Food and Boots…

(Keep in mind, this was written yesterday...)

Tonight’s my first day of school and, as you can probably guess, I’m a little nervous. So, rather than write about today, I thought I’d take a little trip into the future.

Tomorrow is going to be my first fasting day and I think it’ll be interesting to see how that goes. My doctor says it’s okay to water-fast, which is fasting while still drinking water, since I’m a pretty healthy guy… I said “healthy”… okay, fat. She just warned me to keep some quick food nearby in case I get light-headed or weak. Check.

I was actually there for a wart on my hand. I waited nearly two hours to see her about that and found out I can treat it at home. Okaaaaaay. So, while I had her, I figured I might as well take up some more of her time. I got a prescription to get tested for Tay-Sachs, which has nothing to do with my sacks, thank you. Tay-Sachs is a very rare birth defect found in French Canadians and Jews and – since my mother is French Canadian and may even be part Jewish (more than apparent thanks to her black belt in guilt) – getting tested wouldn’t be a bad idea. The condition is rare but highly mother-fucking fatal. No thanks.

And I talked to her about fasting, which she thinks is a good idea… in theory… she thinks I’m crazy, of course.

I waited two hours for that.

While I waited, I read a bunch of magazines I would not ordinarily look at. In the mountain of mags was a backpacking magazine. Now, I love hiking and backpacking. I’ve just never been fortunate enough to be with a woman who loved it as much as me. As I read this magazine, I felt my temperature rise at the thought that I can’t go hiking because Vicky won’t go.

And that’s just not right.

I can go. When I was single, I went hiking alone. So, why not go again?

Well, because I hate my boots. They should have been made by Audi (or Hummer, those of you not into the subtle), they’re so big, which is fine for a weekend trip but not for a day hike. What I wanted, I realized, was a new pair of boots – and that’s only fair considering mine are a decade old anyway – so I could go hiking.

Right about now is the perfect time to start hiking again. The hottest part of summer will soon wind down and we’ll have six months of hiking time until winter hits. Then, I’ll need to stop for winter… for a week or so…

Somewhere between school and work, by golly, I’m gonna do this!

Vague wisdom while you're waking up...

HOPE FLOATS AND SO DO CHERIOS...

I haven't a clue what this means but I assure you it's not just a veiled reference to the Sandra Bullock film.

CSI in the OC

I had my Saturday morning all planned out. Ken and I were going to my parents to take a birthday cake to my mom. I had a few errands to do in the morning, then I could do a little laundry and we’d be on the road.

First on my list was picking up my new SIGG Water Bottle from REI. No problem there, I got my new water bottle and was on my way to my next appointment. I needed to go back to the 55 Freeway North, so I took the necessary route. I was stopped behind a line of cars at a red light, when all of the sudden BOOM! I looked to my right and my passenger window was shattered…and there was a small “bullet-hole” at the top right corner of the window!

OMG…someone out there shot at me and my car!

I did a quick check of myself and didn’t see any injuries, so I made it to the parking lot of a liquor store and called the police. A few minutes later, several officers were in the parking lot and walking the area. They spent about an hour searching my car and it was concluded that it was one or two BB guns that shot the rounds that injured my poor car. Unfortunately, for my car (and me) that was enough to obliterate my passenger window.

I got my case number from the police and drove my poor car home. I got a new window and a nice detail, to make sure all the glass was cleaned out of my car. Now, hopefully the police will find the responsible person(s). Whether they do or don't, I sure won't be driving in that area for awhile.

My dinner with Vicky…

After getting shot at – I’ll let Vicky tell you that little story – Vicky and I decided to enjoy a quite dinner at her mother’s restaurant. Too bad that wasn’t going to happen.

The idea was that we’d get there, present my ma-in-law with her birthday cake, and chow down on some fine grub.

That was my idea, at least. Vicky’s idea was slightly different. It included blowing her mom away with a custom cake made to look like sushi… which wasn’t her mom’s idea. Her mom’s idea was tucking into a lovely, little pineapple upside-down cake a friend had baked her. It wasn’t that the sushi cake was no good (though I didn’t really get to taste enough of it to tell – not that I’m complaining… dammit) but that we all have our own expectations, our own plans, and they don’t always meet.

Believe me.

After several hours of waiting and delays and waiting and talking and delays, I finally got Vicky to sit down and eat. I was starving! I was dying for my sushi, something you’d never hear me say before Vicky came along! We started out with a little salad. This was followed up by a steamed rice, shrimp ball… thing. It was good! Don’t get me wrong! I just couldn’t tell you for the life of me what it’s called. After that, came the beef yakiniku (I think I got that right), a marinated beef I would probably kill for. If you don’t know Japanese cuisine, these all came out in small servings, on little plates. I was still starving!

Then, our sushi – our everluvin, mother-fuckin sushi – arrived! Spicy tuna roll! Ah, spicy tuna roll, I bow before your eminence! Crunch roll! Ah, crunch roll, I would shave my head to have more of you! (And we better make that soon because I’m getting all my hair cut off this Saturday, anyway!) And then, Crunchy Shrimp roll.

… Vicky saw my face when I had my first bite and told her mother that I wanted to marry her. If, by “marry”, you mean “chain her up to a sushi counter with a feeding tube and another tube at the other end and a machine in her head that has her do nothing but make Crunchy Shrimp roll like my own zombified slave” then, sure, I’ll “marry” her. My ma-in-law said, “Too bad.” So much for that idea.

When we finished our three rolls, Vicky announced she was stuffed. She couldn’t eat another bite. She…

I was still hungry.

Steve, my da-in-law, was sitting next to us, drinking his beer and Vicky asked me, “Are you saying you could eat more? Really? You could really eat more?”

My options: a) admit I was a pig in front of my da-in-law, who has already mentioned that he thinks I’ve been packing on the tonnage, b) deny ever having the thought, and c) kill everyone in the restaurant and chain my ma-in-law up to a sushi counter with a feeding tube and another tube at the other end and a machine in her head that has her do nothing but make Crunchy Shrimp roll like my own zombified slave.

“Hungry?” I replied. “Oh no. Not me. I’m fine.”

I was starving.

God dammit.

Priorities, folks! Priorities…

Is it any wonder the world can’t understand us Americans? I’m one of you and I can’t understand us!

So, for more than a decade, we as a nation have been starving the people of Iraq, denying them medicine, and prohibiting anyone else from coming to their defense. Then, for the past half decade or so, we have been actively slaughtering them by the thousands, wounding hundreds of thousands of them, destroying what little infrastructure they have left – basically, making their lives a fucking hell.

… and then, there’s this story.

Apparently, someone found a starving baby in a dumpster.

OH MY GOD! HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN?! THOSE BARBARIC IRAQIS!!!!

…um, we’re the ones who have been starving them, shooting them, bombing them…

So, basically, what the fuck, people?

Celebrating my One Week Anniversary with ambeR rubarth...

And you get the presents!

(Okay, so that was a rip off an ad I wrote while I was at Linksys. Excuse me!)

Yes, it was one week ago when I first discovered ambeR (I can't help it; that's how she spells her name!). In addition to downloading her most recent EP, I found a FREE download of a show she did recently.

And here it is for your enjoyment!

Yes, you can learn to hate her the way you did Grandaddy. (A moment of silence, please.) Remember this is a FREE download, which means you send me money.

... what?

Candy cigarettes, stress, and me…

So, I’m sitting at my desk… and I’m smoking.

You know, I’m old enough to remember the days when we smoked at work, when it was fully acceptable and, in fact, nobody would try to stop you from doing it. You would have an ashtray at your desk and you would smoke – all you wanted.

So, I’m sitting at my desk. Vicky recently gave me a pack of candy cigarettes. I have one in my mouth. And I’m smoking. I am tricking my brain into thinking it’s a real cigarette. I can feel the same rush of nicotine that you get from a real smoke. I’m a veteran of this kind of trickery; when I was a kid, I learned that pretending to eat popcorn at a movie actually made you feel full of popcorn. People say the brain is an amazing piece of machinery but I say it’s not that smart.

… mine isn’t, at least.

I have a stupid brain.

God dammit.

I needed a smoke because, all of a sudden, several minutes ago, all the stress of my week caught up to me. My dad’s sick. I’m starting school. I haven’t finished this book. I have a crazy family. My job is getting seriously difficult and these people still expect me to do it. And on and on. None of this makes me sad or depressed in any way – I’m actually quite satisfied (which is not to say that I don’t feel bad about my dad but I do feel satisfied in our relationship) – but it does irritate and I just wish for one minute things would stop. Just one minute each day. A pause. A breather. A moment where everything in the universe comes to a halt and we can experience the empty bliss of non-being. Then, things would start again and we could move on.

… could one of you work on that?

Meanwhile, I’m going to light another candy cigarette.

Personally, I hate it when I get serious…

So, I'm sitting at my desk and I'm eating organic raisins.

Let me repeat that because I think it's important. I'm eating organic raisins.

Organic raisins.

What the fuck?

So, I can't help wonder why I would even want to eat organic raisins and it occurs to me that the obvious answer is because they are good for me, they make me healthy, and it's a good thing to eat. And, man, do I hate it when I'm all grown up and mature.

Then, it occurs to me that what I'm trying to do here is become healthier. After all, I reason, isn't the point to be the best Ken I can be?

Again, hating all this growupedness.

Still, in all seriousness, isn't that why I try to write the best I can, do the best job I can at work, be the best husband I can be, etc. etc.? To be the best Ken possible?

Listen, I know I'm not perfect. I'm overweight. I smoke on occasion. I don't do nearly enough chores around the house – just ask Vicky. But if you're looking for a purpose in life, I can't think of one that is much better. Don't we all want to excel at what we're doing, and isn't life the ultimate thing we're doing?

I've wrestled for years with this question. It has been clear to me for years that we're not here simply to have fun or be happy. Listen, it's a good goal but with so many ways to approach it, it's hardly a virtuous one. But being a better person, living a better life – helping out with the chores a little more, getting in better shape, cutting back on the smokes, helping others, being more compassionate – that sounds like a good direction. I'm not talking about being perfect; that's an impossible goal. But knowing that you're doing something to help make you a better person, even eating organic raisins, feels good doing it, before you even get the positive results, and that's gotta help make you happy, too.

And maybe I won't do it, maybe I'll have off days, but any attempt is better than none at all.

Is this the most original thought? Probably not. But I think if we don't think about that on a daily basis – how can I be a better person? – then it's just too easy to fall into apathy. And apathy about your own life is just plain sad.

So, I'm eating my organic raisins. I've also packed away some carrots and some grapes. I'm enjoying eating these light, healthy lunches. Recently, I've found myself falling away from a Ken who was once trying to be healthier and these lunches remind me that I am capable of eating healthy.

I also have a small bag of Fritos, to remind me how good it is to be a little bad, too.

Faster…

So, as I might have mentioned, I’m reading the I Chong, a surprisingly good book – which is not to say that I’m surprised it is readable, given the author, but rather that my expectations were such that I didn’t see a book this good coming. As I near the end, I happened upon a passage where he discusses fasting, which he did while he was in prison.

So, when I tell you I’m considering fasting every Monday, you know I completely stole it from him.

Still, there’s something about the idea I like. Vicky and I usually spend our weekends going out or making some grand dinner and snacking – oh, the snacking! So, maybe taking every Monday to fast might be a good thing to put my body back in order. In addition, I’ve been thinking it might be helpful as a grounding tool. I used to be a vegetarian (more or less) and found that helped ground me, a little. Now, I tend to have meat only at dinner time, which I’m liking because it makes you wait for fulfillment. Waiting for fulfillment is especially important in a day when we are taught we should be totally fulfilled NOW. Like I said, grounding.

So, I thought I’d put a post up and see if anyone has any information about fasting, any stories, insights, limericks – you know, whatever.

Don’t worry. If I do decide to fast next week, I’ll write all about it. And I promise to do it very slowly, so as not to hurt myself.

Concert Night #2…

(What? No poetry?)

Sunday night, Vicky and I went to my second show of the weekend. This show she had won tickets to from KLOS, and a big Thanks goes to them. So, we drove to the Pacific Amphitheater to see Thin Lizzy, Blue Oyster Cult, and Deep Purple!

It was the Monsters of Really Old Rock Tour…

Oy.

It turned out that neither of us had ever been to the Pacific Amphitheater before. It also turned out we weren’t missing anything.

We walked up to the first attendant we saw and asked where our seats were. “Other side of the theater,” he said. “You’ll have to walk around. Either way is fine.” Great. So, we walked. The next attendant told us to keep going. The next attendant told us to keep going. And the next attendant told us to keep going.

We got so exhausted, we stopped for margaritas. (Yea Margaritas!)

Then, we walked to the next attendant… who turned out to be the first one we spoke to. “How do we get to our seat from here,” I asked, “because we’re going in no matter what you tell us.”

It took a while to get to our seats. Part of this was because they were pretty far away. They weren’t far up… like normal… no, these were far down. In the pit! Two chairs from the stage!

Yes! Rock on!!!

The first band came out. Turned out Thin Lizzy couldn’t make it. The boys were definitely not back in town. Instead, out came The Edgar Winter Group. I’ll start with “Yes, he did have a couple of hits” and I’ll finish with “His name is Edgar and he’s 73 years old so, really, what do you expect?”

Now, I don’t know if it was Edgar or the margarita that was giving me reflux, or if it was the way the seats were packed in, four per inch, I just hoped the next band would be…

Blue Oyster Cult! Yes! Sweet! I worshipped these dudes back in the early 80’s. Burning For You was one of my favorite songs ever! I was in the presence of…

Um… old dudes…

Meanwhile, I have to point out what Vicky pointed out to me. Over to our left, about ten seats over, some parents had brought their two sons, about ten years old or so. Both of them had these looks of shock on their faces. “You used to listen to dudes who look like my Principal and play this shit?” It was priceless! And then, there was the guy in his twenties sitting just ahead of us, this Brendan Fraser wannabe, who danced to every conceivable sound in the place. Hey, I understand having a good time but do you need to dance to that guy’s flatulence?

Anyway, BOC closed with the worst rendition I’ve ever heard – and let’s remember that I worked as a Karaoke DJ for a while, okay? – and that was enough for me. Anyway, I’ve never been a Deep Purple fan.

… and this is the part where you get to call me a dick. Vicky’s favorite color is Purple. Okay? She left, but you could see her thinking, “I could have married a younger, less gassy, more tolerant, better looking man who wouldn’t write this up on our blog… dammit.”

These words just come by themselves...

I wrote a poem yesterday and, as with all my poems of the last decade or so, they were more song lyrics than anything else. A smarter man would get back in a band but I'm just posting them here. The title was "Better When You Blur", about how we project a person's qualities onto them and how much easier it often is when their true selves don't show through. I don't know if you've ever know anyone like that - but, obviously, I have.

I have another one today. It started out as a poem about Vicky and I at the beach. Then, I started thinking about how any future we had in mind for ourselves is totally gone and the future we see totally probably won't happen. We have no idea what the future holds.

Granted, that may not be what the poems says...




You make me want to see the shore
And walk along without my shoes
And watch the ocean kiss my feet
And feel the water on my toes
It’s in that place when I’m with you and when my present comes unglued
It doesn’t matter where you are as long as you’re not very far
My life is colored grey with slate. I don’t consider it my fate.

The future we once had together
When we always had forever
The future we could hold in time
When nothing couldn’t be more fine
The future we once had together

Sometimes I’ll stand out in the yard
And watch the stars shine like your eyes
Imagining you’re in my arms
And think I feel your breath so fine
It’s in that place when I’m with you and when my present comes unglued
It doesn’t mean you’re not away but when you’re here then I’m okay
My memories are wearing thin but I’ll hold on to holding them.

The future we once had together
When we always had forever
The future we could hold in time
When nothing couldn’t be more fine
The future we once had together

It’s in that place when decades break and seconds seem to be forsaked
An instant lasts for memories as long as you’re the one I see
I love the way you’ll always be

The future we once had together
When we always had forever
The future we could hold in time
When nothing couldn’t be more fine
The future we once had together

Better blurred...

Taking a picture
Can’t you back up?
It’s not that the camera won’t focus
The farther you’re away
It seems the better that you look
Maybe it’s some magic hocus pocus

Years after tomorrow
Turning off the light
You can be here but please don’t be seen
The memory’s enough
And the conversation’s rough
It’s not something subtle where you slip the message in between

You know, you’re better when you blur
And the world begins to whir
And the pictures start to stir
It isn’t not the way you were
It’s just that you’re better when you blur

Standing in the night
In the passing cars tail lights
I know full well you’re standing just behind me
But with every due regret
But without the hesitation
It would be nicer if nobody would remind me

You know, you’re better when you blur
And the world begins to whir
And the pictures start to stir
It isn’t not the way you were
It’s just that you’re better when you blur

Amber Rubarth, the girl over there…

The plan was to see Paul Thorn perform at The Coach House in San Juan Capistrano, basically a night I wouldn’t normally write about.

Sean and I reached The Coach House early, of course. Sean’s idea of “on time” is five months early. So, we had some waiting to do. As I stood out there and smoked, this girl over on the other side of the lot, this frail looking waif, nondescript in the afterwork hours of my life, got out of a small car and carried in a guitar.

“She must be with the band,” Sean said.

I would have spent the rest of my life without a thought of her – but when she walked up onto the stage as Paul Thorn’s first opening act any chance of that happening ended.

As anyone, I don’t listen to women’s music – which is to say music by women. With the exception of “Be careful baby, be careful” by Dory Previn, no woman has every really touched me with her music.

And then, this amazement of a person walked onto the stage. A little much? Maybe. But there’s no way to explain how one person touches another. It’s love in a way, and there’s no explaining it.

Her name is Amber Rubarth. I’m telling you, she’s something uniquely special. You can find her on YouTube, iTunes, all over. I am listening to her second disk, Unfinished Art – Handmade Edition, right now.

You Will Love This Song...

Even more Amber Rubarth...

WASHING DAY - Amber Rubarth Music Video

Amber Rubarth... more on her later...

Sit back and enjoy the finale…

Unless I miss my guess, I am now three-quarters of the way through this book. If all goes as planned, I should write another 25,000 words or so. Normally, under these circumstances, I sit back and watch the show unfold. I’ve laid the groundwork; I know where I’m going. Time to enjoy the finale.

… er, maybe?

Here’s the thing. I start school in – let’s see – twelve days! Yikes! That’s also only nine working days. Now, to get this book done in that time, I’ll need to write, ewwww, nearly 3,000 words each day. That ain’t gonna happen. But I should still have it done shortly thereafter. Good thing, too, because my first class is “Argumentation & Writing” and that might take a little brain power.

Oh, there’s one other reason why this one might not be so easy.

I don’t know how it ends.

Yep, this is a first for me. I can usually lay this shit out in my head with little or no problem. Rarely, if ever, do I write an outline. I use my training as an actor and let the character drive the story, keeping events and things fluid. But that’s what has caused my problem here. You see, my original ending has become irrelevant because of the characters… but has remained necessary because of the story. (Don’t believe anyone who tells you writing is easy… or that writers are perfectly normal.)

So, what do I do? As odd as this might sound, I just keep going. I let the characters do what they do and intercede when necessary to keep the story moving in the right direction. But enjoying it is certainly not on the menu. I just want to get it finished!

Thought it probably goes without saying, I am looking forward to finishing the book because it will be my last one for a while. Face it, kids, I’ve got books to sell. I am not at a loss for material. I need to focus on those a bit and hope to sell. As for what I’ll do with my free time at work without anything to write, well, I’ll have schoolwork and I think I’ll start bringing some music to listen to here in my office… let’s see if I lose my mind after a few months of that.

A moment for Dem…s…

Vicky and I watched the AFL-CIO Democratic Forum last night…

… yes, people do that.

I wanted to watch it because I grew up the child of a union member and I know how much they helped us. So, I’ve always been strongly pro-union. Vicky watched it because… well, there was no way I was turning the channel, so…

I thought I’d say a word or two about what went on, just off the top of my head. I normally come across very anti-Republican, which I am, but I don’t want you to think that makes me pro-Democrat, either. I left the Democratic party for reasons that still exist and when they start caring more about people than political gain, I’ll rejoin the party. Sure, Dems won’t slice up your mom and fuck the pieces for fun, like Republicans… but they’ll think about it if it’ll get them in office.

The Forum was moderated by Keith Olbermann, another reason I had to watch it, and attended by all the Democratic hopefuls. They’d lost one guy, Mike Gravel, and it’s sad to see him gone. He was one of the few honest people in the field. He might not think he’s gone but… he’s gone. So, let’s go through the candidates one by one…

Hillary. Let’s start with the apparent front-runner. She’s certainly behaving like the front-runner, tactfully interceding in in-fights, doling out presidential wisdom. But here’s the thing. She can’t win the Presidential election. If she becomes the Democratic Candidate, it will be about the presidential erection. I’m not saying that’s a good thing; in fact, it sucks. But that’s how Republicans play and we know that.

Obama. Where to start? I can’t begin to guess why he is so loathed by Republicans – you know, aside from being a wise black man, something can no more understand than a moral gay man. Yes, they exist, too. I wish he’d done better last night but he’s too easy put on defense and doesn’t have his talking points down. Does he have time for that? Ordinarily, sure. But not when the primary season begins this early. He needs to get strong NOW. He could be a great president… but, again, nobody’s going to vote for him. Why? Because America does not elect a black man. Call me cynical but it’s true and the Repugs are going to get repugnant and we know that.

Edwards. The perfect vice-president. I’m sure he’s a good man. I’m sure he’s a worthy man. I’m sure he’d do a fine job. But he was a vice-presidential candidate and they just don’t win after that. I’m talking about vice-presidential candidates here, not former vice-presidents. (More on that later.)

Biden. His hour was up in 1988. Sorry. I think he’s worked hard for the country but this isn’t a job you get because you deserve it. He’s an effective Senator and he should stay there.

Dodd. Dodd sounds odd, and too much like "doddering"… as in “old fool”. Just like you don’t name your son, Bate, Dick, or Booger, you have to be careful about who you nominate.

Richardson. Good name… can someone shut him the hell up? This guy stuck to his time ONCE in the whole night. He’s fucking annoying. Shut him the hell up!!!

Kucinich. Probably the only Democrat running. Here’s a man with brains, with honor, with integrity, and with the right answers. A good man with a good heart, well spoken and ready to take on any challenge that comes his way. Too bad nobody’s going to vote for him because he’s short.

… which leaves us with… nobody.

Well, maybe not nobody. Maybe Al Gore will get off his whiny, little ass and step up! Maybe he’ll realize that this is his last chance to fucking help the country out of the horrible quagmire the guy who stole his job got us into. He could win on a weekend. He could nominate Obama as his VP, so Obama is ready to sweep it in eight years. Maybe he’ll fucking do that!

But he better not nominate Leiberman again or, so help me, I will fucking sock him! (Which means I will grind him down until his remains fit in a four year old's sock.)

Yeah. And maybe we should start getting our moms ready for the Republicans…

A week off…

Yep, it’s my turn to be lazy.

LAZY…

I’ve been hitting the gym pretty regularly for a while – not that you could tell – and I’ve decided to give myself a week off. Yep, now it’s time for me to kick my shoes off, put my feet up, and enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Tonight, for instance, I’m cleaning the patio.

… wait a minute.

And, on Thursday and Friday, I’m working late.

… hold on!

Somehow, that just doesn’t seem quite right.

Let's Support The Troops... because we have no choice...

I think we can safely say that A Whitney Brown is now THE Whitney Brown.

Supplying the Iraqi insurgency... so you don't have to...

How anyone can defend our mess in Iraq at this point is just beyond me, especially with what we know today.

Turns out the US has been supplying the Iraqis we're trying so desperately to kill. Nice of us, huh? But then, if we didn't, we wouldn't have any boogymen to require warrantless wiretaping and other violations of our constitutional rights, right?

Another way to be a Pinko...

I've been researching reusable water bottles for Ken and I to use (to replace our plastic bottled water habit) and we found Sigg water bottles. Yet another way for us to be wacky liberals.

We also try to use cloth shopping bags, reuse bags, or just request not to have a plastic bag when we can (this usually requires one of us to remember to bring our shopping bags, which we forget to do sometimes). I came across this website with lots of alternatives to plastic products.

We also found some new body wash, hand soap and cleaning products...Method. This stuff is non-toxic and nearly 100% natural (and you can buy it at Target). I'm trying the body wash to see how I like it. Oh and bonus for all you patriotic types out there, it is Made in USA....so it also supports the domestic economy.

So, give it a try...what have you got to lose?

Nickel and Dimed from The American Ruling Class

Prosperity does not mean crushing those with less. This video talks about the boom years - and things have only become worse since.

Barbara Ehrenreich is featured in this musical excerpt from The American Ruling Class, a "dramatic-documentary-musical" starring Harper's Magazine editor emeritus Lewis Lapham.

World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King

Yeah. Oh yeah.

Life is but a schoolyard…

Okay, so is it just me or is Shrub’s insistence on having his own meeting on global warming, just after the UN meeting he refuses to be a part of, like 4th grade revisited?

“I don’t need you and your uppity Younewtered Nations. I’ll have my own meeting about the myth of global warming and it’ll have a piñata and a swimmen pool and ice cream and two – no three – cakes!”

New ethic…

Is it okay to lie? Apparently so, since Shrub didn’t think Libby should be punished for doing so.

Is it okay to kill? Yes, and the more innocent the better, since Shrub decided killing Iraqis was more important that killing those he blamed for 9/11.

Is it okay to plunder the environment? Yes, or so Shrub leads us to believe with his windfalls to oil companies.

Is it okay to tell the truth. No. That’s against the law.

Anniversary…

No, you didn’t read that wrong. I know my wedding anniversary isn’t until 9/24 (Vicky actually forgot it once – TRUE STORY!) but you have to get a jump on these things.

This being my second time around, I thought I would follow the official TRADITIONAL ANNIVERSARY GIFT schedule. You know, paper the first year, cotton the second, lint the third, a rock the fourth – things like that.

I know. I know. Most women would prefer you follow the modern gift schedule, which looks a lot like:

Year One: Diamond
Year Two: Luxury Car
Year Three: Diamond
Year Four: Luxury Yacht
Year Five: Another mother fucking Diamond, bitch, and it better be an FL!
Year Six: Your Liver

Nope. I’m making my marriage with Vicky traditional… mostly. Sure, I wrote her a love letter last year (with earrings). This year, I want to find some beautiful, cotton… something. No, not a cotton ball – that’s too obvious. I just need to look around. But the idea is to sneak in something non-traditional with the traditional. That’s why the love letter came with earrings and why the cotton something this year will come with… ah! But that would be telling!

Mind you, it gets difficult to plan this stuff when Vicky has access to my bank account – that’s right, guys, I trust her. She can poke her nose in at any time and see that I spent a couple hundred bucks at Nordstrom, thus ruining the surprise.

I haven’t figured that part out, just yet. The problem with being totally open with my wife is that it makes it nearly impossible to surprise her!

On the other hand, when she sees that all I have is $82, it makes it a whole lot harder to think I’m buying her another diamond!

One other thing about these anniversary gift schedules, is that they start to break down after year 16. I guess that’s about the same time you get sick of buying her another fucking gift. The best part about that is that year 16’s gift is – ready for it? – tungsten. Tungsten! I guess the perfect gift that year is a high-grade motor oil! They have to wait four more years for their next present: China!

… Actually, at that point, the modern schedule’s annual diamond ain’t that bad. I mean, how much is China going for these days?

After that, you only give the wife a gift every 5-10 years! What a deal!

But I don’t really think I need to worry. After year 5, when the present is bronze, or year 10, when the present is aluminium, or year 14, when the present is Ivory and there ain’t no way in hell I’m going to be responsible for the death of yet another elephant – or, worse yet, there’s no such thing as Ivory because all the elephants are dead – I think Vicky’s going to perform a “gift intervention” and just ask for me to clean the toilets… which, at once a year, would probably be more often than I do it now…

Every sixty seconds, a minute passes – COINCIDENCE????

Welcome to Blank Mind. I’m your host… uhhhhh…..

Seriously, I’ve got nothing at all to say – WAIT! Come back! I’ll think of something!

Think – think…

I had a first at work today. (No, not that.) I launched a website without having to ask anyone’s permission. I walked into my manager’s office and, before I could describe it, he said, “Okay, have the web guys put it up.” I was all “Whaaaa???”

I thought I’d try on that “I was all”. Some people try on socks. I try on slang. Cause, I mean, what the fuck is with you people and socks, anyway?!

I’ve drafted three marketing campaigns this week, and we haven’t even hit Friday. Yes, I’m Mister Big-Wig, Supra-Important, Underpaid, When’s-That-Review-Coming-Anyway Man… dammit…

But I gotta keep in mind the benefits, which are…. uhhhhh…. Oh, yeah! I remember now! The writing! I’ve finished 2/3 of the new book and am nearing the home stretch. When you write as fast as I do, even your most dedicated reader can’t keep up. (Actually, I only have one reader… I’m a very sad person…) So, it’s a good thing I’ll be starting school in three weeks! Three weeks – actually about 18 days to go. Let’s see… 18 days… divided by 33,000 words… um, that’s nearly 2000 words I’ll have to write each day – including weekends – I’ll never finish this on time!

Again, good thing I can write at work. Oh, I’ll finish it. Don’t worry… anyone…

Vicky watched Napoleon Dynamite this weekend. While not the worst movie of all time (Tom Cruise wasn’t in it), it was easily the most tedious. Did anyone really like it?

Ghaaa! Idiots! (Vicky loves my new ND impression. I’ve never knows an easier way to make her laugh. Granted, she laughing at what a doofus I am, but I can handle that.)

And… that’s about it. Looks like my days of daily blogging are just about over (famous last words) but you never know. Something interesting might happen…

You Too Can Be a Pinko!...

In our continuing effort to attract hateful comments from the right, Vicky found this great shopping site to help us all be more socially aware... and I'm posting it.

(You see? We're still do this together!)

Enjoy!

But what's 10,000 between friends?...

Is this what we've become?

Are we a people so jaded that the deaths of tens of thousands is something about which we can be glib? Yes, I guess so.

This article talks about the deaths of tens of thousands without shock, without rage - without outrage - Nothing to see here, just another news article.

Is that what we've become?

“I’m James Mason”…

It was on this day in 1984 that James Mason, famous and immensely gifted British actor, died. I don’t normally observe such dates so I figure I should start this segment by telling you why I’m doing it, huh?

Truth be told, I had little to write about. But I have a few minutes so, I figured, why not? The problem about what to say… well, that was still a problem. I hit the 60,000 word mark in the new book. I’ve got my first visit with the head shrink next week. Vicky and I have our first “free” weekend in months coming up… but other than that…

So, I decided to look at Wiki and see what had happened today. Maybe, I suspected, some material might be mined in there.

“I’m James Mason!” Tim and I used to do the most horrible James Mason impressions and laugh our heads off. Just the thought of James Mason brings Tim to mind, which sucks because I miss him terribly. My James Mason impression is of the old James Mason, which is strange because when you think of all the big movies he was in – The Verdict, The Boys From Brazil, Heaven Can Wait, Lord Jim – the movie I immediately connect to James Mason is a little picture titled North By Northwest. A movie inspired by this film, Silver Streak, starred Gene Wilder, whose autobiography, Kiss Me Like A Stranger, I am listening to in my car right now. I’m listening to it rather than reading it because Mr. Wilder reads it himself and his voice is wonderful to listen to.

I guess that’s my way of saying that everything gets connected or jumbled up. Anyway, I miss Tim.

… who is James Mason, by the way.

NOTE: And as soon as I wrote this, I thought, "What about Murphy? I miss Tim Murphy, too!" And, of course, that's right. He might not be James Mason but he is The Jacuzzi Kid. So, come on, Tims! Give me a call!

Reason #71 why I can’t wait for Vicky and I to have a baby…

One day, very soon (I hope), I’ll be able to walk into work with bags under my eyes and, when I’m asked the question, “Didn’t you sleep?” I will be able to reply, “No, the baby was up all night.”

That’s right. Fuck you, insomnia! I can blame it on the kid!

… people are going to think that baby never sleeps…

Here once a writer stood…

Seriously. I’m not kidding. I used to work as a writer. No shit. I got paid and everything. Now?...

I couldn’t tell you.

My employer knew very well my experience and strength in writing… they just decided to ignore it.

Now, I have writers who work for me. And graphic artists. And web monkeys. And… other people; I’m not entirely sure what they do.

Meanwhile, I’m doing shit that gives me a headache. Today, alone, I’ve had to shut some people down, hurry some people up, and prepare for a celebrity endorsement. The fuck?

For those who don’t know, I work as an interim Assistant Marketing Manager for a school. (That’s vague enough, right?) That “interim” really pisses me off; they keep telling me that it’s temporary. The “interim” is interim. And I still have a job to do.

One of our courses is being altered significantly next year thanks to a government mandate. I’ve been assembling proposal after proposal and pushing hard for our school to be the premium brand in this arena but those above me just want to keep things cheap. Fine, then why’d you ask? Anyway, so much for a premium brand. In another course, one of our licenses will expire soon. So, it’s been up to me to push the urgency in our marketing campaigns. How many different ways can you say, “Hurry up! We goofed!” Finally, I’m about to enter into the world of celebrity… endorsements, that is. Yes, I’m heading up someone else’s pet project of getting some celebrity to endorse our school. Peachy. This “celebrity” is so G-list that he really isn’t a celebrity any more. I suggest, if you’re going to go for celebrity then really go for it, and suddenly I realize my foot’s in my mouth.

Vicky says I have some kind of hidden talent in marketing, like I’m some kind of marketing savant. I am the Rainman of Marketing.

I think some people have been smoking the good stuff.

Seriously, I used to work as a writer. No shit. I got paid and everything.

It’s official. The nightmare has begun…

What do I mean by “nightmare”? Let me tell you. I had to leave work early to start this great adventure and I took the toll road, towards Santiago Canyon Road, something I hardly ever do (because I know it was once someone’s habitat). As I approached the toll booths, I had to decided which one had a live person. I needed to go to the one with a live person because I didn’t know if I had enough change. One lane was empty; the other had a car going through. The one with the car, I thought, had the live person.

…. Um, no.

I pulled up to a meter. The empty one had the live person!

So, I though I'd just reverse and go in that lane. But, just then, someone pulled up behind me. I stood up beside my car and motioned him back but he was too busy listening to something on the radio or whatever. Then, someone pulled up behind him and started to honk, impatiently. Of course. So, I dug through my money and, thankfully, was able to find change.

The whole day was like that.

I was going to Cal State Fullerton to apply for school, something I’d been working on online for months, but nobody had told me that online was absolutely useless. I had to start by getting (yet another) copy of my transcripts from Santiago Canyon College. That wasn’t too hard – easy parking, no lines – but once I got to the counter, the woman started having some kind of breakdown. She’d print on the wrong paper – rip it up – print the wrong thing – rip it up – print on the wrong printer – rip it up… so it took a while. Finally, she had a printout and asked me to check it. “Is it right? Is it right?” she kept asking. I certainly hoped so!

So, off I went to Cal State Fullerton. When I’d called, I was told where to park and where to register. If you imagine the school as a rectangle, I went to one side. One whole side was parking and I was told that was “pay parking” (as opposed to “sticker parking”). Okay, I thought. I’m happy to pay.

… but there were no places to pay.

When I finally found a security guard, he told me, “Yeah, you have to go to the parking building and get a ticket so you can park.” Then, he proceeded to tell me how far inside the campus it was.

“Wouldn’t I have to park my car to get there?” I asked. He didn’t seem to understand my dilemma. So, I went to the drive-up visitor center, which was on the adjacent side of the rectangle, right beside the building where registration was taking place. “Where can I park to register?” I asked. The gent told me about a parking structure on the opposite side of the campus. “But I’m registering right there.” I pointed as I told him, “right there.” “Can’t I park somewhere closer?” He seemed to get it and told me about another parking structure on the next, adjacent side. Okay. So, I drove around to the next side of the campus.

I’d been told that you pay to park at machines but, after circling the structure several times, I could find no machines. And nobody would help me. And, on top of everything else, there were no exit signs! I couldn’t even exit! When someone finally did steer me to the single machine located well outside of the structure, I began to realize I was in for a horrible day.

My first hike was to Admissions. When I walked in, armed with my transcript, I waited in a very short line. The person before me was leaning over the counter to speak with the single person working. Did I mention that I had to be registered yesterday? And that I only found out because the school botched their online admissions? So, I was a tad impatient. The young, asian girl behind the counter kept saying, “But you can alway drop it later. You don’t have to drop it now. I don’t want do that now.” On and on.

Finally, he left – with her phone number, from the looks of it – and I walked up. I explained how many times they’d lost my transcripts online and how I was hand-delivering them.

“You wait until processing to register,” she told me.

“How long will that take?”

“Two to four day.”

“But I’m entering as a junior. This is my only day to register.”

“Oh,” she said. She considered the sealed envelope like her own personal cross. “You do it today, then.”

Now, I had called the school to find out what classes I needed to take (which first, second, and third, for instance) and had been told I’d need to meet with a Department Head to get that information. My Department was Philosophy. I asked the girl, “Where’s the Philosophy department?” I told her why I wanted to go there.

“You want Admission Advisemen. You might not have all your GE.”

GE was General Education. I was almost positive I had my GE, so I told her that. But she was insistent. “You need GE. You go there first.”

“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “where is it?”

“You,” she said. “H-134.”

I thought her speech was just poor. “I should go to H-134?”

“No,” she explained. “You,” she pointed at me. “H-134.”

Maybe I was hearing her wrong. “A-134?”

“No!” Now, she was yelling. She even stood up a little. “You.” Again, she pointed at me. “H-134!” She was pausing so much between saying “You” and saying the number, I almost burst out laughing when she wrote in big, bold letters “UH-134” on a piece of paper and pointed. Now, I realized she was pointing behind me. I looked at the building behind me.

“Is that building UH?” I asked.

“No,” she corrected.

I looked at the building next to it. “Is that it?”

“Yes.” Apparently, now I got it – though she had been pointing the other way.

I probably should have expected it. What I didn’t expect was leaving the building, only to find that UH had a fence around it. I started following the fence as it went around and around… Someone left a gate and I asked, “Does this fence encompass the entire building?”

He thought for a minute. “No.”

“Where does it end?” I asked.

“Follow it,” he said. Helpful.

But, yet, it did end. I found UH-134 and it was filled with people in an immense waiting room. “The wait is one hour,” the receptionist told me. Of course, it was. So, I waited. An hour later, sure enough, my name was called, “Kim La Lalle? Le Lelle?” I explained to the poor woman (who had to read my writing) that I just wanted to find out what classes to take. She said, “Well, I can tell you that from your transcripts. Can I see them?”

Patience, Ken. Breathe. “I just gave them to admissions,” I explained.

“Okay,” she said, still expecting something.

I said, “I’ve entered them manually online and had another set sent to you previously, in addition to the one I just provided. Isn’t that enough?”

At this point, she got sore and just started asking me questions. “Did you ever take math? Did you ever take English?” And then, she tried to surmise what I needed.

The way I figure it, they’re bound to enter my transcripts into the system one of these days…

Finally, when we were finished, I asked her where the Philosophy Department was. She said, “Sure. H-421.”

I nearly hit her. “Excuse me?”

“H-421. That’s the Humanities building. You just go out this door, take a right and it’s the first building on your right. You can’t miss it.”

I didn’t believe her for a second. I went out the door. I took a right. There were no buildings ahead of me, no buildings to my right. I turned around and saw an older woman smoking. “Excuse me?” I asked. “Could you tell me where I can find the Humanities building?”

“It’s right there,” she said, pointing straight across from the exit I just took.

“Thank you,” I said, deciding I’d had enough. “And can you do me one more favor?”

“What?”

“If I give you a dollar, can you give me a cigarette?”

After the smoke, I ascended to H-421. Well, I ascended to the fourth floor. There was no H-421. I found a janitor and asked him but he didn’t know where it was. “I think it’s in H-314,” he said.

Okay…. Off I went. But H-314 was the Latino-Studies Department. And it was closed. I tried not to go crazy. I went back to the elevator and, miracle of miracles, saw the directory. There it was: Philosophy H-211. Down I went. But that was the business office. I was told to go back up to the third floor to H-315 (which was on the opposite side of the building from H-314) but assured that no Department Heads were there. They had all gone home, I was told. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I went to H-315…

… and it was empty.

And I turned around to leave, opened the door, and nearly ran over the Department Head.

It’s going to be a hell of a ride.

The elephant story…

In all honesty, Vicky should be writing this. After all, it’s about her. But, after not sending me the pictures from Bastille Day, who knows how long it would take her to actually write this! Okay, seriously though, she’s been really busy of late so I’m going to cut her some slack. Anyway, the story’s more about how I feel about Vicky than about Vicky…

So, we went to the OC Fair Saturday night. Vicky was primed because she really wanted to go – I can’t explain why – and, when we stepped past the entrance, Vicky immediately wanted to enter the petting zoo. It was free so why not? Jeff and I decided it was a good time to step out of the gate and partake in a cig.

When we walked back in, we found Vicky looking across from the petting zoo, crying. Across from the petting zoo were the elephant rides. This great elephant trudged around and around in a circle and people boarded her back. This once great creature of the wild was now enslaved strictly for the amusement of those who didn’t know any better – and there were plenty of those people about, smiling and laughing as they subjected this poor elephant to this humiliating enslavement. And Vicky was watching this and she totally got what it meant, and it moved her to tears.

This is one of the reasons I love Vicky so much. When it comes to this planet and the animals we share it with, she gets it. She gets that to harm them is to harm ourselves, destroying their habitat is destroying our own. When we enslave them, we enslave ourselves. She gets it.

Too bad she doesn’t get it about cows… We went to the livestock show and I had to watch her coo at and pet these big, sturdy cattle, the one who would get slaughtered for carne asada, sloppy joes, beef burritos, etc. etc. etc. Vicky likes her steak but, ironically, likes living cows as well. (No, she does not lick them.) I don’t understand how she can rationalize it; I often suggest we go more veggie. I should add that she’s gone more veggie since we met – I have to give her that – but there’s more we can do. I used to have one steak a year so I suggested to her one steak a month. Even that would lower our impact on the earth. I don’t think it took, though.

Okay, so she’s not Ghandi. I told her that I love her as a person, not a project. I’m not out to change her but I see her ethics fighting against her urges and I’m here to help her along.

When we were ready to leave, we took the Skyway – basically an elevated ski lift that took you over the fair and back to the entrance – back instead of walking. Only after we were up did I find out that Vicky did not like the comfort of being suspended a hundred or so feet above concrete by a single cable and, basically, our shoes. Oops. I said to her, trying to sound comforting, “Just enjoy it for what it is, not for what it could be.” Sure, Ken. As if that’s a philosophy you practice. What’s that old saying about advice? “Something nobody wants and everybody gives.”

But, back to the elephant…

Later, Vicky and I were visiting her friend, Julie, as the bar where she tended. Julie laughed at the elephant story and I tried, in my own non-threatening, political, ineffective way, to stand up for my wife. Yeah, I suck at that. Don’t want to come down too hard on Vicky’s friend; Don’t want Vicky to feel hurt. Is there really any winning there? But I said something that solidified my feeling about Vicky, and that is that Vicky has an incredible heart. She’s giving and loving to all kinds of things, sans steak, and it is in those moments when I realize just what compelled me to stay with her from that very first time we met.

The road to happiness is littered with random…

I can’t claim this one. I found this on Nickerblog, through Wil Weaton’s awesome blogification (see right).

So, why not try some randomness in our lives? We never know where it might lead. Writer Shane Nickerson lists a few I wouldn’t have necessarily thought of:

1. Learn early on to enjoy warm soda. Trust me, it comes in handy. While you're at it, learn to drink black coffee.
8. Combine all of your e-mail addresses.
28. Don't be too afraid of "street meat."

While there are some here that should never be overlooked:

2. Let go of your need to make all the choices all of the time. Other people have better ones sometimes.
4. Avoid trends. Go for timeless fashion.
10. Love what you love. Don't trick yourself or others.
11. Cut out people that bum you out.

And a couple that just freak me the fuck out:

15. Learn to play D&D. If you're already laughing this one off, learn it immediately.
15. Learn to play D&D. If you're already laughing this one off, learn it immediately.

Okay, so they’re the same one but HELL! Hey, Tim, how were we to know all those years ago?!

I like how the list, and the lists others submitted, aren’t necessarily your traditional advice. I might not agree with everyone on their lists but I agree with the spirit of finding happiness in randomness. I mean “Love much, Laugh Often, Dance like Ken listening to trance in his car” can only take you so far, you know?

My own entries would be brief this morning (I gotta get out of here and get my car into the shop):

1. Vicky’s pancakes. Never miss an opportunity because you never know when she’ll make them again.
2. Vicky’s smile.
3. Um… Vicky. (That’s obvious, isn’t it?)
4. Daydream.
5. Otter pops.
6.IM your wife when she’s upstairs.

Good, old insomnia…

Sometimes, it’s nice just to not feel like sleeping. That’s what happened to me tonight. I woke up, figured I’d be awake for a while, and leveled my Night Elf Druid in WoW.

It’s all relative, compared to the times when I get really nuts.

I’ve started taking St. John’s Wort again, though. Thankfully, that seems to be helping a bit. (I didn’t want to say anything until I’d been taking them for several days.)

So, last night my legs finally decided they’d had enough of my jogging. Okay, so – yes – I had been increasing the speed, and – yes – I had said I wouldn’t. Starting on Monday, I’ll take it a bit slower.

But not until then, I’m hoping to relax for a couple of days. I suggest you do, too.

I think I’ll start with a little more WoW…

Now I know why I never buy anything…

After writing that last entry, I decided I should buy something for myself. Dag nabbit, I was charged up, too! The only question was, what to buy?

…. What to buy….

It took a while.

Then, it occurred to me that I could stand to invest in some new neckties. I wear a necktie everyday; why shouldn’t they be nice ones? I only have two ties I purchased this century, after all!

So, I was off! Now, the reason I hadn’t bought any ties recently was because of how extremely wide neckties have become. As American men get fatter, their ties have more acreage to cover. Neckties, these days, run 3.75 – all the way up to 4 inches in width. But I like a slightly narrower tie. I think it makes a cleaner line. (No, I’m not talking 1980’s thin.) And I found some ties I liked, too. Hugo Boss sells some nice ties that are only three and a half inches across. That sounded good to me.

In fact, I was ready to call Vicky and suggest we hit the Hugo Boss store at South Coast Plaza…

… until I read up on the company.

Why do I always do this? Why must I make things so difficult? I go out of my way not to buy things made in China (ask Vicky to tell you about my sandals), we buy green, we try to buy local (saves on shipping), I’ve even stopped buying cds since downloading uses fewer resources – must my tie purchases be so difficult, too???

But, I couldn’t avoid it. There it was.

Hugo Boss was the outfitter to the Nazis. They made all of the uniforms for the SS. I’d be wearing clothes kept in business by genocide.

And I couldn’t. Hey, I gotta live with myself, right? Even if I don’t look great.

So, I’ll keep an eye out. You never know. There’s bound to be some local shop nearby that makes green clothing with a terrific line of ties… maybe…

Sounds like the pinnacle of sad...

So, I just realized that the absolute pinnacle of cool in my life has become those times when my wife allows me to sit on the patio with a martini and a cigarette.

How sad is that?

And on the window to your left…

The problem with trance music, which really gets me going, is that it really gets me going.

Vicky has said that the people who drive near me must be very entertained. On top of the singing at the top of my lungs, when I have trance music in I can’t help dancing.

… in my car.

… at 75 miles per hour.

She probably thinks I’m something of a freak. (She’s too late, of course, Tim Murphy called me a “fucking freak” nearly 20 years ago!)

But I can’t help it! The music gets in my veins and I go crazy and then – CAR! I swear to me, I am not to be trusted behind the wheel of any car with trance music. Fortunately, I’m still young enough to switch between driving and dancing in a split second. Once I hit my 60’s… well, they’ll probably keep me out of public view for the dancing alone.

I’m not too worried about Vicky finding out, by the way. She won’t tolerate trance music within 700 yards of her. On top of that, she’s stopped reading the blog (let alone writing in it) so there’s no way she’ll read this. The problem isn’t that I’ve offended her or anything like that but that I write so fucking much! “It’s like a book every day! You ever think about just holding your thoughts inside sometimes??? You know why I get comments every time I post, don’t you?” This is a discussion we’ve had several times, which is to say she’s told me over and over again. She thinks she gets comments and I don’t because she waits for literally years before she posts a single sentence, whereas I’m posting on a nearly hourly basis. The way I figure, I’m the engine that drives that car that pulls the float that the princess rides upon.

But I won’t give her too much grief… not about that…

She gets enough from me in other ways.

When she went out and bought herself something, I complained that I never get to buy myself anything. “Fine,” she said. “Go. Buy yourself whatever you want.”

“Whatever you want” conveniently excludes jetpacks, pot, hookers, fireworks, magic mushrooms, superpowers, and four guys with musical instruments to follow me around playing my theme music… even if I buy them as a set.

But I have everything I need! When was the last time you heard that? I have all the video games I can play – hell, WoW pretty much covers that by itself. I have all the music I can listen to, for the most part. I have tons of DVDs, lots of books, otter pops, and a…. okay, wait. There’s one thing I can use – but Vicky will never hear about this because she doesn’t read the blog. Tomorrow night, Vicky, Jeff and I will be going to the OC Fair. (You can play “Where’s One Path?” at the Fair!) Jeff and I will be hanging out and I – the guy who has been good and has been jogging and has not been smoking – will be able to relax, drink a faux margarita, and enjoy some good tobacco! Cigarettes, baby! It’s not a regular thing, by far, but it is nice to enjoy a few on occasion. So, what can I, the man who has everything, use? Well, I know that Vicky’s going to lay some serious guilt on my doorstep to keep me from smoking; I could use some understanding on her part. It’s just one night. Give me a break!

(BTW, I’m down to 4 miles in less than 70 minutes.)

Recently, I’ve stopped buying stuff… but I haven’t stopped spending money.

“We should donate money to the Ecuadorian Indians,” I tell her.

”We should pledge some money for Jenn’s brother,” I say.

“And don’t forget the Earth Conservation Corps and the Environmental Defense Fund and Friends of the Earth and…”

And Vicky is in the unenviable position of saying, “Yes, but… rent?... food?... bills?”

“Oh, and I want tres leches cake!”

… Vicky accepts condolences in all denominations...

Half a book is better than no book at all…

What does this mean? I haven’t a clue but I am here to tell you I reached the official halfway point in my new novel today. Yep. Fifty large – 50,000 words!

Now, that was originally going to be the halfway point but, as of today, there’s no telling. It could go longer or shorter than a hundred thou – there’s just no telling. This thing has assumed a life of its own; it went off the rails the minute the polar bear started putting teacups on the laps of unconscious people… it’s a long story.

Anyway… where was I? Oh, right! Halfway.

Now, you’re probably wondering how I’m going to finish this in the next month, with school starting a month from now.

Well, here’s your answer… I won’t. It’s just not going to happen. So, I’ll just have to keep working on it as the semester begins. Let’s see how well that works…

But I am very pleased to be halfway done because that means I’m halfway closer to finishing it than I was when I started. It’s a good book and I hope some publishers think so, as well.

And how can a publisher resist a polar bear named Peanut. I ask you!

…

… oh, and I think I’m figuring out the problem with having a hopeful ending.

We live in a world where our need for survival and our attempts at ethical behavior have become warped by the masses of people fighting every day for life on our planet. Think about this for a moment. In order to drive your car to work, you are forced to kill a great number of people. You don’t do it directly, of course. You do it through wars for oil, and industrial pollution, and good old global warming. But this is the choice you are forced to make. In order to feed your child, other children must starve.

In any sane world, one of similarly limited resources, we would not admire those who squandered resources or killed for a buck but here, on planet Earth, we do.

So, we need to create a system of ethics that makes ethical behavior admirable and preferable, because our present systems do NOT. In fact, to behave in an ethical manner, many of us are cast as weirdos and misfits: those who recycle, re-use, reduce, drive hybrids, ultra-low emission vehicles, ride bikes, purchase with a conscience. We are mocked because, for some reason, our system tells us that we are suckers.

Granted, it’s only a beginning. The system needs to be changed, which will be a breeze, of course. And, we’re going to need a lot fewer people, which can be done peacefully and non-violently, I assure you.

There. Is that enough of a tease?

Car in a trance…

Vicky hates trance.

You know – trance? Techno? Does anyone remember?

One of my guilty pleasures is trance. I don’t own a lot of discs; I’m trying to keep Vicky’s vomiting to a minimum. (Anyway, I think my recent love affair with KT Tunstall ruined any chance of that.) (She makes music?)

So, I’m in my car last night, driving home from work, and I pop in a trance cd. The windows are thudding and the rear-view mirror is vibrating like a glass of water in Jurassic Park. The best thing about trance is it really gets me going – makes me want to move!

And then, traffic stopped.

And I experienced the most frustrating thing: listening to trance while you’re caught in a traffic jam.

… sad, really…

Ecuador, Chevron, and your atrocity of the week…

Actually, this is been going on far longer than one week.

In writing this new book, my goal is to set the record on humanity’s disregard for each other, for the planet, for themselves. It’s easy to say “Look at Prince William Sound”, “Look at Chernobyl”, or “Look at global warming” and conclude that apparency of such a claim is undeniable. The book asks, “Is man truly capable of love”, and the answer would appear to be “No”.

But that’s not enough.

It’s too easy to say that the Exxon Valdez was just an accident or that Chernobyl was the result of a corrupt, Communist regime, or that global warming happened because it took us too long to realize what we were doing wrong. It’s too easy to make excuses for something we had no part of or didn’t do.

I needed something more.

And God damn me, I found it.

It had been there all along. I’d seen signs about oil and the Amazon for the last few months but I just thought it referred to global warming, something I was already trying to help improve. (That is, I was trying to help stop it… not make it warmer…) Then, on Live Earth, I heard about Sting’s wife and the work she was doing to help the tribes of Ecuador. (By the way, how much must that suck, to go through life being known as “Sting’s wife”?) But all of this was steering me in one direction – when you focus your attention to one thing, it’s bound to happen. My attention has been focused on the environment and on the peace movement, on human rights, so I was not surprised to find this…

Sadly, I wasn’t surprised by the discovery or what I’d discovered.

From 1964 to 1992, Chevron Texaco dumped 18.5 million gallons of toxic waste in Ecuador. That’s 4 million gallons each day, 30 times more crude than in the Exxon Valdez disaster. Chevron Texaco violated Ecuadorian law, United States law, and basic, human decency. For nearly 30 years, for most of my life, this went on and I did nothing to stop it. I couldn’t. Nobody ever told me about it. As entire tribes of natives were wiped out by disease and genetic malformation, I was ignorant, buying gas, driving my car.

And so it was with most of you. But there’s no way you can claim innocence in this because, odds are, you used the oil, too. You drove your car. Thousands upon thousands of innocent children have died as a result and the atrocity continues to this day. Chevron Texaco claims they don’t need to clean up the billions of gallons of toxic waste that have killed people, children, animals, rivers, and the Ecuadorian land itself. They consider themselves innocent.

Look at this website. Learn for yourself.

This is what we do. This is what humanity is. You say you love your children? How could you when you allow innocent children to die, when you allow your own children’s planet to be so horribly violated? You say you love your family? How could you when you allow innocent families to die, when you allow your family to drive on the blood of innocents? You say you love your nation? How could you when you allow your nation to ignore such incredible crimes? You say you love yourself…. But do you? How could you?

Now, of course, my problem is in finding an ending to this book that doesn’t make the justified, rational, and necessary call for our own extinction? How do I end this book with a message of hope?

I don’t know.

Truth in writing...

The thing about writing is that you want it to be true. If it's nothing else, this is what it should be.

Ironically, though, you don't want to make it too true.

This excerpt from my new book should show you what happens when writing gets too true...



There was a book they made us read in high school by William Golding, titled Lord of the Flies. In it, a bunch of boys get stranded on an island. The boys turn on each other and violence ensues. My teacher told us that the book addresses what happens when there are no rules. “What do we do without rules? We need rules!” But I stood there, on the roadside beside the looming form of this immense polar bear, and I realized that, even with rules, we humans have done a pretty good job of botching everything up. We have rules that allow us to be selfish. Rules that allow atrocities. Rules that allowed Bhopal and Chernobyl and global warming and Auschwitz. What good are the rules if they meant no one had to help out a guy and his polar bear just make one phone call for help?

Not that I really think about this…

There’s a girl here at work… woman, actually. I don’t know why I still use that work to refer to people my age. I should start saying “old hag”. Anyway…

There’s this woman here at work who laughs at every joke I make. Every quip. Every pun. She’s my perfect audience.

I gotta say, it ain’t bad.

Those who know us know well that Vicky is famous for NOT laughing at my jokes. It was even in my vows, “Do you promise to… even though she’ll never ever laugh at any of your jokes.” It’s true. She doesn’t.

And I have begun to realize that, were I to have an affair, I know what it would be. I’d find a woman who laughed at all my jokes and I’d just spent hours making witty comments. That’s what I need, an audience.

Fortunately, if I ever do want to have an affair, I’ll just need to get back on stage in a comedy. Then, I’ll have my audience. With school starting in about a month, that won’t happen for a while but, when it does, watch out. I’ll be fucking hilarious!

(Now, the irony of this post in comparison to some recent - and soon to come - does not escape me. But, honestly, I'm a very funny guy.)

These are the things you bring with you…

This could be part x in an ongoing series that fills in the back-story of my life. Ready?

Cast your mind back to 1983… summer…

See, I was stopping to get gas this morning and as it pumped I saw a couple riding on a bicycle built for two. That’s what started my trip and fall down memory lane.

Daisy. Daisy. Give me your answer, do.

You see, I was in a show in 1983, my first community theater production. Fountain Valley Community Theater presents Yankee Doodle Dandy, your typical community theater type of production during the summer. Festive. Patriotic. Dumbass. Probably one of the best times of my life. One of my musical numbers had me singing that song with a girl… and I guess my feelings for the girl still exist… and you can tell what they were from how I remembered the song…

Daisy. Daisy. Give me your answer do, you bitch.
I’m half-crazy all for the love of you bitch
It won’t be a stylish marriage, bitch
I can’t afford a carriage, bitch
But you’ll look sweet, upon the seat of a bicycle built for two, you bitch.

This girl was a complete bitch. She always had to upstage me, even when I was doing the singing. When she held hands, she had to have the dominant hand. (You know, the whole thumb thing.) I did not like her.

It’s not surprising that I don’t remember her name.

There are some names I do remember, of course.

Rob Sassone. Best damn nude trailer park manager in all the southwest. He and I became best friends from that show and I miss him greatly. He’s still around but, with 400 children (just about), he and his wife have little time for socializing. I’m hoping that when they retire, when we’re all in our 70’s, when Vicky and I have a teenager, we can hang out once again… do donuts…

Cindy Wilcox. She was the girl I dated from the show. Pianist, cheerleader… she was a fun girl, very sweet. Before we dated, we used to sit outside the theater and tickle each other like crazy. I loved her… as often as I could… Of course, she’s sadly related to my breakup with Teresa Alaniz but, just as I’m beginning to do with the Cindy from my adult life, I can see that it wasn’t a reflection on her. She was truly special and holds a dear place in my memory.

Rick Habib. Our director. He and I liked to give each other a hard time, though we had a great rapport. One time, I took a toilet roll dispenser, one of the kind they used to sell with scented beads inside, and planted it very carefully deep within his car. Within hours, his car smelled like a toilet and he didn’t know what to do. At that point, being 17 years old, I lost it and the jig was up. But it was fun. He was the older brother I never had and needed at that time, full of great advice, help, and understanding.

Janie Clark. This girl was dynamite. Funny, beautiful, full of potential. I asked her out shortly out of high school and, as it so often happened, though she said she’d like to we never did. Then, sometime in the 90’s, she died while over in Bosnia (or somewhere in that area). It was incredibly sad because we all knew how much she had to give. The good, they do die young.

Kenny McMurphy. He was younger than the other three male leads but he was far beyond us. His mother was the typical stage mother and had him doing TV, commercials, running for political office in foreign lands, everything! Kenny’s thing was drumming. He’d drum on fucking everything. I never so much as drummed my fingers but Kenny – that contagious son of a bitch – he had me drumming by the end of that summer, let me tell you. Vicky thanks you, Kenny.

Alice. Nope. Don’t remember her last name. Body of Pamela Anderson. Humor of Kathy Griffin. She was phenomenal. And you don’t forget someone who makes out like she did. She’s another who said she’d go out with me but… my follow up skills were lacking. I didn’t have a car. What can I tell you?

There was one more male lead. I don’t remember his name. And that sucks because he was really the coolest guy. I’m sure you’ve had this happen. We lose so many people in our lives that it’s hard to keep track of them all in our mental rolodex. For that matter, there were dozens more that I’ve forgotten, from that show alone. There was a kid who chopped his thumb almost completely off with one of those old paper slicers they had back then. There was a girl whose parents were nudists and who bit my shoulder… I’m not telling. There was the musical director who put Cindy and I in charge of breaking a few of the songs into four-part harmony, as if kids were capable of four-part harmony.

It was an incredible summer and, for all the depression that came of losing Teresa at the end of it, there was some incredible loveliness that I couldn’t appreciate at the time. We marched in the Huntington Beach Independence Day parade. We had dozens of performances. I had moments that would change my life and my direction as a person and I am grateful.

I’m also grateful to the couple on the bike this morning. Without them, I would never have thought about it.

Putting things into perspective…

Things have been getting a little crazy around here… and you can call me “things”.

I guess that’s my way of saying that I’m afraid the rubber room is closing in every day and it is freaking me the fuck out. Case in point, last week. One night, Vicky and I were at Costco. I was pushing the cart along, looked down, and saw that my hand had been sliced clean down to the bone. I could feel cool blood (I’m guessing it cooled when it hit the air) dripping down my fingers. Vicky didn’t seem to notice. And that’s about when I realized that my hand was perfectly okay. I looked again and, though it felt sliced open, it was fine. I’d insert a witty remark here except that what happened yesterday was worse. We were driving in Vicky’s car and I had my legs stretched out. I was wearing sandals. Suddenly, I felt a hot knife or acid cut through four of my toes. This time, it hurt like it was real. I yelled and pulled back my foot to see – my foot was fine. I had to explain to Vicky not to worry – that I was only losing my mind.

Last week, I said, “I never thought that hallucinating Rosa would be ‘the good old days’.” How true.

I’m existing in a state of very high paranoia, very much at odds with myself. I don’t know what I’m going to pull next. I’d say it’s driving me crazy but that would sound redundant.

So, let’s change the subject.

Did you know that some people are blaming global warming on the sun? They’re saying that the sun’s getting warmer. Well, I hate to throw cold water on that but, it turns out the sun has actually been cooler, not warmer. Since the 1980’s, the sun’s energy has been lower, not higher, as the earth gets hotter. And thus, goes another excuse as we continue to poison our planet.

Speaking of poison, did you hear about the big, Japanese earthquake? Did you hear about the nuclear reactor that was caught in the middle of it?

It dumped radiation into the sea and lots of other things they’re surely not going to disclose. Keep in mind, no one ever got blamed for Chernobyl and that pattern has applied to man-made disasters across the board in Prince William Sound, Bhopal, and on and on – that’s the way it works. So, when the next nuclear disaster happens, if it hasn’t just occurred, be sure that they’ll keep it all a secret from us and no one will be held responsible.

My favorite quote from this article, by the way, is "About 315 gallons of slightly radioactive water apparently spilled from a tank". I love that they have an exact figure but refer to it as "slightly radioactive" (just a little lethal). But adding "apparently" is what makes it art.

Vicky and I were at a party Saturday afternoon and there was a little boy there. His name was Jack. He was just about a year or two old and I couldn’t help wonder what kind of planet we were giving him. Nuclear waste leaking out to sea, excuses being made about global warming, people not doing their part… can’t we agree that kids deserve better from us than that?

Anyway, we went to another party on Saturday night. It was the Bastille Day celebration at La Vie En Rose. When Vicky sends me all the pictures we took from her camera, I’ll try to post them. (Maybe she’ll post them???) We had a wonderful time and were there for dinner and entertainment for about four hours, if you can believe that. We had a wonderful pinot (2005 Sensation Fournier) and a terrific meal. All was good.

And it got better. On Sunday, Vicky took me to Burke Williams for my first facial. (Get your minds out of the gutter!) It started with me completely out of my element. If there’s one thing I’m no good at, it’s being pampered. I was raised for suffering; it’s how I excel. But this thing… I was brought into this small locker room with ornate benches and provided a robe and slippers. Now, with it being a facial, I figured I should at least take my shirt off, lest anything get on it… and I swapped my sandals for theirs. But I left my shorts on. Vicky asked me why I didn’t take them off and I said, “Because I’m getting a facial… for my face… up here… they shouldn’t need anything down there.”

As I said, out of my element.

Vicky and I talked in BW’s quiet, darkened lounge. Actually, the whole place is quiet and darkened. Kind of weird, to tell you the truth. We were both sitting there, in our robes, but soon Vicky was taken away for her treatment and I was left alone. After feeling my toes being cut of shortly before, I figured it was a good opportunity to relax.

Relax, I told myself. Relax. Relax. Relax, goddammit!

Fortunately, Jill came out, who would be giving me my facial. She led me to the back of the building – and this place is pretty damned big – and into the room where I’d have the treatment. The room was filled with this huge, comfy looking bed. She said, “I’ll leave you in here and go outside. Just take off your robe and slippers and get into the bed and pull the blankets to your chest. I’ll knock in a minute before I return.”

Why was she going outside, I wondered – and it was about then that it hit me. She thinks I’m naked! For a facial! What is with these people?

So, I climbed in, got comfy, and started to doze.

Knock knock – Jill returned. She started by reclining the bed further and, at this point, I would have been happy to take a nap. No such luck. We started talking as she inspected my face (which is fine, thank you). Then, she washed it and massaged it. She dipped my hands in paraffin wax to make them softer, something I’m not a huge fan of. When I was a kid, you judged a man’s “manliness” by the roughness of his hands. She massaged my arms and neck and shoulders and, again, I was ready to drift off. Then, she started to massage my feet. I warned her about the ticklishness but she didn’t believe me – until she touched my feet. “Oh my god,” she said as I giggled at the first touch.

So, she had fun.

Then, she put a mask on my face and massaged me some more. It’s only when another person is touching you, a strange person, that you begin to really focus on your faults. Loose skin, for instance. When I’m suspended slightly upside-down, I have some loose skin around my neck. (It's not as disgusting as it sounds... really...) How do I get rid of that, I wondered. I focused on if my arms were muscular enough and if my shoulders were broad enough… which made me immensely glad to be with Vicky, since she doesn’t seem to mind my high fat, low muscle mass physique. Finally, she washed away the mask, removed the paraffin, cleaned me up, massaged a bit more, and said, “That concludes our service.”

I thought, No nap?

So, Vicky and I treated ourselves a bit this weekend but I try not to feel too guilty about it. Vicky’s being great about being as green as possible, buying organic, not purchasing from manufacturers or retailers that don’t support human rights and sustainability. For all that, she deserves some pampering. And I had a bad week so I needed some relaxation.

Not that it helped all that much.

This morning, shortly after midnight, I was up, removing anything hanging from our door so I could close it off and… and then I woke up. I looked at the door for several minutes. What was I trying to keep out? Was it important? I don’t know.

But you take the good when you can get it. You try to keep things in perspective. So, I went downstairs and try to relax until I was ready to sleep again.

Tiger attacks!…

So, I was at the gym today (4 miles in 80 minutes…) and I noticed that ABC was spending this slow-news Sunday reporting on a tiger attack.

Just to recap: Thousands of Americans have been killed, tens of thousands have been maimed, and hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqis have been brutally murdered in an act perpetrated by this non-person, this fraction of a man, this felon of historic proportions we have the dishonor of calling our President.

But, apparently, ABC thinks that we should be far more concerned over tigers.

Not to say you're fat but...

Time: Last night
Said by: Vicky to Ken

"This t-shirt should fit you. It's pretty big."

Read a Book...

Buy a book! Buy a book! Buy a Ken La Salle boo... what?

Stupid, Old Gut...

More from Keith Olbermann.

Confession time…

I had a mole removed yesterday…

No, that ain’t it.

I had a mole removed yesterday, a mole that has been on my back for some time and had grown into the size of a small archipelago. Vicky had been telling me to have it removed and, well, I finally did.

No, I said, that ain’t it. Give me a minute.

The doctor shot my back up with lidocaine to dull the pain and then sliced it off like she worked at a meat counter. I didn’t feel that.

I did feel… “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, it looks like your mole had its own blood supply.”

Nice, huh?

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was when I had to tell her, out loud, when I had to explain to a medical professional that I have been having bouts of insomnia, sleepwalking, nightmares, and hallucinations for nearly eight years running with only intermittent periods of normality.

It sounds a whole lot crazier when you say it out loud.

“What kind of hallucinations?” she asked.

I wondered if she meant having conversations with people who aren’t there or experiencing my own weather patterns.

She explained, “Auditory or visual?”

“Both.”

“Both?!” Her expression of shock did little to quell my unease.

She recommended an MRI. She recommended a neurosurgeon. She told me I would definitely need some kind of medication and she gave me a referral to another doctor.

But I lied to her, thinking I would put her at ease. Actually, I was trying to put myself at ease. I told her I was “functional”. Interesting word, that. Functional.

Again, last night, I couldn’t sleep. And I need to be clear about this and I need to say this out loud – in a way – because it doesn’t have quite the same impact in my head. It’s not just the voices or seeing things or sleepwalking that’s the bad part. The bad part is when I stay up all night hardly able to move because I’m too busy twitching and spasming like some kind of mental defective. The bad part is when I take my wife’s car to 7-11 to buy cigarettes because I’m so terrified of my own mind that I need something to calm me down in the middle of the night when everybody else is asleep.

Functional?

I stayed home from work today not just because I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, or exhausted from quietly losing my mind, but because I’m horrified at what might be going on – what has been going on for years now.

I’m no more functional than an alcoholic who can’t admit to his addiction, who pretends to be normal to convince himself that there really isn’t a problem. I’m missing work – from a job I like – and I’m spending days in great discomfort. I am NOT functional. And I need to remind myself of that. I need to tell myself that over and over again. If I don’t, I’ll never get the courage up to do what must be done.

All this time, I’ve been so afraid that a psychiatrist was going to prescribe me drugs that would turn me into a zombie, make me something other than the vibrant, lovable Ken you all – well, some of you – know and love. But what have I been without the drugs? Am I any less of a zombie in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep because of the screaming in my head? And what good has delaying this done me? Yesterday, my doctor emphasized that my psychiatrist/neurosurgeon should be affiliated with a certain hospital just in case surgery needs to be an option. Surgery? Is it any wonder I’m terrified?

And through all of this, the worst thing I’ve done is forget that this isn’t just about me. This affects Vicky as well. She deserves far better than me; I know that. She deserves someone who can give her a normal life, not someone she has to worry about when he’s sleepwalking down stairs or up all night or hearing voices tell him whatever she might be imagining or worse. I’ve done a pretty shitty job taking her into consideration through all of this.

So, today, I’ll make the calls. I’ll set up an appointment with a doctor.

I would much rather be telling you about my new book right now but this is something I had to say. I have to remind myself that it is real and stop ignoring it. Then, later – maybe then I’ll be functional.

Pope McFeeeley...

Have you ever taken a good look at Pope Benedict XVI?

I’m not Catholic but doesn’t this guy look creepy?

(If the Bin Laden’s love life is acceptable fodder for a story…)

Mind Fuck…

Readership on the old One Path has been slightly down of late so I’ve decided the thing we need to help boost our ratings is:

GIRLS GONE WILD-ISH (not to tread on any prurient if profitable copyrights)

That’s right! It’s GIRLS GONE WILD-ISH!

Vicky! Quick! Take off your top! It’s GIRLS GONE WILD-ISH! That’s…

… what do you mean, you won’t?

Just one?

Just a nipple?


…… dammit.

Well, how the hell else are we to compete? I mean, seriously, I was reading what passes for the news this morning and I saw this headline “British divorcee weds Bin Laden’s son”.

Ignore for a minute that Shrub went after Saddam’s family… though he didn’t do anything to us.

Ignore for a minute that Bin Laden was probably never a mastermind at anything.

Ignore for a minute that we’re still supposed to be at war with, at least, people who we are told by “very reliable sources” are terrorists.

Can’t we agree that the marriage between two people of zero consequence (ignoring for a minute that Bin Laden’s son is immensely wealthy thanks to the Republican party’s history of doing business with unsavory characters) does not make news and is not worth reading? I mean, if everything is just gossip, if nothing has worth, I’m just going to start posting pictures of tits. That’s it. Because nothing else seems to be of value.

… and I like tits…

Why I can’t watch the final Studio 60…

Last night. Dinner.

Vicky and I are sitting down to dinner at the sofa for our nightly 30-60 minutes of television. We scroll around our DVR menu, looking for something to select.

“What do you want to watch?” Vicky asks.

Well…. Let’s see… there’s Live Earth. There’s the last episode of Studio 60. There’s a new episode of Good Eats. There’s the last episode of Studio 60.

…

“Let’s watch Good Eats,” I say.

“Why not Studio 60?”

Studio 60 was a very good television program. It gave you hope that, maybe, one day, somehow, there could be more shows like that. It was too good for television, which may have killed it in the end.

I’ve been thinking of watching the final episode of Studio 60 since it aired about a month ago. I’ve been thinking of writing a post-mortem for it. People have talked about how, for a show about a comedy show, the comedy show wasn’t that funny. So? That would make it just like SNL. People have talked about it being too topical, as if that’s possible.

Listen, there were a lot of things that annoyed me about Studio 60 but that wasn’t because it was a bad show. Actually, it was because it was a good show.

… Hmmmm, that doesn’t sound right. It needs more explanation. I think it’s time for:

When Good Isn’t (Lecture 239 in a whole series of more lecture than you’d ever want to hear)

There’s been some talk about the “Friends Curse”. You know what I mean: Friends alumni can’t hold down a show. Joey’s show, Joey, only lasted two seasons. Chandler’s show, not called Chandler but called Studio 60, only lasted one season.

Yes, that’s right. Joey lasted longer than Studio 60.

And this makes a good point.

Joey didn’t last longer because it was a better show. Joey lasted longer because it was NOT a better show. Joey was light, easy, and non-threatening. You never heard anyone call out for Joey to be cancelled. It survived the way concentration camp victims survive: by staying out of sight and out of mind. It never tried to be a great show; it just wanted a paycheck.

Studio 60, on the other hand, was great. As a result, it offended people, it challenged them, and it was sometimes difficult to follow… Actually, it did none of this, but I can imagine it happening to Christians and/or Republicans. It got into people’s faces and some people didn’t like it.

That’s how entertainment works. People don’t go to Broadway to see earth-shattering plays; they go to see Disney. People don’t read novels (and you’ll forgive me as I cry), they watch movies. They don’t even watch good movies. They see Transformers!

The old story in Hollywood is “aim low”… actually, that applies to politics as well… and the biggest loser is you.

Farewell, Studio 60. Be sure that I’ll watch your final episode soon and I’m bound to cry when it’s done.