Crazy, bachelor weekend…

It’s been a while since I was a bachelor but I’m a pretty swinging guy. I think I can manage it.

Vicky’s going away to dogsit for her brother this weekend. No, I’m not making that up. Dogsit. No shit.

So, I’m going to have the place to myself all weekend long. Yep. All weekend. And, baby, there ain’t no party like a swinging Ken party cause a swinging Ken party don’t stop.

I’ll start the night a little low key. First, I’ll hit the gym and work on the dough-hard body that is what I am. I’ll be pumping all kinds of metal, plastic, or whatever in upwards of 20 or 30 pounds. Then, I’ll have me some dinner. I’m thinking about a little Top Ramen or, maybe, if I’m really in the mood for something crazy, I’ll make myself some pasta with some homemade sauce. Just for yours truly, baby. That’s right. Then, I’ll pop in some vintage moviola shit, something from the 1920’s, maybe a documentary… that’s right, baby. Off da hook.

I’ve got to start working on a presentation I need to do for my Kid’s TV class so after dinner I think I’ll move into my private study, otherwise known as The Garage, and kick it with the PowerPoint. Yes, my and the PP constructigating a little prezentationiz… ness…

I’ll start tomorrow late, cause sleepin in is what the mad bachelor is all about. I’ll wake up at 9:00am and return to the 24-hour Fitne-hiz Centre… which doesn’t open until 9:00am, anyway, a jog… or walk… maybe just stand there looking cool. Then, it’s off to schoolz, cause even the mad, crazy bachelor… doesn’t have his degree, yet. I’ll go watch cartoons and shit, cause it’s a Children’s TV class. I am, like, all up in that mad Children’s TV ass and shit!

But that’s just the start of my day. Then, it’s all about the bitches. Working on that presentation is gonna be a bitch and leveling in WoW will be a bitch, too. But that ain’t all. Shit, no! Cause I gotz the crib to my own bad self! We’re talking all kinds of shit you ain’t even thought about! I’ll kick it on my sofa and watch Bill Moyers and maybe a documentary – that’s right. I ain’t afraid of nothing! Y’all can’t handle this! It’s intenzidatious!

I might even take a run down to the border. That’s right, muthafuckers! The border! You know what they gotz down there! That’s right! Spicy chicken burritos and shit! I’ll eat that with as much hot sauce as I like, mad hot sauce! Shit, I own the Pepto! It’s in my medicine cabinet and everything!

… Anybody got a life I can borrow?

File this under 4V…

If I tell you today is a special day, will you promise not to assume that it’s just because it’s Valentine’s Day? Oh, sure. It is Valentine’s Day. But that’s not it. There’s more.

This is my fourth Valentine’s Day with Vicky and that makes it special. Seriously. On our first, we were just dating, newly engaged. On our second, we were newlyweds. On our third, we were the struggling couple. The thing that makes today so special is that it’s not special. There’s no big reason to celebrate it, no landmark occasion, and that’s what makes it so important to me.

Vicky and I are now, officially, an old, married couple. (I help satisfy the “old” requirement.) This is when people become complacent and take for granted what a blessing their lives have become.

And what makes this a special day is the fact that we have not.

Granted, I can only speak for myself – Vicky could speak for herself but do you seriously expect her to write? Come on! – but I cherish every day I have with Vicky. I look forward to seeing her when she gets home and going to bed with her at night, even when she’s “too tired.” Emails I get from her lift my day and when I’m having a bad day at work, I look at her picture and feel better. Vicky, in short, is wonderful.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetheart.

Working with class…

This blog has kind of turned into an ongoing biography of my little family, the story of Vicky and me. With that in mind, I am thinking this morning of something that is dominating my existence: I’m tired.

Seriously. I’m tired. I am working full time, going to school part time, trying to sell several books, writing another book, working out so I can act again in the summer, and trying to find the precious time necessary to play World of Warcraft. And when I write all of that down, my claim extends to this: I’m really tired.

But, of course, that isn’t going to stop me, which brings me to my thought for today (I try to keep myself to one), which is how much that says about Vicky and me. You see, we both share the same kind of sensibility in that regard. Vicky’s not working on books and getting ready to act in the summer. She takes all of that energy and directs it into her job. She takes great care of things at home. And, believe me, she’s tired too.

This isn’t to say that we have a strong work ethic, which I believe we do (he said, writing at work). But that’s not the whole story because even people with a strong work ethic rest now and then. Vicky and I both seem to be driven on. We believe we should do something more.

I wonder what any children we have will turn out like. Will they inherit our drive or will they look at us and say, “You people are just crazy.” In a way, I’m hoping it’s the latter. After all, as someone once asked me, when does it end? How many books am I going to write? When does the drive end?

Hell, someone else said, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

It encourages me to know that Vicky and I are both working towards our goals, that we have the energy and motivation to keep going, and that it’ll probably last the rest of our lives. It also encourages me to know that we have each other to help us rest occasionally, too, because after all you need time to play World of Warcraft.

Pre-Valentine Mushiness…

(Warning to diabetics: Stay Away!)

I mentioned our Sunday breakfast over on My Side but there’s something I left out.

Sunday morning, Vicky and I went over to Polly’s for breakfast. It’s become our new place for breakfast. I LUV their cinnamon rolls!

(I just looked at their website and they are SO So-Cal-centric, it’s not funny… so stop laughing…)

The wait to get a table was a monstrous 15-20 minutes. We waited. We sat outside on a little brick wall, in the morning sunshine, and held hands.

This is what it’s all about, folks. Sure, the bad times show if your relationship can stand being tested – but, fuck that! We’ve been tested! But you take those common moments, those bland, beige, every day moments – those are the moments that fill about 70% of your life! And to sit there, with a little warmth, with the woman you love, and just hold her hand… you just feel so grateful that through some accident or miracle or whatever you want to call it, you get to be there, in that place. It’s amazing.

Those are the moments I really love about being with Vicky. Granted, we don’t get nearly as many as I’d like – but that’s what life is about, enjoying the moments you get because you know there may not be a whole lot more, knowing that this moment and the touch of her hand is the miracle of life and appreciating it.

Okay, so then we went in and I ordered one of those huge cinnamon roles with a cream cheese glaze and we got a side of the regular glaze, the sugary kind, and we totally drenched the son of a bitch and ate it up! (I warned you diabetics, didn’t I?)

S A Tur Day…Night…

Vicky is pretty swell. I’ll just start there.

She’s accepted me for all of my faults, and I have a few, for my lunacy, for my baggage – the complete package.

I think I’m gonna keep her.

When it came to meeting Cindy, well, that took some doing. After all, this was the big one, meeting the woman whose kiss had torn my first marriage asunder – if you listen to the rumors. Of course, that’s not exactly what happened. Rosa and I were finished without Cindy’s help; she was just there for the blame. And she kept getting the blame. And the thing is Cindy and I had been friends long before that and I hated leaving her out as “the one friend you don’t ever mention” because, after everything that happened, Cindy and I were friends and that was all.

When Vicky agreed to meet her… I wondered about the catch. What was it? When would Vicky tell me?

Well, here’s the thing. There wasn’t one. Vicky is the kind of person who has to think something over before she agrees, that’s all. That’s the weird thing about her: she often works without ulterior motives and assumes you’ll do the same.

It’s weird but there you are.

And I was glad because not only would I get to hang out with Vicky and Cindy but we’d go to karaoke, too! I got the feeling Vicky wasn’t believing me when I told her that I thought the two would get along but I was telling the truth. They both have very similar senses of humor, similar sensibilities. Sure enough, within moments of meeting, they found things in common and were joking around.

That’s just the first half of the story… the other half… well… it’s karaoke.

One of my early book ideas was for one called “The King of Karaoke”. As with many of my early ideas, I was really excited about it and then it drifted off like something come in on the tides only to be snatched away again. All I was left with was the title. And the title is fitting because, once upon a time, I was a karaoke… well, pretender to the throne, at least. I had a terrific voice and I could sing just about anything.

Notice the past tense.

After the cold I had during December and January – could have been the flu, could have been bronchitis, could have been pneumonia for all I knew – my throat had been thrashed by weeks of furious coughing. I didn’t know if my voice would be up to karaoke.

It wasn’t.

Now, before you laugh yourself into a spasm, let me remind you that I’m going to be auditioning again this summer in the hopes of getting into another show. Well, no singing voice means that musicals are right out. And I like singing. I’ve been in my share of musicals and I’ve fronted for two bands – Ken with no singing voice is like Ken with no fingers (for typing, you see).

No sir, I don’t like it.

So, my resolve against smoking is thusly fortified. I will get my voice back again… or croak trying. (No, I mean like a frog.)

Yes, that means more karaoke. But the upside is that, while Cindy and I used to mock karaoke singers oh so many years ago, now Vicky and Cindy and I can mock together! (Dammit, and I thought I’d make it through this without any threesome references!)

Here’s a sleep problem I don’t often have…

I overslept today.

I overslept yesterday.

I’ve been oversleeping a lot lately.

No… seriously…

This is the strangest thing for me, usually the chronic insomniac, and I don’t know what to do about it. Here’s what happens: My alarm goes off, usually around 5am, I turn it off, and Vicky shakes me awake about 30-45 minutes later. The strange thing is there’s no feeling of going back to sleep. My mind just shuts off!

Vicky says, “You’ve got to stop yourself from going back to sleep.” But the thing is, I don’t even know it’s happening! It’s like this invisible hand knocks me back down again and I have no say in the matter!

Granted, it’s nice to be sleeping. I just wish my brain would decide which way it’s going – are we awake or are we sleeping? Make up your mind!

So, from now on, I’ll be writing letters…

The last thing a man who is trying to knock up his wife wants to hear about is bad sperm quality!

But there it was, an article about how men who use their cell phone a lot get fucked up spunk!

… I wonder if these guys carried their phones in their pants pockets…

Anyway, I think I’ll be cutting back on my cell phone use, just in case. If you need to reach me, there’s always email – there’s the US Postal Service – you could drive on over – send a wire – learn the fine art of semaphores – train carrier pigeons – send up smoke signals…

Green baby heads…

So, there’s news out now that some baby shampoos contain toxic waste.

Nice, huh?

Listen, I know toxic waste is all around us. I’m not so naïve as to believe otherwise. But… seriously… baby shampoo.

I haven’t said this in a while but we really need to start looking at what we’re doing to ourselves a little more critically.

Now, before you start shouting from the rooftops about how much I smoke, I guess I should get this out of the way. It’s been about two months since my last cigarette. And the way things are going, I’m hoping I can keep calling that my last cigarette for a while. Hey, we’ve seen this coming, right? I was doing to two cigarettes a week for a long time there; it just didn’t make sense to keep pretending I was a smoker. So, the drinking, the drugs, the smokes are pretty much a thing of the past. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m a middle-aged guy living a healthy lifestyle.

But enough about me.

What the hell is this about toxic waste in baby shampoo? The article talks about phthalates but there’s also sodium laureth sulfate and dioxane to worry about.

Not4MyHouse has a great list of things to avoid and also brands that you can trust. These aren’t just brands they sell at Henry’s or down at the Co-op, either, so you don’t have to drive all over town.

The fact here is simple. Do you want to wash your baby in toxic waste?

Then, don’t.

Post Super Tuesday Wednesday… that’s not so super…

I hurried home from work last night. I could wait to sit down in front of the tube and watch… no, not sports. But you knew that, right? No! Yesterday was Super Tuesday! People say it’s like the Super Bowl of politics but, of course, it’s not. The Presidential Election is the Super Bowl of politics. Super Tuesday is unlike any event in sports and, for political junkies, it’s unlike anything. The world stops and waits and watches… and gets filled with pundits making wild guesses. It’s fun!

So, I planted myself… and I watched.

(Vicky had gone away, leaving a space heater on in the house, so I had to interrupt my political geek-gasm to lecture her on Talking Heads songs, but anyway…)

When Vicky returned home, she said, “I guess I’ll go upstairs.” That’s code for “I can’t stand to watch another fucking hour of your political porn!”

But first, we voted! We took our puppy, Suki, on a walk to the polling place and each of us took turns going inside to drop off our absentee ballot. What? It saves a stamp! Then, we walked back and… the race was on! Hour by hour passed as we watched states getting taken from coast to coast. (Yes, I cut school - can you blame me???) We were sad when Obama lost Massachusetts. We laughed when Mittens Romney lost… over and over… We were happy when Obama took more states than Clinton. We were annoyed when Huckleberry’s promise of an American Theocracy won him the south. We were sad when Obama lost California.

But Vicky stayed right in front of the TV and watched the whole thing. I guess I’m having a good influence on her. Even after 9:30 rolled around and I said, “I need to go to bed,” she kept watching. Finally, around 10pm, we shut off the TV, filled to overflowing with SuperBowl leftovers (can one survive off of chips and salsa?) and politics. Ah, bliss.

After learning yesterday about the head of the CIA confessing to using torture, this election meant more than it ever had. (I posted this over on My Side yesterday but wanted you to know as well. Oddly enough, there’s not been a whole lot of crossover of readers from one blog to another. Each has it’s own distinct readership. Understood, you One Path pansies, but this is important.) Listening to the Repugnicans give their speeches, I couldn’t help think about how they are endorsing the use of torture, the violation of the Geneva Convention, as well as basic, human rights. They want that. When Huckleberry endorses his theocracy, it is with the exclusion of Jesus’ law of “Love thine Enemy”. It’s a theocracy, as are all theocracies, based on fascism. When Mittens talks about changing Washington, he’s just talking about getting rid of Democrats, so we’ll hear less about what we’re doing wrong and delude ourselves that we’re right. And whenever McCain talks, I am reminded about how easily he folded over the torture issue, a man who had torture used on him. How better to define “spineless”?

Clinton gave a speech last night filled with facts and figures. Hers is not a campaign designed to inspire but, rather, to say, “I am electable.” Over and over and over again, until we get it. I get it. But that doesn’t make me want to elect her. She’s a far better choice than any Republican; this is true. Then again, so am I. So is my dog. So what.

What Vicky and I were waiting for was to hear Obama speak. If you haven’t listened to him, yet, you surely must. I don’t know how anyone can walk away unaffected, uninspired, by the man. I’ll admit it. I’m a believer. I did not vote for him yesterday but, then, I’m not a Democrat. But I look forward to casting my vote for him in November.

The question remains, of course, if he’ll make it. He lost California and that’s a big prize. What he has to do now is, basically, win everything that remains. Thankfully, it looks like he just may. The remaining primaries come in small groups, two or three states rather than twenty plus, and that’s where Obama works the best. He can go in one at a time and actually have a chance to speak to people and he’ll win. Clinton has said she wants a debate each week from here on in, thinking it will work in her favor. What she’s not figuring is how people will respond when they listen to her and Obama side by side.

It’s still a close race and it will remain that way. That’s fine. Political junkies like me eat that shit up.

But it’s more than just a horse race, let’s not forget. When the issues are as clear as they presently are, it’s about far more. It’s about whether we support torture or not. The Republicans are on record supporting it. With the housing crisis started by lack of regulation (bad loans didn’t start from too much), it’s about if we want more families to lose their homes. It’s about if we care. It’s about whether we support wars of aggression and oil companies raping the environment and our wallets and a disregard of our fundamental ideals in the form of the Constitution for political gain. That’s what the Republicans have gone on record to support.

In the face of that, we need more than proof of electability in the person of someone who votes for war in Iraq and war in Iran, in the person of someone who has said she’ll ignore the election rules, in the person of someone who plays political games. In the face of that, we need more than games. We need a person who will inspire us to live up to our ideals, who won’t stand for wars of aggression, and who has gone on record against the oil lobbyists.

Obama’s got a long road ahead of him, but that’s part of what makes this fun to watch.

Yes We Can

Our nation craves someone who can give them more than a common enemy, paint by numbers terror, and unlimited tax cuts for the rich. We want someone who can take us out of these dark times, someone who can turn the lights back on and sweep away the cobwebs that have covered our untended freedom. We want hope.

A Tale of Two Sammiches…

Well, it was supposed to be two. Then, at the last minute, Vicky changed it to three. Three sammiches for our Super Bowl party.

Not surprisingly, we had enough food for our guests – these were three two-foot long sammiches – but what we didn’t realize was that we’d have enough food for our guests… the neighborhood… and the teams playing! I mean, shit! We had a ton of food!

… As a result, we’ll be having sammiches for dinner.

… I’ll have sammiches at lunch.

… I had sammiches for breakfast.

Mother fuck.

After the game, we cranked up the Wii and rocked out with Guitar Hero III. Even Julie joined in – a new addict to fill our army of nerds. I finished the game on Easy, which is to say it’s played with only three of the five frets. When I moved to Medium, I had to play with four frets and twice as fast.

But I’m sure that wasn’t what woke me up in the middle of the night.

I woke up at about midnight… downstairs… in my jeans and hoodie and with my slippers on – sleepwalking is a bitch. And then, I was wide awake cause, you know, sleepwalking is a bitch. I had no desire to watch a movie or play a video game – not even Guitar Hero III – so I surfed the old Internet(s) for a while. I ended up on My Space, where my primary goal is to NOT look at Rosa’s page, which I didn’t. But I think I looked at every other page. And then, I ended up on Classmates. Vicky gave me her login info a while back and I thought it might be fun to see the folks I went to school with, to see how much they’ve changed. My old pal, Eugene Davis, from elementary school looks about as exactly the same as possible, which is saying something considering the passage of 60-70 years. I found out my name is displayed incorrectly, par for the course in my life.

Then, I found Teresa Alaniz. My first love. Yep, there she was in a picture with (I assumed) her son. Wow. The years had certainly changed her but there was something there that made her unmistakably her.

And I thought, maybe I would sleep better if I expunged the lifetime of sins I carry around, all the wrongs I’ve done from Rosa all the way back to… well, Teresa. It isn’t likely anything could ever be resolved with Rosa; she did some horrible things in our divorce as well. But Teresa… I imagined myself starting on a road of forgiveness, starting with her, sitting in a diner, having lunch, explaining to her how bad I felt about everything I’d done… and then…

“Ken, it’s been about a quarter of a century. Everyone else forgot about what you did a long time ago. You might not be able to let it go but she obviously let it go. Give it up.”

I thought that and realized I had a point. After all, there’s a reason I long ago established a very firm rule about not doing anything during those early mornings when I’d been sleepwalking. I shut down the computer, walked back upstairs and struggled to get Suki off my side of the bed. Beside me, Vicky snored… on and on… Payback, I figured.

It took me a long time to finally get to sleep. It was the sammiches, I figured.

Green for your Valentine…

Vicky sent this to me and I figure it’s the perfect time to give them to you. Consider it the reminder your S.O. is to nice to provide…

Organic Flowers!

Petty Pet Luvin!

Booze from the Pooch!

… I should’a stopped at the flowers, huh?

I look almost lifelike!...

For the past few weeks, I had decided to let my beard grow out. Now, listen. I grow facial hair like a teenager… a young teenager… with glandular problems, so it’s not like mine is impressive in its bulkiness or anything. Still, I thought I’d try it out and, in fact, I liked it. I like the beard thing. I’ll probably grow it back.

Yes, I say “grow it back” because last night I shaved it all off. My face is now just as smooth as a baby’s but… as well…

So, Ruben comes into my office today. He’s a young guy in his early 20’s. Actually, everyone here is in their 20’s, except our Director of Marketing… who’s in his early 30’s… Ruben walks in, notices my lack of whiskers, and says, “Wow. You look like a young man.”

I felt like removing my false teeth and asking for my walker.

But I didn’t. I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Ruben. I feel like a young man.”

A short one…

Vicky’s been so busy lately she hasn’t even had time to read this thing. (You remember when she used to write?) (Me neither.) So, I just thought I’d keep this one short.

Vicky and I were up until 11:00 last night.

No, perverts. We were talking. Don’t you think I’ve written enough about sex lately?

It was really cool. I got home from school rather late and Vicky and I laid in bed… and talked. When older people are asked what makes a good partner, it always comes down to communication, having someone you can talk to. So, it’s nice to know that Vicky and I can still keep each other up, just gabbing. Granted, we haven’t been together forever, but it has been years and years.

I never want our friendship to fade off. It’s nice to know it’s still there.

Missing dreams and spicy realities…

I want to tell you about two very different episodes from this weekend.

The first began on Sunday morning – and when I say “morning”, I mean it – it was 1:00am! Suki was scratching at the door, which she usually does when she needs to go out. I, being the good puppy poppy, got up from my deep slumber, got dressed, and said, “Okay, let’s go.” I went downstairs, now wide away… and Suki stayed in the bedroom. The little mutt even took my side of the bed. Who has who trained???

After I went back to sleep, I experienced the strangest dream. It was one of those hyper-real dreams and it had me off for the rest of the day. Vicky was offered membership to a very exclusive club. I couldn’t get in because I didn’t have my degree. But, Vicky talked them into letting me in as well and, as she was let in, I had to fill out a stack of forms. After a while, though, they let me in. The club was enormous, filling this vast network of buildings and Vicky, of course, was nowhere to be found. So, I began searching for her, crossing room after room and building after building.

It was a very permissive club; you could do pretty much anything you wanted. I crossed rooms where people were having all kinds of weird sex, engaging is all kinds of strange activities, but I didn’t stop. I was looking for Vicky. She had mentioned that we would meet at the bar – but I couldn’t find the bar. Strangely, the further into the building I went, the laws of physics became something to be ignored. I found a woman would could ball herself up like silly putty and bounce herself off the wall. Hallways went in strange directions.

Finally, I passed an employee and mentioned I was looking for Vicky. He was pulling out a cabinet drawer and stepping into it. “I can show you, but you’ll have to come with me first.” He pushed back the back of the drawer and began to move forward.

“No,” I said, cautiously. “I’ll wait.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then, I won’t tell you about Rosa.”

At this point, I woke up a little and thought: How would this guy know about Rosa? I must be dreaming. I should follow him and find out what happens next. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with you.” I stepped into the drawer, pushed back the back, which opened into another room, and began to crawl through. Suddenly, the drawer began to bounce furiously up and down, making it impossible to move forward – Suki was bouncing in the drawer! Suki, stop it, I thought – but it was too late.

I was yanked out of the dream and found Suki bouncing around on the bed. Stupid dog.

But the dream had seemed to real that I went downstairs, extra happy to see my wife there. I held her close and said, “I missed you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she said. Little did she know.

Vicky and I have a very different sense of romance. We also have a very different sense of taco sauce.

I am infamous for taking extra taco sauce packets from fast food joints, especially Taco Bell. And I don’t just take a couple extra – I take mounds! Vicky thought we could just buy the little bottles they sell at the store but she forgot that my reason for eating burritos (which I love) is to serve as a holder for taco sauce. I use a TON of taco sauce. One of those little bottles can go in a week!

What to do? Well, I suggested we just hit Taco Bell again and grab a few thousand packets. Vicky, however, had another idea.

She found the recipe – the actual recipe for the stuff – and made it at home. She made me taco sauce! And it tastes better than the stuff in the packets!!!

Is taco sauce romance? Probably not. But I’m thinking that romance is somewhere between that and dreams of crawling through cabinet drawers. Somewhere in there romance lies.

It’s the all sex, all the time edition…

So… sex.

Sex. Sex. Sex.

Huh...

See, the thing is it’s 8:00am and it’s rather cold in my office this morning. The idiot with the thermostat must be from the east coast is all I can figure because, in California, 65 degrees is considered cold… well, it is for an office! My alternative, then, is to warm myself up. And what’s better for that than sex. And since having an affair on my desk might attract a little attention, I figured I’d just write about it.

In fact, that’s what I was doing this morning, writing about it. The book I’m currently working on (Working title: Last Ditch. Just about halfway done with it.) is a psychological thriller, Film Noir version 2.0 with lots and lots of sex in it. Sexual acts, sexual tension – lots. And just about all of it is just, plain wrong. Adultery, incest, and just so much more. What can I tell you? You can only write deep, philosophical insight for so long before it all goes back to SEX!

When you’re writing about sex at work – and, by the way, I wrote about 1400 words today – you’d think the only thing on your mind would be sex… right? Wrong! The thing foremost on your mind is, “Please don’t anybody walk in! Please don’t anybody walk in!” Because the last thing you want to have happen is someone looking over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of:

He was holding her legs up but let them go so she could stand on the bed. She stood before him looking like all the innocence of youth, but he knew better and the tent in his trousers told her he didn’t mind. The skirt unbuttoned, she dropped it with a kick onto the floor. Then, she peeled off the leggings. Her body wasn’t well-defined and her ex-boyfriend was mostly right. She was obviously uncomfortable, standing there before him with her body on display, even in the darkened room. He smiled, kissed her belly, and moved down, trailing his kisses into her small bush, spreading her legs. All the while his eyes looked into hers.

That would be bad. What do you say? School paper? Letter to mom? No! There’s nothing you can say at that point!

Speaking of talking, there’s usually a bit of conversation that goes on during sex. Rarely however, is the emphasis: “What are we doing for dinner tomorrow.”

… well, at least, it shouldn’t be.

That’s when you find out you’re an old, married couple.

… at least, you do if you’re an old, married couple.

Vicky and I, after just a couple of years, are an old, married couple.

After reviewing a few items in our freezer and talking about our schedules for the evening – Vicky’s going out with Trish, I have to read my Pre-Socratic text – Vicky stopped us right there. We were in the middle of being as in flagrante delicto as you can be and we were discussing schedules and menus. “Whatever happened to ‘Yeah, fuck me’?” she asked.

Woody Allen once said that sex is the most fun you can have without laughing… Vicky and I sometimes add the laughing.

Vicky to the rescue…

So, I got up this morning, did my daily routine, and gathered all of my things so I could get going to work.

I got my lunch packed in my lunchbox. I got my school books. I got my car stereo’s faceplate, my phone, my ring, and my watch. I got everything.

So, I went out into the cold morning, locked the door and closed it behind me. Then, I locked the screen door and closed it behind me.

Then, I walked to my car.

… then, I realized that I forgot my keys and my wallet.

Shit.

So, what to do? I couldn’t get back inside!

I called Vicky. After telling her not to laugh, I cracked up. “Can you come down and open the door for me?”

She did.

I’m a dork and she’s my hero.

A drink before I wake…

Vicky and I were at home with the kids one night just before Christmas, when a strange visitor came to the door. I seem to remember knowing him so we invited him in. He couldn’t stay long, he said. Could we get him a drink? Yes, he told us, and then proceeded to describe a strange and oddly specific mix. It was a punch of some kind, with brandy, and peppermint stick around the rim of the glass.

Vicky and I hurried into the kitchen. What could we do? We didn’t have half of the ingredients. So, we fudged the punch and, in place of brandy, we found some fruit-infused tequila. Vicky was amazing at crumbling the peppermint stick and getting it to stick to the rim of the glass.

“Here we go,” I said, bringing it out.

But before he took the drink, the stranger began asking me all kinds of questions about ethics. My ethics. And when I pushed him to take the drink, he said, “Oh, I can’t drink that. I’m on the wagon. That drink is for you.” At which time, he said his goodbyes and was off. I leaned against the doorjam, holding the drink, and wondered what that was all about.

And I opened my eyes and found my arm raised as though I was leaning on a doorjam. I was in bed. And thought of his questions, along with the drink – and the ethical dilemma that represented – haunted me.

But for only a second. Then, the alarm went off.

Boy, does my timing suck.

It’s official. I’m married to Pod Vicky…

Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything. Perhaps this is far bigger than just the wife. Perhaps this is worldwide… it’s spread… it can’t be contained…

But, I’ll say it anyway.

Vicky’s been doing a great job with her physical trainer. Just great. She’s stuck with it. I’m really proud of her.

I wish I could say it stops there.

But then, she’s recently gotten really good about eating healthy lunches. Really good. I’m… proud of her.

And then, this woman started thinking of healthy things we could eat at dinner. At dinner. The other night, when we were going to have chicken burgers, she told me that “chicken burgers” means that she has one and I have one. One and one equal two… plural… burgers…

Yesterday, when I told her I was going to make angel hair pasta in a tomato and basil sauce, and I might throw some shrimp in it, and get some crusty bread, and open a bottle of wine, she said, “I’m going to eat a big bowl of vegetables so I don’t fill up on pasta.”

And then, I realized.

This wasn’t Vicky. It looked like her. It sounded like her.

It was not her. She was replaced. Something has taken my wife.

… well, whatever she is, I hope she can make pancakes…

Say Goodbye to Plastic…

It’s not often that I link a Texas paper, but I will here… and here… and here! Oh, screw it! Let's just go to the press release!

Here’s the gist: Whole Foods is going to stop using plastic bags. And God Bless Em!

Plastic bags are made with petroleum by-products (not the wisest use of the last of our planet’s oil), stick around for about a thousand years in everywhere from landfills to a growing island in the middle of the Pacific (no kidding!), and when they do decompose leech into our water supply and food. Tasty! All for a few minutes of use. Nice, huh?

Vicky and I have been doing our best to eliminate plastic from our lives wherever we can. We have stopped buying bottled juices and sodas and the like… okay, I do once in a while – maybe one bottle a month or so – but that’s usually when I’m on the road and I get thirsty. But we’ve dropped our consumption by about 90%, easily, and even when we do use a plastic bottle, we recycle. As for bags, we have reusable bags and, when we’re only buying a couple of things, let the store employee know we don’t need a bag.

Do I think we should all do this? Yes! Absolutely! It’s a little difficult at first but you find yourself drinking more water, which is better for you, and amassing less trash. I hope we all go the way of Whole Foods.

Vicky’s morning…

(Vicky assures me this wasn't a typical morning... still...)

I went into work late this morning. By late, I mean 8:00am. I woke up at 5:30, went to the gym, took a shower, had some breakfast – really kinda took it easy this morning and went in late.

You see, normally, I’m at work long before the butt-crack of dawn even begins to show a cheek. I start at 6:30am.

One of the benefits of going in late is that I really got to see what Vicky’s morning is like. You see, she normally starts later in the day and gets home hours after I do.

And I’ve found myself wondering why that is.

This morning, I found out. I usually wake up in the dark and the cold. Vicky wakes up when the sun comes up and warms her. I wake up long before the world is awake. Vicky wakes up with radio and TV programs, live not pre-recorded. And we both go to bed at the same time, mind you. Who do you think gets more sleep?

Now, I can see how she’s able to sleep in on the weekends. I usually wake up at 5am or 6am and she’s usually asleep until 9am. It’s because that’s about how we usually wake up during the week! I think I’m totally sleeping in when I get up at 6am – I know nothing about sleeping in! Vicky is the pro! I am not worthy of her skillz!

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to my normal routine and leave as Vicky still has hours of sleep to go. I’m not bitter; I’m glad she gets her mornings… but I do feel kinda stupid…

We went to the movies today...

An overzealous cameraman!
A writer who consistently displays his utter lack of knowledge on – oh – just about everything!
A girl who finds a punctured chest cavity no more inconvenient than running down 30-40 flights of stairs barefoot!
And a mysteriously exploding head!

I bring you: Cloverfield! Try not to laugh!

You’re probably wondering what she does for an encore…

This happened shortly after we got home tonight.

Vicky ran into the kitchen with Suki, calling, “Suki! Suki! Suki!” Suddenly, I heard her tone shift and she yelled a prolonged, “Whaaaaaa….”

I ran into the kitchen, asking, “Are you all right?”

Vicky lay there, face down on the floor, laughing hysterically.

Ladies and Gentlemen: My wife.

Clutzy and Old…

In case you’re wondering what old age is all about, well, let me tell you I’m getting a taste of it first hand. I’m beginning to think it’s all about mornings, making time in your mornings – at least, that’s a slice of it. The clutzy part… that’s age agnostic.

I woke up this morning to my routine and realized, I should have seen it coming the night before but my goosefleshed skin spoke up, that Vicky had turned off the heater. Great. Stupid-o’clock and freezing cold as well. Fun!

The shower warmed me up but, you know the drill, that warmth is stripped off of you like an ice bath the minute you step out and, when the heater’s not on, that ice bath is a mean mother. So, you hurry. Hurry on the socks – hurry on the jeans – hurry on the shirt – hurry on the shoes – hurry downstairs – hurry, hurry, hurry. (Yes, I skipped the part about giving Vicky a kiss goodbye. Not that I didn’t do it, I just decided not to go on and on about how warm she looked under three blankets while I was freezing cold.)(Yes, in Southern California 50 degrees fahrenheit is considered freezing!)

I’ve been trying to eat a healthy – not big or fattening but healthy and small – breakfast every morning. Usually, I start with a cereal that’s good for me and some light soy milk… usually… we’re out of light soy milk. Okay. Plan B: find something else. I opt for a frozen burrito, which… well, let’s just say you should never have read this paragraph.

The reason you need to make plenty of time in the morning is because you’ll be spending all that time taking pills. I’ve only just started and I hear it just gets worse from here. First thing: glucosamine chondroitin. My doctor has me taking this for… well, old age basically. These are not the kinds of joint I want to have to concern myself with (when was the last time I smoked pot, anyway?) but, to relieve the aches and pains of 42,000 years, my doc has me taking three horsepills worth of this each day. Next: red rice yeast. Here’s the story about red rice yeast; it’s a big joke. Doctors put you on this stuff just before they put you on “Hardongobyebye” meds. I swear. Have you ever heard of red rice? Have you ever heard of rice yeast? NO! It’s a placebo, people! When I look it up in the Wiki, I get red yeast rice – fucking people can’t even make up their minds on what to call it!

And “red yeast rice” sounds even worse than red rice yeast. “Would you like white or brown rice? Or red yeast rice?” Blech! It’s supposed to lower your LDL-cholesterol. I take it because I am a fat, old fuck. God damn.

So, as if that wasn’t bad enough. On top of all that, I have to take my vitamins. Vicky has me taking them in liquid form. They taste like a glass of liquid crap. But I take a swig every morning, right after my old age meds, to make me healthier…. Sure…. Give me a fucking break.

I reach into the fridge, grab the bottle – it says to shake – and I give it a vigorous shake.

… Here’s a tip! Make sure the lid is all the way on!

It takes three shakes for me to realize exactly what I’m doing. What can I tell you? I’m not completely awake, yet. The first shake registers a weary “Huh?” The second shake elicits a disturbed “What the hell is that?” With the third shake, I realize I am reenacting Mount Vesuvius in my right hand – or something far more sexual than even I will imply – and liquid vitamins are all over the floor.

Nice.

Old and clutzy. I can’t wait for senility.

Suki kisses…

(What follows is a tale of bestiality so hideous that no dog should be forced to read it... unless you think it'll help...)

I don’t ordinarily go on about my dog – extricating poop from a dog’s butt is pretty much proof of ownership – but I figured today would be a good day. (And I’m short of things to write about… but, anyway…)

This morning, I awoke as I usually do – in the dark at stupid-o’clock. I went through my morning routine (the brushing, washing, dressing, generally making myself look presentable – “good” was given up years ago) and, as I picked out my tie, I noticed Suki, sleeping in her spot on the end of the bed, her head craned up towards me.

“What?” I asked, trying to trick her into speaking English.

It didn’t work. Her head craned, she cocked it to one side.

“What?” I asked again and, being the good person, I obeyed her psychic command and went to her.

She craned her head a little further and began to give me kisses. Now, listen, this is not a kissey dog. Oh, she gives her momma (that would be Vicky) loads of kisses – when Vicky gets home, when Vicky goes to bed… pretty much any time Vicky wants a puppy kiss, Suki is there for her. I’ve pretty much settled into the role of second banana in Suki’s life. We go for walks after I get home from work; sometimes, we jog. I play with her on the bed. We’re close, but she is not demonstrative.

And for those of you who think puppy kisses are icky – poo on you! (We’re not talking about french kisses here, folks!)

In fact, once I let Suki start giving me kisses, she moves up from my cheek to my nose to my left eye (which she found very tasty, indeed) and ended on my forehead. By that time, I was sufficiently licked, even if Suki wasn’t finished. As I backed away, though, I could see she wasn’t finished. She gave me “the look.” I’m very empathetic towards the emotional needs of animals. When Alacrity meows to be pet, I am there! Any child Vicky and I have will not want for luvin. So, I moved in and gave Suki a big hug. To which, she responded with her typical, “Huff.” That’s her way of saying, “I like it. Don’t move. Stay here. Call in.”

I figured Vicky might have a problem with that. “I gotta call in, Vic. Suki wants me to stay and pet her.” I’m thinking that wouldn’t go over well.

So, I backed away from the pooch and saw “the look” again.

I’m not usually a fan of pure-bred dogs. We are a world of mutts and pure breeds have little place. But I do love Suki. I’m just saying.

Vicky’s calling…

Ken’s phone: Buzz! Buzz! (I have it on vibrate.)

Ken (answering): Hello.

Vicky: Hi. What’cha doing?

Ken (at work): Working.

Vicky: Okay.

…. And then, there is silence.

Seriously, what is with you women???

Radio game…

(Not to be confused with Name That Tune… don’t ask…)

Vicky and I wanted to take the new car out on the road. Really spend some time in it.

… then, we hit LA traffic. Lesson learned!

We had to do something to keep ourselves amused. So, we put on the satellite radio. Vicky has six months of free Sirius (seriously!) but the way we listen, I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up paying money for it. We love it! The music is great; there’s lots of choices!

But that’s not the part we really love.

We have 10 music channels set, everything from classic rock to hair bands to modern crap (leave me alone! I’m old!) to disco. Lots of crap! And we love it.

Then, it began.

I clicked #1.

“Ah, George Harrison,” I said, showing off my musical erudition.

Then, #2.

“Def Leppard,” Vicky informed me.

#3

“Cindy Lauper.”

#4

“Credence.”

And, before we knew it, we had a game. But what’s a game without a way to score? Turns out, Vicky’s car has a TEXT button that, when pressed, displays the artist and song title. So, when we really want to show off, we’ll give both. (But how sad is it when you yell out “The Streak by Ray Stevens” only to realize you would have been better off getting that one wrong?)

As a result, Vicky and I no longer listen to music. We listen to 5-10 seconds of a song and either scream out answers or make straining sounds as we juice our brains for musical lore. This has actually turned out some interesting facts. Sure, we know that Vicky’s strength is not music from the 1970’s nor is mine anything… recent… but there’s more! For instance, Vicky cannot identify any song by Tesla. I, on the other hand, have a black hole where female artists from the early ‘70’s reside. I can zap any tune by Elton John. Vicky is the Hair Band princess… though we kinda knew that, huh?

Be very afraid if you every ride in our new Escape with us. You may find yourself playing it, too.

Getty… not related to Rush…

How irritating would it be to spend your day at the Getty Center(s) and have someone constantly make jokes about Rush’s lead singer? Welcome to our Saturday!

Vicky and I woke early to spend the whole day together, something we do – oh – about once every blue moon. We were both looking forward to a day of culture, a day of peace, a date day just for the two of us… so we started it at Polly’s. Have I mentioned Polly’s? It’s a SoCal kinda thing. But we had a nicer breakfast than we probably would have eaten at IHOP so, you know, it’s all about perspective…

Vicky insisted that I drive up to the Getty Villa, our first stop. Located in Malibu, off the shore, it was beautifully located, with perfect weather, and… ah, but first, I had to drive. What I didn’t realize – what I should have realized was this whole competitive thing Vicky and I have going. She told me about how she drove the hybrid to get better gas mileage. Rather than be the guy who screwed all that up, I did everything I could do to improve gas mileage, too… which included driving 40 on the freeway. Vicky’s got to learn that I’m not above sinking as low as I need to in order to soar high above her… or something…

Eventually, we made it to the Getty Villa and, yes, it was lovely. They keep the crowds down and surround you with beauty – and it’s all free. Love it! The Villa specializes in pieces from antiquity: beautiful pottery, statues, pottery, columns, pottery… pottery… After a few hours, Vicky spoke for us both, “I can’t look at one more bowl.”

Off we went to The Getty, located in LA. We took Sunset Boulevard all the way up to the 405 through gorgeous vistas and neighborhoods, rolling hills, idyllic surroundings – so, yes, hitting LA was a lot like vomiting after a fine wine. Several hours at the Villa had turned our feet to mush but we were rested again and ready to look at more art. I wanted to hit the Impressionist exhibit so… up we went. On the way, we viewed some photography, an exhibit on the nude, and just a mish-mash of stuff I can’t even remember. It was culture overload!

Before the Impressionists, we toured through some Neo-Classical and Romantic works. Now, I could have spent hours looking at each painting but Vicky was zipping through. I began to understand what I’m like when we’re in a department store together. Oh well. And so, we reached the Impressionists. We looked at Degas, Monet, Renoir, and then… Van Gogh! Vincent’s Irises stood right before us, the actual painting. History grabbed me and shook me by the collar. The whole day had been one giant “fuck you” courtesy of time itself! All those antiquated bowls! Photographs of people from a century before! Van Gogh’s Irises! They had all stood before me and laughed. How impotent we are in the face of time and how impotent are our attempts to deny it. Back at the Villa, there had been many displays about how pieces had been restored over and over and over again. The fact was that the Irises would be a candidate for restoration, too. And those nudes had grown old, shriveled up, and had died.

I admired Van Gogh’s Irises as a man standing in the porchlight of time, understanding that it will wink off. It had no choice. And so, I will go. And so, you will go. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been worth it.

Vicky leaned up against the painting to better see the fine lines. A guard walked up and shooed her back – busted! “Then, why don’t they rope it off?” she asked me, over and over. I laughed, which probably did not amuse her.

Then, we stepped out and looked out over the entire LA basin. Millions of lives. Millions of stories. Millions of works of art. And here we had cooped ourselves in with the relics of time.

I held Vicky close and we enjoyed every minute of it as the sun went down. Moments like that make you wish it could last forever. They also make me wish I could paint. Oh well. Vicky took the keys. She didn’t want to head home at 40 miles an hour. We ended up getting caught in LA traffic so we couldn’t enjoy our dinner out. Instead, we picked up a couple of burgers and watched Psyche back at home. So much for art…

I hate it. I’ll eat it…

For those who enjoyed Cinnamon Cluster Fuck, I bring you the following love...)

A few weeks ago, Vicky and I picked up a big box of Kashi Mountain Medley granola cereal from Costco. I like granola and I like to eat healthy so I figured this would be great.

It’s not great. In fact, it’s like eating mud.

… milky mud…

So, I can’t say I’m a fan.

But I have most of a whole box remaining and I can’t justify throwing it out. Would you throw out nearly an entire box of cereal? I can’t do it! Which, of course, means that I’ll be stuck eating it for the next few weeks! CRAP!

And that’s not the worst part, by the way.

The worst part is that I forgot to bring my lunch with me to work today and, this morning, I was only able to choke down a couple spoonfuls of milky mud cereal. It’s nearly 10am. I’m starving. I don’t have lunch. I won’t eat for another nine hours or so. And the last thing I had was milky mud cereal.

Today officially sucks.

UPDATE: Vicky is thankfully not held to the same rules as I and I have been assured that she plans to t'row dat shit out!

Crazy sleep story…

Many of you have heard my crazy sleep stories – there’s the time I drove in my sleep on the 91 freeway, the time I woke up to find all my bedding outside of my apartment, the time I was looking for the secret plans and Vicky told me she had them so I could go back to sleep – but this one is different in a way.

Vicky, of course, is very used to my nocturnal weirdness. She finds it amusing… but I don’t know if I’d call it that.

The mechanics of the thing goes like this: When I sleepwalk, I am often dreaming. In addition, I am often on the verge of being awake, which makes it pretty easy to talk to me and even snap me out of it.

The other night, I was closer to being awake than Vicky thought.

Vicky found me standing near the bedroom door in the middle of the night, looking out at something. So, she asked me what I was looking at. You’ll have to forgive my lack of detail here – you try to take notes next time you sleepwalk.

Because, you see, I had been sleepwalking. I had seen an image outside the bedroom door. I walked over to it and tried to make sense of it, but I couldn’t. When Vicky asked me what I was looking at, I was already very close to being awake. But I was trying to hold on to the image, trying to will myself to continue sleeping. “I don’t know,” I told her.

“Well, why don’t you come back to bed?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m trying to figure this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out. You’re sleepwalking again.”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t quite explain my situation and stay asleep enough to see what I was seeing at the same time, so my words came out confused. “I’m trying to see this.”

Vicky started laughing because, of course, there wasn’t anything there. What I was looking at wasn’t there but I could only see it by looking there, out the door. Actually, I was looking across the hall into the bathroom. And the image was fading. Vicky was waking me up. I tried to ask her to be quiet – just give me another minute so I could figure it out.

“You always do this,” she laughed. “You don’t even realize you’re asleep.”

That did it. I turned to her and growled, “I did realize I was asleep. Now, I’m awake. I realize I was sleepwalking. I was trying to see what I got up in my sleep for.”

“Oh. What was it?”

I had no idea.

After years of sleepwalking, I’ll grab at any clue why, even if I can only see it while I’m sleepwalking. Ugh.

Classical OCD… or, Hating Mozart in Chronological Order…

I can’t explain it. It’s not like I wash my hands three times in a row with fresh soap and, upon leaving the bathroom, have to turn the doorknob a certain amount of times… really. But I figure it’s about time I come clean.

I can’t tell you exactly when it started but I’m sure others could. If Rosa were around, I’m sure she’d have stories. For instance, I remember a couple of years before our divorce when I put my thousands of comic books in chronological order and proceeded to read through them… all of them…

For most of my life, I’ve had a thing about order, putting things in order. One of my favorite jobs was when I worked at a book store and I had to shelve new arrivals. Most employees hated it, but finding orderly ways of putting all the books on display… it wasn’t better than sex, necessarily. It was good, though. Since then, I’ve watched my DVDs in chronological order and there’s the comic book incident.

Recently, I decided to reduce our CD space in the house. We had two racks holding our hundreds of CDs. I decided we would reduce down to one rack. How to do this? I bought a book that holds 256 CDs and that should hold… a few… But I couldn’t just take the extra CDs and put them in the book – oh no! That would be too easy!

Instead, I took all of our CDs and put them in chronological order, removing from those stacks Vicky’s more hardcore metal and country and that Dion woman… and Cher – ewwwwww…. The rest went into stacks. Then, I took the disks in chronological order and boxed them in said order so they would take up less room, be less intrusive. Now, I am listening to them in – yes, you guessed it – chronological order.

It’s a disease.

So, last night, we were watching Desperate Housewives and Bree (for those in the know) had some music on in the house. “That’s Mozart,” I told Vicky. “I’ve got that in the car.” Yes, that puts me in the 18th century, which should tell you how long it’ll be before I’m listening to Grandaddy again!

Vicky’s aware I’m not really a Mozart fan but wildly misinterpreted that. Judging the music, she said, “That’s nice. I don’t see why you hate Mozart.”

The words “I don’t see why you hate Mozart” seemed, for me, to be filled with irony. Of course, I don’t hate Mozart. I’m just not a fan. Anyway, he’s dead. It’s not like I’m hurting his feelings. More than that, though, those words “I don’t see why you hate Mozart” sounded a whole lot like something else I often hear. People who don’t understand why I’m an atheist (no offense taken, of course, as I can’t fathom why most people believe in imaginary creatures) will sometimes ask, “Why are you so angry with God?” As it’s simply not possible to be angry with an imaginary being, there’s no way for me to respond without being insulting… which is why I always try to respond.

Anyway, Shubert’s next, followed by Tchaikovsky. I like Tchaikovsky but, somewhere along the line, we’ve acquired about four disks of ballet music. I can’t wait to see what that does to my driving…

I’m kinda cute… it appears…

I’m not going to say that Vanity is my middle name. I don’t need to – that’s why I have you – but I will admit to being slightly attractive in a former life.

Let’s face it, nobody wants to think of themselves as repulsive. You want to be found attractive by beautiful people… or, barring that, at least someone reasonably ungrotesque…

Now, I have loved plenty of women in my life and, in some cases, I’ve been paid to act like I loved them. Many of them were attractive. Some of them still are. Some always will be. And I pride myself in having kept some very nice company.

All this is my way of building up to the unpleasant occasion that happened last night, when a half-crazed, other half senile, witch of an old woman, dressed in her robe, standing in the Ralphs parking lot, instructing a cab driver to load her groceries – a great mound of groceries – while holding a stuffed animal and smoking lecherously from a cigarette, the kind of woman you couldn't locate in a rubbish tip, looked over at Vicky and I walking out of the store and spoke clearly and resoundingly, leaving a thick glop of ickyness, “You’re kinda cute.”

What that woman finds you cute, it’s time to pack it in. It’s time to peel all the skin from your body, because it’s all gone to waste.

“So, you’re telling me that this,” you ask, pointing in your general direction, “is only appealing to someone of that nature? You’re saying that if I were to take myself out on the town, I’d pretty much be open to something along those lines?”

But Vicky, always there to make me feel better, said, “You never know. She could have been talking to me.”

I’m still wondering which is worse…

And now, words of wisdom from the Dead Ranger...

Vicky hates it…

The tragedy of life, I seem to remember Jean Renoir saying, it that everyone has their own reasons.

The title of this blog entry is an inside joke. Vicky hates it when I put words in her mouth, such as when I say about one of my books, “Vicky hates it.”

Vicky and I were talking about the new book last night. Today, I hit the 25,000 word mark. This book is planned to be very short, probably 80,000 words, so I’m very nearly one-third of the way through the book. This book is a departure for me, as are all of my books; I’m fortunate enough to still be hitting landmarks.

Let me tell you why. My writing style is usually very optimistic. I do not like to use good guys or bad guys; those are old devices humanity has long grown tired of, for the most part. We seem to accept them in our political fictions but not in our literature. So, I don’t use them. I approach each character as a person. Bad people don’t want to be bad, I suppose, they just are. They can’t help it. So, I fill my books with accidents and mistakes and people who try to do good. Or, I should say, I did.

My new book is filled with horrible people who do horrible things. They do not try to do good because the world has shown them that any attempt does not pay off in the end. So, they fuck each other and fuck with each other. They manipulate. They are cruel. They kill. The only language they speak is hate.

Last night, Vicky said, “I don’t know if I like it. It sounds too over the top.”

She’s right, of course. It is. And I have to laugh because these kinds of stories, when made into movies, are the movies Vicky loves to watch. So, maybe there’s something to it, maybe I’ve been wrong all along. This is not to say that this will change my writing style for good. As a matter of fact, I hate these characters and I hate writing this way. It’s like writing with my fists and I feel the need to draw blood on every page. I don’t like it.

After I finish this book, the plan is to develop it into a longer narrative. Yes, a second book. The second book will be about the writer and the world he lives in. The reason for that is very simple. For all the horrors that I write in my book, all the manipulations and machinations, cruelty and murder, the world we live in is far worse. The book I am writing portrays a serial killer as a good guy and the second book will address the reality that we live in a world where this actually may be true.

Vicky questioned this idea. So, I asked her, “Who’s worse? A guy who rapes and kills several dozen women or Dick Cheney?” I mean, of course, that Dick Cheney is far worse because he’s been behind the deaths of thousands of people. He has disenfranchised entire populations of Iraqis, stolen their homes, stolen their oil, and has made a bundle off of it. And he is the Vice-President of the United States. And he is admired by many. So, who’s worse?

One of these days, I seriously need to write another comedy.

As promised...

I'm finally posting a couple of photos of the new car. I had to take them tonight after I got home since it is supposed to rain through the weekend.

Isn't she lovely?

Resolved… 2008…

Vicky and I had a very good Christmas… which is probably why we were sick throughout the whole thing. Cause it’s always something. I’m just saying.

We got everything we wanted, everything we needed, and a few things that fell into neither category but we were pleased with anyway. We were well taken care of by each other. It was nice.

So, leave it to me to screw that up.

But I felt like, now that we’re comfortable, well taken care of, wanting for practically nothing, with all of our needs fulfilled, now may be the time to really try something radical.

I’m talking about self-control.

Now, listen, Vicky and I do pretty well. We pay our bills. We sock a little into savings. We even try to splurge a little now and then. We’re not wasteful. We’re not irresponsible. So, you would think that things are okay as is, right? No need to change.

But right around Christmas, I looked around our house. At the new TV. At Guitar Hero III. At the new car. At all the snacks and food and … the crap.

Terrified at what Vicky’s response might be, I emailed her. How about this for a New Year’s Resolution, I said. How about we stop spending so much money. That means DVDs and video games, purses and clothes. Let’s just stop. Imagine how the rest of the world lives and how out of control our spending is compared to them. Imagine how much better off our finances would be – even considering how good they are now (thanks to my lovely wife who is a financial whiz) – if we put that money into paying our bills. Imagine how much more we could save.

The shocking part was Vicky’s response. Rather than kill me, she thought it was a good idea! Wow!

So, here is our New Year’s Resolution. In 2008, we resolve to spend less on things we don’t need!

But what’s that mean, exactly? Well, for those of you playing along at home – and so we have a written record of this that Vicky can later shove in my face – it means that this applies to non-essentials only. Since Vicky isn’t going to give up “Nail night” and I won’t give up “WoW”… we’ll ignore those. But let’s set a limit. Let’s try to make only one, single, non-essential purchase each month, which is really pretty generous if you think about it. That means that if I buy a DVD, I have to wait until next month to buy another, or a video game, or some other thing I want. If Vicky buys a pair of shoes (a pair she wants – which includes those “but I really need it” kind of wants), she will have to wait one month to buy a CD (including iTunes downloads) or anything else.

Limits are good. They help put things into perspective. Also, with a baby coming… someday… I hope… maybe… dammit… getting our financial house in order will be a good thing.

Now, let’s see how long this lasts.

Any predictions?

The last chicken of 2007…

Two days before Christmas, on December 23, 2007, Vicky and I picked up Popeye’s chicken. Popeye’s is one of my favorite, fast-food, fried chicken joints out there – far superior to KFC! I love picking it up!

Yesterday, while she was cleaning out the fridge, Vicky handed me the Popeye’s box, which had been in there for over a week, and said, “Throw this away.”

“Throw it away? Are you serious? That’s Popeye’s!”

“It’s old. You haven’t eaten it. Throw it away.”

I could hear the last piece in there. Worse, it was a breast! It was the biggest piece! Just waiting!

“I can’t throw it away! It’s Popeye’s!”

Then, Vicky gave me a look. The look said, “Then, eat it.” Which showed her complete lack of understanding. Would you eat the Mona Lisa? That’s been sitting, uneaten, for centuries. Did Da Vinci’s wife tell him to eat it or throw it out? No! And Popeye’s chicken is by no measure any less a work of art than Da Vinci’s little painting!

I never did see if the chicken was moldier than the Mona Lisa…

Sex and the sicky…

Is it 2008, yet? Too bad! I’m writing, anyway.

A – N – Y – W – A – Y – S

Anyways, Vicky and I spent a fabulous weekend on the sunny shores of Coughy Sneezy Land… which sucks. Seriously. It sucks ass. Vicky and I were dying all weekend long. Actually, some guy bought her this new car – he’s really got it bad for her, I can tell you – and she felt much better after. Amazing what warm buns will do. (Before you start getting any ideas, the car has seat warmers – I kid you not!)

But I’m still sick… dammit.

We spent pretty much the entire weekend watching the final season of Sex and the City. Yes, I know it went off the air about 73 years ago. Call me slow! I’ll say this much for them: they certainly left it open for the movie! (Yes, I am criticizing it now – long, long after it stopped being remotely hip to do so… if it ever was so – what of it?) I wanted to see how thing would turn out. I wanted to see the happy ending! I felt cheated!

Vicky asked, “You wouldn’t want them to wrap it up in a nice, neat bow, would you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, that’s exactly what I do want! I want a bow, nice and neat! Right now, dammit!”

But that wasn’t what I was getting.

Vicky and I, sprawled out on our sofas, watching old television, is not exactly what I think of when I think of romance but it amazes me how the sound of her blowing her nose can sound like music to my ears. Maybe it’s the sickness talking but I am very much in love with my Vicky. She’s really wonderful… you know, most of the time… Sadly, all of this sickness has been putting a crimp in some important baby making, which is hard to… or, um, difficult to do when you’re both hacking and wheezing and coughing and sneezing.

Vicky thinks so, at least…

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

I got my Christmas present tonight. I drove it home and it's parked in its new spot.

Thanks to my most wonderful husband I got a 2008 Ford Escape Hybrid! I love it. I'll be posting a picture of it later this weekend. Now, I'm off to drive it...if I can stop this darn coughing...

Dying of the plague…

Well, isn’t he a good sport about it, folks?

Okay. Seriously. I’m dying here.

I had a head cold last week. Vicky got it and passed it back. Now, it’s in our chests and we’re both dying. This sucks. My body aches are so bad, it hurts to type. So this won’t be long.

We’ll catch up next year, okay?

Merry Christmas with my mouth full…

It’s the most tubbiest time of the year?

If you take my weight and divide it by 42, you’ll find that I’ve been packing on about five pounds each year. I’m here to tell you, it’s the fault of Christmas! I’ve learned to be pretty good at Thanksgiving, and only eat one place. On Halloween, I generally restrict myself to a handful of candies. On Easter, I avoid the bunny rabbits. But bring me to Christmas…

The problem, I believe, lies in the variety. Every other holiday has a theme but, with Christmas, it’s full overload. “Would you like a cookie?” “Here’s some fudge.” “I bought you truffles.” “Have a taste of this clotted fat!” (I’m not saying it did happen – but it could have when I wasn’t looking.)

If this wasn’t clear to me, it began on Friday, when Vicky went out for a Christmas dinner and brought me home – some pie! Cause, you know, I NEED pie. But it was done with affection and I gobbled it up with affection… and ice cream… Saturday, we went to Polly’s (a southern Californian treat) and I had the turkey dinner lunch (it was the dinner served in a lunch-sized portion) because I knew my Christmas dinner would be slightly different. You see, Vicky and I had made a plan… but more on that later. We went to Costco and picked up a pizza – and if you’re not already saying “Those two need to seriously go on a diet”, you will soon.

Sunday was our Christmas day as both sides of our families had crazy schedules. Mike was working. My mom was going out of town. So, okay, we started the day at my mom’s, and she offered us cookies and candy. Mind you, Vicky had already been making cookies at home for weeks and my employer had gifted us with a three-pound box of chocolate-covered cookies and I had been given fudge… I turned her down. Shocking, no? Then, it was off to Fontana, for dinner with the Pearson clan. I was good and only had one plate, ignoring that a single serving of Mama Pearson’s homemade mac-n-cheese (the recipe for which Jenn would die… and so would I) is the caloric equivalent of South America… I mean, eating it. The folks-in-law had asked us to bring pies, one lemon meringue (Mike’s fave) and one pumpkin (Steve’s fave). Vicky and I had bought them at Polly’s… and brought them back home with us because everyone was too full to eat pie. (And, yes, they’re still in the fridge.)

On Monday, we hit Knott’s Merry Farm (and, yes, the plays on words at that place make me want to vomit) and got some walking in… which was good… because after Mama Knott’s place was too packed to get a table and we opted instead for Popeye’s Fried Chicken our bodies were grateful for their brief reminder of health. By the end of the night, our fridge was overloaded with leftovers from Christmas dinner, leftovers from Popeye’s… and food for Christmas.

Here was the plan: we’d be bums on Christmas and eat crappy food… because, you know, we’d been eating so healthy up to that point. So, out came the 6-layer dip and the chips and the mini-corn-dogs. We even had taquitos in the fridge, which never got eaten because Vicky then added TWO boxes of candy to the mix.

I’m ready to puke. Seriously. On the keyboard. A day later.

We also opened Christmas gifts somewhere in there. Our favorite gift of the year? I think it’s Guitar Hero III on the motherfucking Wii (on the motherfucking big-screen TV). Vicky and I were taking turns playing it all Christmas morning and most of Christmas afternoon. Turns out, I rock… in a middle-aged writer kind of way. Vicky rocks completely in every way imaginable – but we already knew that.

The way I see it, we’ll need to rock hard – all night – anything to help me fit in my pants again!

It’s the most laziest time of the year…

Ouch! The grammar police are going to get me for that one!

But it had to be said! Looking around our house this morning, as I ate my breakfast raviolis, I had to admit it. Vicky and I have been slacking off. You can’t blame us. We’ve been busy with the holiday. It took us weeks to get our new TV up and working and, after weeks of research, it looks like Vicky may be getting her new car today. It’s been nutty.

Meanwhile, our pantry is growing barren and I haven’t had a decent breakfast in… well, you’re probably wondering about the breakfast raviolis, aren’t you?

Last night, we had to decide on what to eat. It came down to a frozen brick of Costco raviolis in our freezer. Lobster raviolis – and, yes, they suck as much as they sound like they would suck! Did we have the right sides or sauces to prepare them with? Well… no, but that didn’t stop us.

And I ate the leftovers for breakfast.

Now, look. I know how gross that sounds, and it was, but we all go through these periods where there’s just no time to keep up on the normal tedium of life… like buying food, for instance. I know that Vicky is going to read this and say, “I can’t believe you’re telling everyone that I make you eat raviolis for breakfast!” but it’s not like that. We’re just busy. You know?

We’ll catch up on things again, I’m sure.

… like, in 2008…

I’ve been sick…

Yep, the cold bug got me this week. It started Sunday night and is only now letting up. I actually thought it would be much worse. Up until yesterday, I was afraid it would develop into bronchitis or something – it was really getting bad. And then – and, as much as I hate to plug drugs, I just have to – I tried Zicam. Over the counter, under the tongue, tastes kinda crappy, but works wonders – Zicam.

And now, I feel better. Not 100% but better…

Thanks, Zicam!

(Ugh. I feel dirty.)

Anyway, I thought I’d catch you up on the goings on and follow throughs at the La Salle household.

Vicky is still not pregnant. We had a few days there where we thought – maybe… maybe… - but, no. Nothing. How strange to be so sad about something you are sure you’ll suck at but want so badly when it doesn’t come to pass. I want to hold our child, though I’m terrified I’ll drop her. I want to educate our child, though I am concerned about the superstitious nonsense they teach in school. I want to watch our child grow up, though I know I’ll be ancient by the time she does. But, to do that, we need to start by having a child. It’s almost as if wanting a child is the best form of birth control. I promise you, if I was 16 and feared the words “I’m late” as much as I did (lo! Those many years ago!), Vicky would be pregnant faster than you can say, “Safe sex!”

Tin Man. Vicky and I watched the miniseries on Sci-Fi. Anyone else? Anyone? Anyone? Hello? It tried really hard to be important and meaningful… really hard. And I can forgive its almost total (and convenient) amnesia about the lore that preceded it. I can even forgive the wishy-washy way the creators wanted to make sure there were no consequences to anyone’s actions. (Seriously, how many times can Neal McDonough get shot without, say, bleeding?) What I can’t forgive, however, was the show’s complete lack of denouement! Just as the big climax is coming and everything is about to finish, just before that beat – be it a minute or five minutes long – where you have the final exhale – credits. Oh yeah? Well, fuck you.

All we want for Christmas. The way I figure it, we’re making up for last year… um, in a very big way. Let’s see… new HDTV… new TV stand/entertainment center, thingie… gobs of other things – and we still haven’t bought a car, yet! (But that's coming, too!) Oy. When I think of the credit card bills!!!

Anyway, that’s just a short picture. What can I tell you? Sick trumps blog. Thankfully, though, it looks like I’ll be feeling back to my old self in time for Christmas. Have a merry one and a merry each day until and after.

Why I won’t make a good father…

Feels like an essay. “What I did on my summer vacation.” But the thing is that the closer we get to this whole “baby” thing – I kid you not, Vicky takes her temperature every day – through her mouth! pervs… – the more freaked out I get by the idea of it. I’ve only recently reached the point where I can live my life without constantly trying to kill myself; what kind of father am I going to be???

I thought a list might help.

Why I won’t make a good father.

1. Babies scare the hell out of me. Seriously. You can break them. Burn them. Accidentally drop them… out of a moving car… on the freeway… over a bridge – there’s just so much!

2. I still eat meat, thus polluting the world my child will inherit.

3. Oh, and I drive a car.

4. I’m not thrifty. I know that’s not a popular word any longer but it was once a very important thing. Thrift meant that you were mindful of the future. Too often, I spend money when I should save it.

5. I am not the most patient person.

6. I’m too old to really endure child rearing.

7. I like my belongings and I know that a child, like a puppy, is going to destroy them. I’m not a big fan of that.

8. I haven’t secured a lifestyle that will keep our child comfortable and grant them opportunity.

9. I am prone to make mistakes.

10. See #1…

Why do I see about twenty years of incredibly high blood pressure, anxiety, and general nervousness in my future?

When is a joke not a joke, or, Get the fuck outta my face!...

My sense of humor is sometimes too dry, sometimes too obtuse, sometimes too “why the fuck did you just say obtuse”…

Here’s an example.

Last night, I was up with Vicky. She was at her computer. She’d just received an email from MySpace; someone had emailed her.

“Who emailed you? Some guy?” I asked. I like to tease Vicky about all her boyfriends. She hates it. She thinks I’m serious. I have yet to pick up on this little detail.

“You’ll see. I’ll open it for you,” she replied, challenging my assertion.

Listen: it wasn’t an assertion. I was just kidding.

So, the email opens and it’s from a woman. It’s obviously a woman. The woman is cute.

“Who’s the guy?” I ask. See, the idea is that she would reply with something like “His name is Vicky” and I would deliver “He’s cute.”

It would have been funny. Vicky would have laughed. That’s not what happened.

Vicky sneered, “That’s not a guy.”

“Who’s the guy?” I asked again, thinking she’d pick up on my wonderful sense of humor.

“That’s not a guy.”

“Who’s the guy?”

“That’s obviously not a guy and why do you keep repeating the same question like a moron?!”

I could tell from the way she was yelling and the way fire plumed from her nose that Vicky was probably not amused.

… nobody gets me…

It’s the most fattening time of the year…

So, Vicky’s making cookies this year. Vicky normally makes cookies but, this year, it’s like she never did it before! She’s making so many cookies, I’ve taken to calling her Keebler. Anyway…

The thing is, I’ve become her guinea pig. Whenever there’s something to taste or when a cookie doesn’t turn out perfectly or just when one’s there… did I say guinea pig? I mean garbage disposal.

And, of course, I have my yearly physical tomorrow. After all these cookies, I’m sure the doc isn’t going to put me on some kind of no-fat, no-cholesterol, no-flavor kind of diet.

And Vicky’s just gonna laugh and laugh…

47 inches… not that size matters…

It’s been a long time coming. Vicky and I are far from what you could call “early adopters”. In fact, many of our friends already have them.

I’m talking about HDTVs… of course…

We’re still using a TV from the last century, and it’s fine… I guess. We’d like to get rid of the monster wall unit that takes up so much space and the stereo within that’s just so 1994, you know? We’ve been looking, cast longing glances, wherever we go, admiring from a distance, licking screens when no one is looking… well, Vicky has…

Let’s face it, all the cool kids have them, right? And we want to hang out with the cool kids, down by the swings, laughing at Stinky Mulligan as he walks home in those big-ass shoes his mom bought him because she said he’d “grow into them”…

Where was I?

Yeah, anyway, so Vicky and I were Costco on Saturday. We made it past the “wall of big-screens”. We had actually grown so used to it, we didn’t even look sideways. We did some shopping. We walked around.

Then, Vicky got away. I was looking at Wii games and then – she was gone! Where’d she go? I called her and – how do I put this? We’re silly people. She was kinda playing hide’n’seek – though she will never, ever admit that. Long story short: I found her in front of…. Oooh, that’s nice.

“I need this,” she said

It was very modern, very dark, very… wait a minute. “Honey? That’s a stand for a flat-panel TV.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, hopelessly in its spell.

Never one to miss an opportunity, because so few actually come along, I said, “Listen, I’m not going to say we can’t get it. The thing is, we’ll need to get a TV to go with it.”

And that was that. Who knew the secret to getting Vicky to buy an HDTV was finding the right stand? Now I just need to find the secret to getting Vicky to let me stay home all day and play WoW… a new toaster, perhaps???

In the end, we decided on a 47” Phillips LCD HDTV EIEIO. Bonus for us greenies, it’s Energy Star rated, which is hard to find. We got the TV and the stand and… walked out of Costco spending far more than we had ever imagined. (But, according to Shrub, I’m helping fight terrorism…)

Now, Vicky and I (mostly Vicky) are working on ways to donate our old TV, wall unit, and junk – recycling! Then, we’ll have to pay more for a new dish and new HD service… making everything more expensive…

… why did we do this again?

I’ll just try to forget all that once we get it set up and we’re playing Wii…

What is it about the holidays?...

Vicky and I are looking at this weekend… and our eyes are filled with dread!

Christmas is only about three weekends away. We haven’t sent out our Christmas cards, yet. I’ve offered but Vicky has this thing about the recipient being able to read the card. (You people and your “legibility”!) We haven’t finished decorating our tree. Our presents have yet to be wrapped. I think Vicky still has cookies to make. Our place is, to be blunt, a mother-fucking mess.

Now, I’m not going take all the blame, but I don’t think Vicky should, either. The thing is, Christmas isn’t a holiday, it’s an experience. (Someone make that a slogan! Quick!) It’s a month-long, soul-killing exercise in the belief that everything can be nice and happy and cheerful, while we’re killing ourselves to make it so. Is it any wonder that it’s followed with New Years Resolutions. This year, I’m going to resolve to start Christmas in September; hell, the malls do!

But that’s not going to help us much this year. The thing is, you might get your card a little late. You might also not get one – especially if we don’t know you! But if you open it in March, think of all those others who forgot to send you a Christmas card in March, the bastards. Now that Vicky and I have a fake tree, we can take as long as we want to decorate it! – dammit, I just lost Vicky. Oh well, I guess we’re still going to be going nuts, like it or not.

I love Christmas. I really do, atheist and all. I love that our insane, mercantile society, our greed-driven world has found a way, despite the Christians, to make a holiday that’s about love for all… um, occasionally… not at the mall, of course… but that’s how I look at it. People think I’m too much of a cynic but that’s just an optimist who has lost his sense of humor. Mine is still intact. I just have to think of a way to giftwrap Vicky’s new car…

Ov-ulation! Ovu-ovu-lation!...

Ov-ulation, a game we like to play! First you take a woman’s egg, then you give the man a keg… (Okay, enough of that…)

I received the strangest phone call yesterday. “As soon as you get home, we’re having sex.”

Who is this person on the phone? I wondered. Happily, it was a woman. Score points for that. The voice sounded familiar… I ran a list of all the people who would want to have sex with me, cross-checked it against all the women I was allowed to have sex with… something wasn’t adding up.

Would you believe it? When I got home – it was Vicky! Holy shit!

Okay, seriously though, she was ovulating. (You knew there had to be a catch, right?) The call was out for sperm. Fresh sperm. And lots of it. So, I went to the fridge…

… oh, wait…

But when opportunities like this come about, I can’t help regretting all the sperm I wasted on other women, porn, and charitable donations (it was the ‘80’s…). By the end of the evening, Vicky had that look on her face that said, “That’s all you got?”

… either that or it was, “Aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?”

Ether way, I now know that all my troops are now, even at this moment, swimming for all their worth.

Swim. Swim. Swim.

“Come on, guys. We gotta get to that egg!”

“Are you kidding?” one of the tougher, meaner-looking ones asks, as he ashes his cigarette onto the uterus. “Don’t you understand what that’s all about, kid? You swim up there and, next thing you know, you’re talking college savings, finding a good school, responsibilities and – ”

“But that wouldn’t be up to me! That would be Ken’s responsibility. That’s why he’s out there, to be a good dad to us when we’re born!”

“Listen to yourself! Listen to what you’re saying!” The sperm takes a long drag and blows a thick, grey stream of smoke into the eager one’s face. “Don’t you realize what you’re talking about? Ken’s responsibility? Ken as a daddy? You gotta be fucking nuts if you think that’s gonna work out!”

But the tough sperm doesn’t need to say any more. Even as he takes another drag, he can see the swim is all out of the sperm as it sits on the curb and cries.

… Man… I have issues.

Christmastime is here…

It’s hard to say this was the first week of the Christmas season – but it feels like it. Sure, Vicky and I have planning things for a while and, in fact, she already knows what she’s getting. A 2008 Ford Escape Hybrid. That’s it. End of holiday.

Wait.

Actually, that’s exactly why we had to get the holiday started. The last thing we wanted was to make it all about a car!

And so, Saturday afternoon, I set off for the Anti-Mall in Costa Mesa, one of my new favorite places. The nice thing is that they have different things! That’s the key: different! Every mall is just the same, you know? With its same department stores and same book stores and same game stores, every mall is just a carbon copy of the last. (Go ahead. Go look up “carbon copy”.) But the Anti-Mall sells other stuff. And that’s what I wanted. Other stuff.

So, I ended up buying Vicky a couple gifts and Sean a gift and, cough, me a gift – and I didn’t break the bank, thankfully. I can’t tell what I bought for Vic but I will tell you what I nearly bought. I found this beautiful locket, the kind you put a picture inside of, that I thought Vicky would just love. The trick was that it wouldn’t close. I squeezed it close over and over but – no closey. The clerk came over, this tall beauty made for retail jewelry sales, and after I explained the problem she went to work on it. After several minutes of watching her work harder than she had all day, she got it closed.

… then, it wouldn’t open.

So, I went on my way… quickly.

At another store, the clerk ringing up my purchase asked me, “Did anyone help you with this today?” I wasn’t expecting the question. “Excuse me?” I replied. “Did anyone help you with this today?” he repeated. All I could figure is that he was told to ask this. I mean, surely he must know what kind of customer service minefield he was walking into. And, after all, nobody had helped me with that – nobody had helped me at all. So, I gave him a courteous, “No,” while thinking, “Guess that means you suck, doesn’t it? Happy you asked?”

Meanwhile, at home, Vicky was preparing to bake. I’ve come to acknowledge that Christmas baking is not a tradition with Vic, it’s a bodily function. Even if I’m already fat – oh, and I’m already fat – she’ll still bake. She’ll bake up a storm of sweet, tasty yummies and leave them out for me to eat. And, as much as I might love them, that’s beside the point! Every cookie makes me fatter, hon! But, seriously, I think she’s just trying to get rid of me and make way for a younger man who has better luck with lockets.

Our tree this year is recycled. How is this possible? Well, it helps when you have a friend who buys trees he doesn’t need. The story goes like this: Sean used to work at Restoration Hardware. He bought a big, fake tree with his employee discount for next to nothing, brought it home, and put it into storage. Then, he offered it to us. We, of course, took it – cause I’m a cheap bastard. What we didn’t realize was that Sean’s next to nothing price came with some interesting discoveries. For instance, the box states that the tree comes with lights. It does, but they’re not the kind you can plug in and light up. They are, instead, the kind someone chopped up and threw in haphazardly. Very strange. But Vicky got it assembled and looking good – if sans illumination.

This big tree came with a big necessity: ornaments. We decided to go out and get some ornaments. Where from? Costco, of course. (I admit it; it’s one of my favorite stores…) I found some very pretty ornaments that looked like hearts, which helped give our tree a love theme. Vicky found ornaments that looked like shoes and purses…

My wife, ladies and gentlemen.

We haven’t decorated the tree, yet, but the lights Vicky strung give it a simple beauty. Fortunately, I got her to abandon the shoes and purses.

Double-Entry blogging…

Come on. Who couldn’t see this coming? Who’s Luke’s father? That’s a guy at the end of Crying Game? The Maltese Falcon was made of what?

After leaving My Side behind two years ago, who really thought I’d give up the blog, the name, the history – Ken La Salle NOT write My Side? Come on, people.

My Side is as close to me as my own name. It was the name of my high school newspaper column, my college newspaper column, my first book – you bought that one, right? – I wasn’t about to just let it die.

But I needed a break, some time to regroup. One Path was the perfect new home after Vicky and I were married. It was a place for us to write about our love, our lives, and… but Vicky didn’t really write that much, did she? It turned mostly into… well… My Side.

Except that My Side was written pre-Vicky. It was the blog about leaving my first wife behind. It was dipped in the syrup of neurosis and ennui, surely it was best left in the past.

Yeah. Right.

Now, here’s something you won’t see every day. I’m posting this entry onto both My Side and One Path. I’m double dipping. But I’m only doing it to let you know the plan – and there is one. You see, I get people complaining about things. They say they like reading about what’s going on with Vicky and I but they hate reading all the political rants. They say they like the topical stuff but wish I wasn’t so sappy.

So…

If you’ll allow a change in programming, One Path will heretofore be the home of the sappy. It’s where I get to talk about my life with Vicky. All the trials. All the troubles. All the tribula – you know, all the shit. My Side, on the other hand, is all me, baby. It’s all my shit. You may run into Vicky on One Path. But don’t go looking for her on My Side… cause, you know, it’s hard enough to get her to write on One Path…

Who says you can’t have it both ways? I might love Vicky and want to tell you all about it… but I’m still Ken, right? So, let’s get on with it.

The Return of... you gotta be kidding...

Okay, I admit it. There are times when I bite off a little more than would otherwise seem reasonable.

That said... um.... it's back!

Note to the NFL: Thank you…

So when an anthem gets skipped at a football game, it’s football’s turn to be “not patriotic enough”???

I’m just sitting back here laughing… and deathly afraid.

At what point did everything suddenly have to be patriotic? Football, school children, masturbation… all three at the same time? (What else do you call the NFL?) Can’t some things be exempt from jingoism just a little bit?

Or should I be saluting and single God Bless America as I write this?