to me, at least – to help her manage in her room, the first time in her life she’d ever had a hotel room alone.

As soon as I get into my room and began unpacking my stuff, after which my mom and I planned to go have dinner and stop at a liquor store for some zinc tablets (I was coming down with a cold), I realized what the one thing was I forgot. On every trip, there’s one essential thing I forget. I doesn’t matter how often I double-check, if I make a list, if I tie things down, there’s always one thing. So, I’ve learned to accept it as part of traveling. This time, it was my belt. I forgot my belt. I had my slacks and shirt cleaned and pressed, my tie, my shoes, socks, etc. But… no belt. Shit.

When I told Vicky about this, who was watching our sweet little mouth of teeth – I mean, puppy - back home, she told me in her most pragmatic way, “Why don’t you just buy a new one?”… which sounded a lot like, “How many times did your mom drop you on your head as a child?”

So, off my mom and I went to the Target we were directed to by the front desk clerk. Now, it might not look like it but I am very particular about my clothes. They have to be just right. Buying a belt at Target – or anything at Target – is, for me, like getting a haircut with NAIR. (Blame the Ex.) But we had to do it. Still, when my mom said, “Here are plenty of belts,” and I said, “No. No. No. No…” things didn’t look good. But we found one and got the zinc and went to Marie Callendars’ for dinner. Our waitress there, Holly, was nice, sweet, attentive… and wouldn’t leave us the hell alone! We couldn’t get our food in, she kept us talking! I have never in my life had a server so damned attentive… so I guess the next one who ignores me… I have it coming…

Nighttime. My mom and I went to our rooms. I fiddled with the SleepNumber (Uncomfortable at any setting) bed and passed out… for two hours. Son of a bitch. I woke up at 2am but, by 3am, Biden had been announced as Obama’s running mate. (A good choice, I think.) So, I had plenty of television to watch by the time 7am came around and my mom called me to see if I was awake.

I have the kind of mom who will never stop being a mom. To all of you with crack-whore mothers… appreciate it.

We hit the road before 9am, hit the church before 9am, hit the pre-memorial breakfast before 9am. You know, it’s hard to be fashionably late to something you want to get through with as quickly as possible.

I felt horrible entering that church. First of all, as an atheist, I thought about how much religious crap I’d need to listen to from other people and how much I was going to have to bite my tongue simply to keep the peace. Christians don’t appreciate how often we Atheists clam up to save their fragile feelings. (You want to become an Atheist? Just find one thing wrong in each major religion. Should take you... five minutes...) But, more importantly, I just didn’t want to be there. The last place in the world I wanted to be was another reminder that my father was dead.

But I was fortunate to see Mitch and Sherryl out there, waving me in. They are both wonderful people and Mitch always makes me feel like things are all right. You want some irony? Mitch used to be a priest. Hey, I don’t think all religious people are hypocrites. I just really appreciate the ones who aren’t.

My mom and I walked into the church and a woman standing in the foyer looked at me. She was in late-middle-age to my middle-middle-age. She had a kind, welcoming face. The face of a church employee. Oh god. “You must be Ken,” she said.

Uh oh, I thought. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, I am your father’s sister by your grandfather’s second marriage,” she said, and everything felt better. Her name is Pam and it’s nice to know I am related to a nice person on my dad’s side of the family. I always thought of that as the “prick side.” Turns out I was wrong.

But stepping away from her after we’d spoken a little, I felt my nerves dancing frantically across my skin. Everything about this was wrong – I mean, how are you supposed to remain in denial? But Keith moved happily through the crowd, who told him he looked and sounded just like dad. Dwight and Monica were showing off their baby. Blanche was miraculously holding it together. We all awaited Richard and Teri, having not yet arrived from an insane drive from Kirkland, Washington.

After a while, I realized I’d had five cups of coffee and no food. I took my jittering body to a familiar face. Keith was getting ready to film the memorial and when I said, “I feel terrible,” he said, “I know. I’ve got two cameras to man and I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it myself.”

“… no, Keith. I feel terrible because it’s dad’s memorial.”

“Oh. Right. That too.”

My legs buckled. I hadn’t really been sleeping for a few days, either. “I should get something to eat,” I said.

“I should, too,” Keith answered. “I just… can’t.” And I realized that the sorrow I felt, Keith had been trying to mediate through keeping busy. He’d used his denial to turn my father’s memorial into a project. I’d just used mine to somehow convince myself that my father’s death wouldn’t affect me.

So, I put my arm around my brother and we both walked to the food… and ate little.

Then, Richard and Teri appeared and I felt a little better. Richard is my youngest brother and he had faced down so much adversity with so much courage and tenacity that seeing him always lifts me up a little bit. I mean, I’ve been lucky, end of story. Dwight planned for everything. Keith barely catches a break sometimes. None of us are fighters like him. I’m very proud of him.

But that meant the service was starting… dammit. We took our seats. Blanche, Dwight, and Richard took the first row. I sat in the second row with my mom and Keith’s wife, Julie. The minister spoke. There was prayer and singing and more speaking. I let it wash over me like creationism classes at a public school, just hoping they’d see the light one day. (Do I think Atheists are superior? No. Just right.)

Then, the time came for the kids to speak and Dwight was first. So much for chronological order. Keith’s the eldest… oh well. Dwight had something prepared, like me, and when he choked up Richard was there with some water for him. I was next. I don’t know why. I can’t really tell you how I did but I can tell you that halfway through – I lost control of my throat. It began to clench up and words escaped me. Thankfully, I’d written a script! When tears came, I pushed them aside and moved ahead. But this made me weak and I began to shake – I was just glad when it was over. Next up was Richard. Richard leaned against the podium like he was born to it and spoke unprepared. When I later told him how cool he looked, Teri responded, “That’s because he hasn’t slept.” Last came Keith. Keith isn’t a public speaker or a performer, like me. Crowds make him uncomfortable. But he walked up and he spoke with humor and a little eloquence – though his “Dad is here with us” made me want to smack him.

The service closed with a photo montage of my father, moving chronologically through his life. A 15-20 year break made me realize: that’s when he was with my mom and before he remarried. So you didn’t see me or Keith or Audrey, my sister. But I did pop up later, with a picture taken from a Thanksgiving back when I was alone, pre-Vicky. My beard looked scruffy and my waist was thinner… dammit. I was ready for that. I knew they had that shot. But then, they put up a shot from my wedding. There, Vicky and I stood with my mom and Joe on one side and my dad and Blanche on the other. And I felt a punch in my gut and I just wanted to bawl my eyes out.

I still do. I just haven’t had the time.

The weekend kind of ended there. From that point on, it was all about getting home, finding some place familiar, trying to breath through the pain of having someone taken from me as if carved out of my gut with a rusty soup spoon.

I wish I could tell you more. Maybe later.

Oh me of little faith…

My father’s memorial held a lot of special moments…

It also held some crap. Here’s some of that.

Being an atheist, people think I don’t know my religions. They forget I’ve studied. So, when Christians spoke of my dad being in heaven, they weren’t technically accurate but I let them have it as being close. But, when one of my brothers walked around, saying, “Dad is here with us.” I pretty much just wanted to puke!

Get your religious beliefs straight, people! If you’re going to go in for ancestor-worship, fine, but don’t do it under the guise of Christianity because that’s not what the Bible teaches! (Not that this has ever bothered anyone else – cough – stem cells – cough – gay marriage – cough – pro-war radicals – cough!)

I kept waiting for someone to tell me that my father was in a better place. I was ready to say, “Well, considering he was cremated, I’d say it’s doubtful.”

The best part of the day, however, came when my brother, Richard, and his wife, Teri, asked me if Vicky and I would consider being godparents to their son, Hayden. These two love their child so much, this was clearly an honor and I accepted it without hesitation, of course.

But then, Teri said, haltingly, “I know how you feel about… you know… God…”

It prompted a joke on my part, of course, but the truth is, she was very confused. I have no feelings about God at all. You can’t have feelings for something that doesn’t not exist, that is just a mental construct, a figment of your ancestor’s imaginations you were convinced had to be true.

… and, if my other brother is correct, they’re all here to make sure it sticks…

Dying to go to a funeral…

It’s going to be 108 degrees.

My father’s memorial service is in Chandler, Arizona on Saturday and it’s going to be 108 degrees… hotter than the surface of the sun!!!

It’s a good thing he’s dead…

Avalokiteśvara and this thing called free will…

The process is strange even to me. I tell people I write books but I’m lying. I’m just damned lying. They sit me down, plug me in, and make my fingers type. I don’t write books; books write through me.

When I wrote Climbing Maya, it was like this. I was on the 91 freeway, stuck in traffic, when it hit me so hard between the eyes I thought I was going to scream. The connection between Kundalini Yoga and Maslow came so powerfully, as I drove up the 5 freeway (seriously, they could just hit me while I lounge on the sofa… I wouldn’t mind…) that I called Vicky immediately and had her take notes.

And it’s happening again.

I got the idea to write a book on free will after a droning in my head bugged me for days, until I realized that it was a voice talking to me. Free will is a construct much like behavioralism but it’s… well… after a few months of batting that around in my head, I realized that isn’t news. So what? It’s no big deal. There’s no book there.

Then, yesterday, something hit me here at work. It was like pushing an ice block through a keyhole. (I was going to write pee hole…) In physical pain, I heard it growing louder and louder, pushing me to read, research, move, act – until I found it.

Avalokiteśvara.

The paradigm of bodhisattvas.

Tibetan Buddhists believe in his divinity, much like Christians believe in Christ – but there’s much more there. Because it turns out you can follow a direct line from free will to Avalokiteśvara. Your free will… you…

And so, it turns out I have my next book. If Climbing Maya was about how you as an individual can find success, the new book will be about how the human race can use free will, with an explanation of how it exists, to become… It’s pretty broad in scope, I guess.

I’m going to write it as fiction because I learned my lesson. Climbing Maya hasn’t been turned down because it was a bad book. It’s been turned down 90% of the time because I don’t have celebrity backing – and if that doesn’t make you want to spit, I don’t know what will.

… good thing I finished the play…

Oh! And I finished the play!

Dimly through a haze of smoke…

This is going to sound odd, but there’s a part of me that regrets quitting smoking.

I know. I know. I said it would sound odd.

But for all the benefits I feel, from the way my voice is that much clearer (sure, like you don’t sing in your car) to the long rides I could never take if I still inhaled (literally) Camels, there are those occasions when the negatives come by to remind me.

This morning, the stretch of the 5 freeway just south of Camp Pendleton, just where it’s caught between country and city, overlapped like a slide over my vision. There was no getting around it, so I went with it. I was sitting at my desk, after all. No harm done. I could see what it was trying to convey; it was the drive to Clostio’s house. It didn’t matter which one or where he was, this Viewmaster in my head was saying, “Don’t you miss him? Huh? Don’t you?”

Of course, I do. He and I haven’t spoke, best of friends and everything, in two years. Recently, Vicky found out he’s in a 12-step program. Maybe he’s straightening himself out. I don’t know. But the thing that has been most in my mind is: What then? What if he does straighten himself out? Clostio and I used to sit around and smoke together. We won’t do that now. Without smoking or drinking, will we still be able to be friends? Was our friendship that shallow? (Maybe it was, for him to sequester himself from me that easily…)

I’ve also been thinking about my dad’s memorial. I know where the people I’ll want to hang out with will be: outside! Smoking! But not me… I don’t smoke… dammit… I’ve thought about just standing out there (in the 106 degree desert) with them and not smoking but that would put me very much out of place. I wouldn’t belong.

Then, there’s Tim and Autumn. They smoke.

There’s Jeff. There’s Rich.

Shit, man. This non-smoking shit is tough.

My father was a very nice guy... really...

Less than a week after my father's death, everything began to change.

My dad, you see, wasn't a particularly nice guy in life. He'd done some rotten shit in his life and everybody knew it. Most people who knew him long enough didn't like him a whole lot. Vicky liked him... but she never had to spend more than four hours with him...

So, it's stunning to see how quickly everyone's opinion of him changed now that he's dead. Like stepping out of a blizzard into a cabin warmed by a toasty fire, everyone is warming to my dad. Even one of my brothers, who insisted my dad had been "faking" his illness, is now spouting all kinds of diabetic nonesense about how much he had loved his dad and how close they were.

And I am appalled.

Shortly after my father died, I began writing a eulogy for his memorial. The way I figured it, I was the writer in the family, the only one really comfortable speaking in front of people, so I would be the likely candidate to speak at my father's funeral. I wrote a eulogy that I felt was honest, somber, even a little poetic. I had asked how long I'd have to speak and was told, "As much time as you'd like."

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I was told that the eulogy was too long. I'd only have five minutes to speak because all four sons were now going to be asked to speak. My experience, my talent, the fact that I had asked didn't amount to a hill of shit. Worse, though, was how I started seeing my brother, the guy who said dad had been "faking", write the most syrupy nonesense, painting my father as a cross between Albert Schwietzer and Gandi. But nicer. And far more understanding.

My eulogy was sent back to me in an edited version that tried to retain its meaning but - well, when you condense a 15 minute speech into a five minute speech, what you end up with is a generic imitation, at best. Clearly, a rewrite was required. Summing up my feelings in five minutes would be tough, especially while my brother told the most incredible lies in some posthumous attempt to score points with our dead dad. The two other brothers would probably tell some version of the truth but I didn't feel I could count on them to counteract the idiot's nauseating posturing.

That's when I realized what I would have to do. If I was going to be able to face myself, I would need to explain who my father really was, injecting a little honesty into the whole thing. So, I wrote. I found a theme that I felt was appropriate if not complimentary. Vicky was sure I'd be cast out of the family completely, which is ironic given a family history where people have been routinely cast out, but once she heard it she agreed that it provided a little honesty to the whole thing. She also said that part of it sounded like "Is It a Sin to Lick a Burrito", my long lost though not forgotten monologue.

My dad wasn't a monster. He was a human being. I prefer to remember him that way, as the man he was and not the man he wished he'd been.

How fast is toooooo fast?…

Work. This morning. The commute.

I rode my bike this morning, for the first time in a few weeks. I’ve been keeping up my biking pretty regularly with 16 miles rides most mornings and longer rides (39 miles last time bitches!) on the weekends. I’ve been training myself to keep my bike in the highest gear possible. (Except when I take hills – I’m not a moron.) This was a major bitch at first but it is really paying off.

Last time I rode the 13 miles into work, it took me nearly an hour… by which I mean 59 minutes. But today, I flew, cutting my time down to 50 minutes, averaging 15 miles per hour. (According to Bicycle Magazine, 16+ is considered racing speed!)(Slow racing speed but racing speed all the same...)

Every day I do a little better at this, I remind myself that it wouldn’t be possible if I were smoking, and I keep in mind that it’s going to help me drop another pound.

And I like being the guy who passes people, for a change…

The Father of Rewinding died today.

No, this isn't a joke. Keep reading.

Honestly. The guy who invented "rewinding" died today. I never thought that such a common feature, something we don't even use anymore, would have an "inventor". I'm sure many people would feel the same. But there you go.

And, of course, this got me thinking about my father.

I'm sure you see where this is going.

My dad's contributions to my family's lives, however small or large, annoying or funny, traumatizing or comforting, may not be seen by the world around us. They might not even be noticed by those close to us. But they are there. Having him in our lives changed us and helped us be the people we are today. We should use that for all the good we can, even when we might think that our contributions may end up like the Inventor of Rewinding.

We are all of us lost in the threads of time sooner or later but right now we are all necessary and our actions can change the world. And so it was with my dad.

Thank you for humoring me while I wax rhapsodic.

No news is no news...

I know things have been pretty quiet here for the past few days. My father's death has left me with few words and fewer jokes, so bear with me.

In the meantime, check out our new puppy, Shipoopi. She's a little sweetie and hardly ever doesn't poop on everything in sight...

One in – One out…

Vicky just said, “What are you writing? ‘My Dad died and I bought a puppy?’”

She’s good.

So, anyway, my dad died and I bought a puppy.

My father’s death came almost as a relief. He’d been in pain for months. He was put on hospice care back on Wednesday and it took three days just to get the pain meds right. He deserved a rest. I’ll miss his terribly but I’m relieved that his suffering has ended. There’s that, at least.

Earlier, Vicky and I were at a pet store. Now, I am very much against buying pets at stores when there are so many who can be adopted. This is why I dragged Vicky to the pound – actually, she went there willingly; she’s nice like that. We checked petfinder.com and a couple of other sites. The thing is, the puppy we fell in love with, the puppy we wanted, was at the pet store. Her name is Shipoopi and she’s adorable. Don’t worry. You’re bound to see pictures of her somewhere near this space.

My dad would have liked the name and the dog. I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ll miss him, so…

For want of an accessorie...

Strange thing to call this, I know. But it's easier than the truth.

My father would put on hospice care yesterday. This means he was taken off his meds and put on morphine to help with the pain, to keep him comfortable, so he can die.

I don't quite know what to say. Obviously, perhaps, things are pretty shaky emotionally. (Don't you hate how I use qualifiers? I'm sad as fuck.)

And the only thing I can think of is, "Where am I going to get a black arm band? When he does, where do I get a black arm band? I don't even know what they're called!"

I'm outside of this thing. My father and I weren't exactly close. I'm watching it unfold but taking no part - an outsider... as usual.

There's a lot I'd like to say right now, about death and about life, but huge paragraphs come out as short lines and I can't bring myself to say more. This isn't a process where you find words easily.

Flashing through my mind like poundcake...

... which is to say... not very "flash-ing-ly"...

You see, I keep meaning to write these things down but old age, senility, and that... oh, what was it now?... I forgot... um...

It was one of those mornings when... you know... one of THOSE mornings... I woke up on time but just couldn't seem to get out of the house. I forgot my phone. My water bottle was empty. My front tire was low. By the time I'd hit the road on my morning 16 miles, I was already running five minutes late. Trust me, when it comes to biking, five minutes count for a lot. I knew that even if I pushed myself as hard as I could... it wouldn't really count for squat.

But I did anyway.

Just after Imperial Highway, I passed through a cloud of gnats. These don't mean much when you're walking; you just brush them aside and keep your mouth closed. But when you're biking, in the dark... it's like speeding through a cloud of raisins. Spat! Spat! Spat! In those instances, you're extra careful not to open your mouth!!

I haven't mentioned the play in a while. You'll be surprised to hear it's nearly completed. I've been writing at lunch and it just pours out of me with little effort. The hardest part was the rhythm. The inspiration for this show - musically, if not lyrically - came from the TV series, Studio 60. I loved the rhythm the writer's kept up. I still love watching it on DVD, simply for that comic beat. So, I tried to write a show that had a good rhythm - some people may not get what I'm saying but I think the results will come across on stage. The nice thing about writing musically is that you don't have to worry about the beats. They're right there. You can see the jokes before you need to write them; it's so easy. (Yeah, I'll shut up now.)

(BROKEN NEWS: I finished the first draft of the play today at lunch! That's right. I'm a playwright again!)

I've been hoping to get some folks together for a staged reading but it's not turning out to be so easy. Most of the usual suspects (Tim, Steve, Chris) have disappeared and the few actors I still know, well, they're good! They're working! I can understand that. After all, it wouldn't make sense to admire them if they sucked, right? But scheduling a reading has been difficult, all the same. I'm tempted to pull Vicky in to read and even Jeff, as well. The important thing is to hear the words out loud. Comedy works better when spoken.

I reached the farthest point of my ride this morning with only two minutes to rest. I faced the east. I took a deep breath. I thought about my day...

... a cute jogger bobbed on by...

Shit! Two minutes are up so fast! Back on my bike, I headed home.

School starts in two weeks. Can you believe it? It's been a nice summer, with lots of time for... well, not much, but I did get a little rest, which was good. I'm taking two courses this semester and I hope to take two more in the spring. That will leave me with five courses to take. Five. Some of these must be done sequentially, so I'll probably be stuck taking one each semester. Crap. This is taking forever.

By the time I got home, my skin was glowing with heat. I generate a lot of BTUs when I'm riding - just off my skin alone. Vicky is more cold-blooded (watch it) so she is amazed at how hot my skin gets. After a long ride, I'm pretty amazed, too. I wish I could plug myself in, rather than glowing like a furnace. Oh well.

Up to the shower.

Time to wash off some bugs...

31 miles and what do you get?...

In my case, exhaustion.

I figured I'd do 25 miles, tops. The plan was to leave early in the morning and ride further up the river than ever before. I left at 6:30, when the sun was already up... and so were the bugs. So, I had to ride with my mouth closed - you know, or else! But it was a pleasant morning. It was cool and there were a whole lot more people out there than I'd expect on a Sunday.

As the river coasted along the 91, I was reaching my furthest point to date: Weir Canyon. At Weir Canyon, the trail splits, one side proceeding down by the river, the other side climbing into a hill. I would have liked to stay with the river, except the side ended shortly thereafter. I had to climb. I was too stupid to shift, also I didn't know how far I'd be going... after a while, though, I shifted, because it went pretty damn far. But that was nothing, because after it climbed and climbed - it dropped. I zipped down into a ravine at nearly 30mph but then had to ascend again... dammit. Okay, so I didn't need this to tell me I'd never make it to the Tour de France. But after I climbed up again, the trail had beaten me enough... for a while. It resumed its graceful arc along the river, fairly flat, calm, with more bikers and joggers than I could believe. Yorba Linda folks.

I went for quite a while, looking for some landmark so I can say, "I went to..." So, when I reached Gypsum Canyon Road (which to you out-of-towners is past the 241)(which to you really out-of-towners is just one more street and, sadly, only a couple of miles further up the triail), I knew I had my landmark, turned around and headed back. I had put on some sunscreen for when the sun finally came out... but it wasn't cooperating. It was actually kind of chilly! I slipped in line behind a big group of riders who were doing an even 12-14 mph and followed them on back.

Here's a tip. Be careful about what sunscreen you use... be careful bugs don't like it. By the time I got home, 24 miles later, my arms and legs - all sunscreened up - were now covered in bugs!

And, for some reason, Vicky didn't want a hug.

But after I wiped off insect detrious, Vicky pulled her bike out and we went on a ride for the two of us. Now, it was just 7 miles long but keep in mind Vicky isn't as crazy as I am. She doesn't bike in her every spare minute. Anyway, after a couple of miles, my ass had had it! It was threatening to leave! And I don't want to know what life without an ass would be like - so I asked Vicky to turn back.

All in all, though, 31 miles. Not bad. Nearly 1/3 of a century. I wonder how stupid I'll be next weekend...

Watching my father die...

I wasn't going to say anything.

This weekend was so intensely person, spending awkward, uncomfortable moments with a man who is slowly dying right in front of our eyes. As I drove back from Arizona - as I stood at a rest stop outside of Quartzite - I thought, "Now there's something you're never going to write about. How do you make jokes about your father dying? Cause that's what I do. If I'm not comfortable about something, I joke about it."

But you just can't joke in that situation. My father gave me this look that said, "I hate everything about this." And I nodded. It's just not fair, this situation, this hospital bed he lives in planted in the dead-center of his living room, knowing he's dying, knowing that everybody knows it, which makes it so irritating when someone tries to slip into denial or when people talk about prayer. Excuse me. He's dying! What part of that don't you get?

The only positive thing to come out of this sentence was that my father and I finally spoke directly to each other for the first time in years, since he got sick, at least. It's so easy to slip into plattitudes and denial. Then, after, you realize that could have been your final words and what a schmuck you are.

This weekend, my father told me how awkward it felt to be so sick in front of his son and I told him I understood. Then, when I left, I told him I loved him and that what he's going through does nothing to diminish that. Then, I said goodbye.

I'm glad I had a chance to undo the stupid platitudes of last time, the "Hope you get better" denial of my words. Hopefully, I learned something, because I don't think things get easier from here.

Toe cramps… not the name of my new punk band…

When Vicky and I went to bed last night, I fully expected to go right to sleep. (Way to ruin the suspense there, Mr. Writer Man!) After all, I just had my first full day of – well – awareness since taking the Seroquel. Vicky and I had gone to dance class only to find I was still too weak to handle the strain. (Seriously, the meds kicked my butt.) And, after all, it was after 10pm – Time for sleep!

Ha. I laugh at sleep. Ha!

Kinda wish I didn’t, though.

As the clock slowly dredged its way round the bend to 11pm, I decided I was tired and… I wasn’t going to budge until I got some sleep!

Midnight. Vicky started to snore. I’m not the only sleeping beat box in the house. So, I laid back and thought about the new play. I was trying to explain this process to the doc the other day. It goes something like this: There are an infinite number of possibilities, what your characters can or should do, but the number that makes sense is very finite and the number that works is even more so. The number of possibilities of what works well is teensy weensy, to use the technical term. So, my little exercise involves running possibilities through my head until I narrow it down to the best choices. For instance, you have two characters arguing about their marriage, you should: a) whine more, b) have one get eaten by a T-Rex, or c) make a joke about penis size. If it’s one of my plays, you’re looking at a) or c)… but you’re not ruling out b), you just haven’t figured out a way to make it work.

12:20. Hey! I slept! That was nice.

… But now I’m awake again. And the clock is passing 1am. The plan is to get up at 5am and go for a bike ride. I need to step up the amount of exercise I’m getting… cause I’m not getting any! But it’s going to be awful tough to do that if I don’t sleep.

As 2am approaches… toe cramp! OW! Left foot! It’s horrible! Stop. Stop. Stop.

There… gone. It’s 2:30… and it’s back again! Feels like the whole foot is imploding! Stretch! Stretch! Shit! It’s not working! I slide towards the edge of the bed and try to plant my foot on the floor but this only results in a comical half-slide off the bed. But through endurance and perseverance… and no choice, it slowly – very fucking slowly – goes away.

It’s 3:15. Need to sleep. Vicky’s snoring greedily and with a very satisfied meter. I touch her arm. I rub her skin.

Wait a second, pal. That’s not gonna put you to sleep!

Okay. Leave the wife alone. Need to drift. Drift. Like a boat. Drifting. Drifting. On waves. I just read about Sweden’s first tidal power generator. I start thinking about my solar stock. Maybe I should – shut up, for crying out loud! It’s 3:45! You need to sleep! You need to –

Something bursts my eardrums with demonic glee! It’s my alarm! How do I turn this thing off, again?

… wait a minute…

It’s 5am.

Hey! I got about an hour of sleep!

Yep! It’s gonna be a good day!

The long, dark naptime of the soul…

Where has Ken been? That’s the question that has been on several minds throughout the world… not necessarily about me… but… in general… kinda…

I’ve had a strange couple of days.

I went to see a new doctor on Saturday, still trying to resolve the sleepwalking/hallucinations/potato salad/slaw issues. She asked me to try Seroquel, a low dose, just as a test. The idea was that, though it’s an anti-psychotic, the drowsiness side effect would help me sleep through the night.

And it did.

I slept through Monday!

Now, in all fairness, I did wake up a few times on Sunday – long enough to bite Vicky’s head off a few times. Another side effect, it seems, is irritability. I’d snap at Vicky – Wire Hangars! Wire Hangars! – and then go back to sleep. It was fun. But not enough fun to ever try that again!

But, unlike my last doctor, I liked this one. My symptoms didn’t seem so unusual to her; she seemed used to hearing these things. When I said, “My first wife was at my marriage to my second wife,” I leaned over and added, “But she wasn’t really there.”

She nodded and said, “I understand.”

It’s nice not being completely odd, for a change.

The sad thing was that this new med didn’t even do what it was supposed to do. It knocked me out three ways to Sunday but did it help me sleep? Not really. I can’t say for sure if I awoke Saturday night – but then, I can’t say for sure if I was breathing. But, if I did sleep, I made up for it in a fierce way on Sunday. I had one of those nightmares that has you gasping for air when you wake up – with no recollection of what had scared you. Whatever it was, I was glad I didn’t remember.

Then, on Monday, still feeling the drug, any anti-psychotic claims were laid to rest. It’s bad enough when your sleeping hours are a mess with craziness but when it hits you when you’re awake… it sucks.

But I made it through Monday and went to bed, the feeling of the drug finally gone.

I was welcomed back to normality around 2:30 am, with a dream that shook me out of my sleep. I was partying around the Caribbean, on a sailboat with a captain who knew where all the best parties were and a beautiful, young girl who wouldn’t keep her top on. It was as though my crazy mind was saying, “Isn’t this better than that drug?” And it was. I woke up with the feeling of sand on my back and a cool breeze across my chest… but it was actually the bed and the fan…

Mind you, I’ve learned enough than to trust that to last. I’ll go back and I’ll try something else. I’m not a big fan of playing guessing games with my mental health but I’m not a big fan of the alternative, either.

New show – first look…

Sherryl, my friend with whom I’ve done several plays, agreed to take a look at Scene One of the new show for me.

I’ve been rather nervous because it’s been years since my last play. My first three – a kind of trilogy – were unapologetically about myself. I think everyone knew that. But this time, I wanted to write a story. Sure, it has some familiar elements to it – it’s easier to joke about things you’ve already laughed at – but I’m not putting my life on display and saying “LOVE ME!” (Listen, I’m just as insecure as the next writer; I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.)

And, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure I was ending up with anything good. The jokes just didn’t seem to be there; I wanted them to come faster. I felt I was getting bogged down in dialogue, which is a tough place to be in when you’re writing a play. (They’re all dialogue.) A first look was what I needed, just someone to say “You’re wasting your time, kiddo” and put me out of my misery.

Then, I got the word today. She loves it! I’m stunned! I’m relieved! It could actually be good! That’s great! Now, I only have five more scenes to go! Just 75 pages or so…

… more…

… that I have to write…

… that has to be just as good…

… oh crap.