Memorial Day…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh oh, I thought. “Yes, I am.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Right. That too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I could tell you more. Maybe later.

Oh me of little faith…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dying to go to a funeral…

It’s going to be 108 degrees.

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

It’s a good thing he’s dead…

Avalokiteśvara and this thing called free will…

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

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

And it’s happening again.

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

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

Avalokiteśvara.

The paradigm of bodhisattvas.

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

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

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

… good thing I finished the play…

Oh! And I finished the play!

Dimly through a haze of smoke…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s Jeff. There’s Rich.

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

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

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

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

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

And I am appalled.

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

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

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

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

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

How fast is toooooo fast?…

Work. This morning. The commute.

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

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

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

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

The Father of Rewinding died today.

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

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

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

I'm sure you see where this is going.

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

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

Thank you for humoring me while I wax rhapsodic.

No news is no news...

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

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

One in – One out…

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

She’s good.

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

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

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

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

For want of an accessorie...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flashing through my mind like poundcake...

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

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

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

But I did anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up to the shower.

Time to wash off some bugs...

31 miles and what do you get?...

In my case, exhaustion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watching my father die...

I wasn't going to say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ha. I laugh at sleep. Ha!

Kinda wish I didn’t, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… wait a minute…

It’s 5am.

Hey! I got about an hour of sleep!

Yep! It’s gonna be a good day!

The long, dark naptime of the soul…

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

I’ve had a strange couple of days.

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

And it did.

I slept through Monday!

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

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

She nodded and said, “I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

New show – first look…

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

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

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

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

… more…

… that I have to write…

… that has to be just as good…

… oh crap.

This is NOT a product endorsement…

So, I finally had one of those e-gels I bought a few weeks ago. I had read that if you start flat lining after a tough ride, you should have e-gels handy… so I bought some… so I could have one… if I needed it… to have…

Today, I made it home in some pretty icky heat in 52 minutes – and, no, I don’t know how fast that is – and, as I got off my bike, I could feel my body communicating this message: You vile piece of shit! What are you doing?! I wouldn’t even poop you right now, you piece of shit! And I’ve pooped some poop in my day, let me tell you! You remember all that Taco Bell? Huh? And the hot sauce? Huh? Remember? When it almost hurt, it felt so good to finally poop it – well, that’s nothing compared to you! You’re some vile, piece of shit poop!

Basically, I felt spent.

Why not have one of those e-gels, I thought!

So, I popped out a tangerine e-gel, tore it open and… wait, gotta get some water – they say you should take it with some water – okay, half a glass should be fine and… I upended the packet and squeezed some e-gel-ly goodness down my gullet.

… this is what it feels like…

Imagine… if you will…

Remember those movies about tentacled aliens? Imagine one of those tentacles going in your mouth… could be Japanese porn cartoons, I dunno. First thought: Holy shit! What the hell is this in my mouth! Next: Just bite down on it, try and break it up! Breath through your nose! Keep chewing, even though it tastes like you just put down a whole tube of grout in your mouth – what are you? Out of your mind? You can’t chew this! It’s has no texture! It just grips the sides of your mouth!

Where’s the water?! That’s what you need! Water! But how are you going to drink with – it doesn’t matter! Just pour it down your throat! Anything to end this… ewwwww, it’s ickier than anything you could ever imagine! It doesn’t taste like tangerines at all! It taste like tangerine diarrhea… if tangerines could poop, is what I’m saying…

So, you drink the water – but you only have half a glass and it barely washes any of the glop – and that’s what it is, too! It’s glop! It’s some kind of disgusting, slimy thing that kids think is funny because it reminds them of bodily fluids only IT’S IN YOUR MOUTH!

More water! More water! Come on! Drink, damn you! Drink like your life depended on drowning in it – which would, of course, probably kill you so there’s not much argument there – good thing Vicky’s not here, she’d probably point that out, too… best not to tell her. Anyway, think of the fun you’ll have when you slip her some of this shit! Yes! Just wait! We’ll get her out on a hot, sunny day and say, “Are you tired, dear? Getting run down? Here. You can try my packet of –” But she’ll never fall for that! Not if she sees you dying here from this yucky, yucky – eeewww, it’s like eating fresh snot – a collection of snot, given door to door by a bunch of absolutely confused elderly men.

But you choke down the water – glass after glass, pint after pint – you choke it down, you dilute the revitalizing product so reminiscent of your last bad cold and the contents within those Kleenex…

And you realize…

To your horror…

Utter and absolute…

Because you’re too cheap just to throw things away…

That you only took one mouthful… and there’s a whole lot left…

Rough weekend…

It’s at times like these, when I feel I have nothing to say, when it’s probably best just to talk. After all, the reason I’ve been quiet is mostly because things just aren’t great. (I know it seems I’ve posted pretty regularly but I’ve been relying on stories from last weekend.) I prefer to post entries about how I won the lotto, got published, and had stellar sex with a team of college cheerleaders… but that just never seems to happen…

I didn’t sleep much this weekend. Between the sleepwalking and the just plain being drunk (more on that later), I only averaged a few hours each night. That’s put me in rather poor spirits this morning… can you tell? Vicky and I spent most of our Saturday evening at each other’s throats but finally settled in for a late supper and a wonderful Columbia Crest ’06 Shiraz… followed by another bottle of “I was too drunk to remember, really” – I think it was Boarding Pass Shiraz. Yeah, I got a little schnokered but I needed it.

Saturday was supposed to be about my folks. You see, my mom recently got out of the hospital. She wouldn’t tell me why – “woman’s surgery” was all she’d say – but I knew she was recuperating and could use a visit. So, the plan was to see her and call my dad. As some of you may know, my dad’s been ill for… well, a long time.

After seeing my dad last weekend – though he wasn’t really there – he’d really been on my mind. So, I was looking forward to the conversation. It would go something like this. Ken: I’d like to interview you so I can integrate your life story into a book I’m writing on Free Will. Dad: Sounds like crap. I’ll do it. Ken: You won’t regret it, even if I do.

In reality, it went something like this. Ken: Hi Dad. Dad: Hi Son. I heard the new job isn’t that great. Ken: No, sadly. Not really. Dad: I’m sorry to hear that. I hoped blrblrblrblrblrblr….

And then, he was off and Blanche was back on. Simply put, he was too weak. Just too weak to talk.

But if he was too weak to ask about interviewing, so I could write his life story… it was clear he’d be too weak to actually interview. This fact didn’t even occur to me until several hours later, after I’d spent the morning removing the foot from my chest. Hearing my dad so weak, so frail, left it impossible to avoid the reality of the situation. Especially after Blanche told me he’d had worse days. If this was one of his better days…

Listen, I know there’s nothing unique here. Part of being alive includes losing your parents. Parents die. Children die. We all die. But another part of being alive sometimes involves knowing that however horrible they’ve been, you love them. I hate to see my father suffer like this. I hate to see him go so slowly. The pain he experiences dilutes into those who love him and it just hurts to know how much he’s hurting.

Then, I visited my mom. Her “woman’s surgery” has her in some pain, but she left the hospital early, rather than take money from Vicky and I to pay for her to stay longer. Vicky’s a little burned by that and, honestly, my mom was being prideful and stubborn. The joke was kind of on her, though, when I went to visit, because her husband insisted on talking about how they cut her open “from rectum to vagina”. His constant repetition of “rectum to vagina” “rectum to vagina” probably had my mom wishing she hadn’t told him, either.

Later, when she mentioned that her DVD/VCR play had broken, Vicky and I went out and bought them a new one. It’s not the same as a day in the hospital but, as I told Vicky, if I can make things a little more comfortable for one of my parents, I’ll do it. Anyway, it was fun watching my mom and her husband try to figure out what they’d done to deserve the gift. I didn’t buy me any extra sleep, but Vicky and I got a good laugh out of it.

In the Wilds of Cambria… ish…

Odd enough, I still haven’t written about our trip to Cambria. Hey, I’ve been busy… catching up with my video game playing…

But I know what you’re dying to read about: adventure, intrigue, sex… eh… cows… uh… disease… er… slushies…

Last Saturday was our wine day. Vicky whined when it was time to get up. I whined when I had to stop playing video games. And then, we were on our way to wineries.

Our first stop was Scheid. Scheid was once home to the finest merlot anywhere. I know – I know! Sounds like a contradiction! But a few years back, they made a merlot that made your toes curl. I mean curl, baby!

But not this year. We were 90 minutes north of the 46 and we’d gone all that way for my merlot… and I didn’t buy any. But Vicky took it in stride. She had to. I’d just bought her new shoes. Anyway, our next stop was San Marcos – the winery, not the city – home of the best Late Harvest Zin, um, that day. Their Syrah wasn’t bad, either. Neither was their Cab… Oh jeez. After we were ready to buy six bottles we succumbed completely and joined their wine club. Six bottles three times per year – in for a penny, in for a couple of hundred dollars. Yikes.

Our original plan was to drive the 101 through Paso Robles, hitting winery after winery all day long but we eventually spent so much time at San Marcos – the sommelier giving us pour after pour (this was AFTER we’d joined, mind you), Vicky out there taking pictures of peacocks… plenty of pictures of peacocks… plenty of pretty pictures of peacocks posing and preening prettily… until I was feeling nicely buzzed, thank you – we decided to cut our losses, gains, whatever, and head back “home”.

We’d seen a place on the 46 that sold apple slushies and made a point to stop on the way back. It was just a little farm and store, looking like it wanted nothing more than to grow up into a northern version of Tom’s Farm. But that would probably take a while. In the meantime, we pulled up, ready for slushies.

As we pulled up, we saw a sign that read (something like) “Due to tobacco mosaic, no smoking allowed.” Tobacco mosaic? I’d never heard of it. Vicky got the apple. I got the pomegranate. (Because, seriously, how could you NOT?) Fucking delish! Nothing but frozen fruit all slushed up… mmmmm… and on a day that hot, it was perfect. (We still hadn’t topped the ridge that sequestered cool, moist Cambria in its little valley of perfection.) Then, we asked about the tobacco mosaic.

Turns out, it’s a disease tobacco carries that kills all kinds of good, tasty plants – including tomatoes, my fave! When you leave your butts all over the place, the remaining tobacco kills those good, tasty plants. Well, there you go. As if I needed it, there was another reason to not smoke. (Seriously, I didn’t need it – I just ended up feeling guilty.)

The day had been long and hot and I was more than relaxed from the wine but Vicky had a surprise in store for me. As we headed down the 46, she suddenly slowed. “Let’s go down Santa Rosa Creek Road,” she said. I was agreeable enough but surprised when she turned at that moment. One of the things I’ve always like about Vicky was her willingness, nay enthusiasm, for getting lost. I have always loved getting intentionally lost – probably a remnant from when my mom used to take the family on long drives and get lost… even if that wasn’t intentional – so to be with someone who also enjoys it is a lot of fun.

About an hour later, I got the feeling it wasn’t so much fun. But here’s what we knew. We knew that Santa Rosa Creek Road emptied out near Cambria. We knew that cell phone reception was nil. We also knew that the road was not in a state you would call “in repair”. So, we started joking about breaking down out there, finding lodging at some farm, and having to sleep in the basement with the (in-bred) Cyclops child. After a while had passed, and Vicky’s face and turned from enjoying to enraging, I placated her as best I could. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll find the end of the road – I mean where it ends in Cambria – soon enough. I’m not even that hungry even if it is way past dinnertime. We’ll just stop on the way home, instead of heading home first and changing into clean clothes and going to a nice place. I just want food.” I don’t know if it worked.
But soon we saw familiar sights and came upon Cambria. We went to Lynn’s, had great steaks, and I had pie for dessert. Ah pie. I could spend a whole entry telling you about their pie… but I won’t.

You can take the really fat guy out of the theater but…. what was I saying?…

It seems like forever since I’ve said this but I get to say it again: I finished Act 1, Scene 1 of the new play. It’s an amazing feeling because I’ve begun to doubt if I’ll ever be back on stage in any capacity. I mean, honestly, school and work and married life – who has the time? (And then, there is the issue of my ever-increasing size. I mean, seriously, I could be in the stage adaptation of Free Willy but where would I find a tank large enough?)

So, what is this new play about, anyway? Those who saw my previous plays probably think they know what to look for: ham-handed drama, bad jokes, and uncomfortable parallels with my own life.

This play should be a little different. Oh, sure. It’s filled with bad jokes.

… and the main story is about a couple who have been trying far too long to have their first child..

… um… but I promise to try and steer far from the ham-handed drama!

In fact, one of the nice things about this show is that rather than being about the “pain of love” it’s more about the “irritation of annoyance”. I’ve decided to write about friends who annoy each other, rather than lovers who hurt each other. Maybe it’ll come across as trite but I’ve had it with the heavy stuff, at least for this show.

In Everything Changes, a lonely man watched his ghosts turn their back on him.

In Atheists, a woman cheated to keep the man she loved away from him.

In Whatever Happened to Me, a father and son fought and bickered because it was easier than telling the truth.

In my new play, one character refuses to go in for all that. Instead, he decides to go on with life as best he can and cut himself a little slack, “because that’s how we heal.” I like that sentiment. There are no miracle cures that end pain; pain is just a part of life

Mind you, I’m only 15 pages in… let’s see how the other 60 or so go…

Waiter, there’s air in my wine…

And that’s a good thing!

Vicky and I reached Cambria without a bottle of wine to our name. Sad. Truly sad. We hit the wine shops downtown the very next day, though, and found some wonderful bottles to enjoy before we really started hitting the vineyards. As one sommelier poured for us, I saw him pull out an oddly shaped device, place it over the glass, and pour wine through it. It made a great, sucking/spitting sound that interested the nine year-old in me.

Turned out, it was an aerator, a Vinturi to be exact.

This thing is so cool. It pumps air into the wine, softening it up like over an hour in a decanter will do – and it does it without batteries! No power needed! It works on air pressure! I love it.

So, here’s my gift to you. If you don’t have time for a proper decanting, which describes Vicky and I 90% of the time, give yourself one of these babies… and invite me over.

Not just another vague Firesign Theatre reference…

After last night’s class, some may be wondering what type of dancing we’re learning. The answer to that question (as well as “Hey, what are you guys doing in my car?”) is: The Foxtrot.

Do I feel ancient, learning a dance first introduced in 1914?

Do I feel decrepit, learning a dance that made “Rock Around The Clock” by Bill Haley and His Comets the number one Foxtrot record of all time?

You bet.

Except, well… no, not really. Strangely enough there are plenty of people in the class younger than Vicky and I. (Thankfully, there are also plenty of lame people in the class, too, so I don’t look quite so stupid.)

When Vicky and I first walked in, we were at each other’s throats, as usual. One of the reasons for this is to give us something physical to do other than throwing snide remarks at each other. When we were done, we were tired but happy, sore but working as a team, which is what really made this a great idea. The way I look at it, dancing is physical therapy for the heart and it’s coming at a good time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to practice.

(One, two, three, four…)

Dancing the night away...

Some of you may remember all the way back to 2005, when Vicky and I took a dance class to help choreograph our wedding dance. The wedding dance went superbly. It was really special and I've been bugging Vic since then to take another class with me. Why? Well, for this chorophobe, it was the first time I saw people who were worse than me! I was the better dancer... for once! It was one of those rare occasions when I knew everyone was looking at me dancing and I didn't feel completely incompetent... because there were others worse off than me!

Three years have passed and I have finally twisted Vicky's arm long enough. Starting tonight, we'll be taking beginning ballroom dance classes. Nerdy? Maybe. But I have always wanted to learn to tango and, if Vicky likes it, maybe we can move on to more advanced classes. We'll take our act on the road. We'll tour Europe! We'll dance for Queens and ...

... or maybe I'll finally know more than just the box step and the waltz...

Anyway, we'll see. Maybe I'll completely suck... and maybe there will be someone else worse than me. That's the one I'm hoping for!

Still don't believe in global warming - then, you're a retard...

You've probably seen the story all over the news. The north pole will be navigable - its ice melted - for the first time in human history. For thousands upon thousands of years, it's been frozen... but I'm sure the rising CO2 levels in the atmosopher, consistently climbing global temperatures, and increasing pollution have nothing to do with it. Look away, folks! Nothing to see here!

I was picking up my car from getting serviced on Saturday and some guy there started kidding Vicky about her Hybrid. He even mentioned how the north pole was going to melt. Like most Americans, he'd heard the news and chosen to make a joke about it or ignore it.

I just don't understand that attitude. Yes, Vicky drives a Hybrid. My car gets about 44 mpg and I also commute by bike. We try to steer clear of factory farmed food and avoid plastic. It's a little difficult but it's not impossible. I understand how some people might not be able to do the same.

I don't understand people that joke about it.

It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time...

It just keeps going round and round in my head!

Passed 6 MONTHS without a thought…

My last cigarette was six months ago… no wait… my last cigarette was six months and several days ago! (June 25th to be exact.) I forgot all about it!

It’s become much easier for me not to smoke. In fact, the thing that reminded me I’d missed my anniversary was waiting at the car wash today, getting nauseated by the guy smoking! Times, indeed, do change!

I went out and picked myself up a pair of Armadillos for my bike as an anniversary gift… except, I did it before I realized it was my anniversary…but, hey, whatever the justification, it comes just in time!

I’m commuting by bike…

Yesterday, I began commuting to work by bike, which I plan to do a couple of days each week. The plan is it’ll save me gas (which means money), car repair bills (money), the chance of getting a ticket (money), and… money. Not only that but it will also help me lose a little weight, which would be nice.

But there was plenty that was not on the plan, and that’s what I wanted to talk about today.

Here’s something that wasn’t on the plan: It changes how I look at my commute. Driving feels competitive, to me, needing to beat the other guy, get into the faster lane, move ahead, etc. etc. I get so irritated when I’m in the slowest lane or when I can’t get in the faster lane. And nothing’s more frustrating than the guy who’s slowing everybody… and you can see him… just ahead… and there’s all that empty space ahead of him… But on the bike, it doesn’t feel competitive at all. In fact, I feel connected with the other bicyclists on the river trail, because they’re in the same boat. We’re sharing the trail together. Sure, I need to pass people and people pass me, but most of the time it’s not an issue. We’re not jockeying for position like in a race.

Here’s something else that wasn’t on the plan: Bicycling is so much safer! If I crash on my bike, I might get a skinned knee. I might even break a bone. But I won’t end up mangled flesh in a metal heap. If I have to perform roadside repairs, like fixing a flat, I don’t have to worry about getting run over – in fact, bicyclists will sometimes help each other out!

Here’s another thing: I’m not losing that much time. It takes me about 40 minutes to drive to work and 45 minutes to drive home. The commute by bike takes about 60 minutes to work and 55 minutes (yesterday’s time) to go home. (What can I say? I like going home.) And, since my commute is also my work out, I can skip my morning routine and get a little more sleep. I like that, too.

Finally, bicycling is just easier. I know that sounds counterintuitive but it is. Now, I grant you, I have the perfect situation. Both work and home are very close to the Santa Ana River Trail so I get to stay off of roads 96% of the time and I don’t have to go out of the way. It’s a straight shot up a well-maintained, sometimes pretty (though not often) path. I have showers at work (though keeping a fresh change of clothes is a logistical nightmare). It may not work for everyone. But, I’m telling you, if you can make it work, you should give it a try.

The more I get into riding my bike, the more it turns into an obsession for me. I’m looking into Kevlar tires, for instance, supposed to cut flats by 90%. And Vicky and I are talking about getting a bike rack for the car… so we can drive our bikes to where we want to ride them… like Cambria… maybe, eventually, I’ll talk Vicky into riding our bikes there…

Ken gets the bird Part 2...

And here is the proof that Ken got the bird at Red Robin

Riding my bike to the beach…

I get these ideas in my head. And I really should let them stop at ideas.

For instance, I needed to see how long it would take me to ride my bike to work. I’d like to commute a couple of days each week by bike. You know, save gas, burn calories, make the world a better place, etc. So, that was the plan for yesterday. But then, I got this idea: Since it was Saturday, and I didn’t have to actually go to work, I could keep going from there and ride all the way to the beach. Yeah, the beach. Now there’s a swell idea.

Unfortunately, I didn’t stop at the idea phase.

I woke up at 5:15am… took my bike out at 6:10am, rode it on down to the Santa Ana River Trail, watched my new cyclocomputer (fancy name for speedometer, odometer, clock, etc.) inform me that I was jugging along at a nice 15-20 miles/hour, listened to my iPod and… before I knew it, I’d made it to work. One hour. That’s how long the commute was. Not bad at all, considering that in my car it takes about half an hour. Great. So, things looked good for commuting by bike.

And, yet, I still had to keep going. I had to keep riding to get to the beach. On, I went – and, wouldn’t you know it, half an hour later I was standing on the shores of the mighty Pacific. I even took a picture to show I was there. Beautiful. Majestic.

… and hot. It was getting warmer all the time. Even then, shortly after 7:30am, the day was turning into a scorcher.

The joke was on me, of course. Turned out that yesterday was one of the hottest days we’d had in quite some time. 101˚ or so. Perfect bike riding weather. Mind you, I didn’t know that then. Here’s what I did know. I’d forgotten to pack my second bottle of water. I’d forgotten my sunscreen. I’d forgotten that I’d have to ride all the way back home.

Ugh. For such a smart guy, I can be something of an idiot sometimes.

So, I turned around and headed back. I hadn’t had breakfast, yet, so I pulled up to a Carl’s and ordered a BBQ’ed chicken sandwich (for protein, to keep my strength through the long ride back) and a Cap’n Crunch shake (for… cause I’m 9). I don’t often do the fast food thing so this was my little treat to myself. And even as I ate, I could feel the hot sun beating down.

It was already taking longer to get back then it took to get there, and I’d only made it as far as MacArthur. Some miles later, my butt started getting sore. I’m usually fairly good at distributing my weight between my hands and my butt, but as I grew more tired that went right out the window. My speed dropped to 10-15 miles/hour. I shifted into an easier gear.

There were, surprisingly, a lot of people out on the trail. Teams of bikers, the guys who truck along far faster than I can go, numbered well over two dozen. Single riders and small groups were too many to count. More and more, they passed me, and my speed kept dropping.

As I neared Anaheim Stadium, I came to a park along the trail. By this time, it was past 9am and the heat was incredible. Every bit of shade was occupied by a biker and his vehicle, panting and exhausted. I pulled my bike up to the water fountain and drank greedily of the last drops in my bottle. Then, I filled it up… with nice, warm water… ick. I was sore all over and could feel myself crashing. I’d sweat so much my entire shirt was darkened by it. But I knew I couldn’t stop – there was no shade and I wouldn’t let myself call anyone for help. I got back on my bike, focused on moving my feet, and kept going.

My speed barely hovered at 10mph and yet, as I neared my street, I came on a couple people going even slower. The sun was melting us on the hot tar. But I was soon off the trail and back on familiar streets. I pulled up to my house and checked my odometer.

I’d gone 37 miles. More than twice as long as my last ride. It was the longest bike ride of my life.

Today, my body’s feeling better while my sinuses and throat feel baked from breathing the hot, dry air. And I have a tan that starts at the end of my short shirtsleeve and ends at the top of my biking glove. And my sunglasses made my face look slightly like a raccoon.

I gotta try that again sometime!

Today's assignment...

Next time you're out to eat at any fine establishment offering drinks in small, medium, large (and possibly other) sizes, order the small.

I took myself to Panda Express for lunch today and, when asked what size soda I'd like, I looked at the range of mammoth drinks and chose the small. I was surprised to find how big a small is. I mean, my cannine, I wasn't there to fulfill every last desire for soda I could possibly have! It's just to accompany my meal, and this thing was a quart - easy!

So, from now one, I'm going to stick with the small and I'd like to encourage you to do the same. Heck, stay away from the soda completely if you can - it's fulla crap! (I had tea.)

Now, if I could just switch to small ice creams...

Ken gets the bird...

Believe me. Vicky has a picture. I'm not kidding.

What kind of grown man attracts the hijinks of a mascot? There he/she was, the Red Robin... Red Robin's Red Robin... walking around the restaurant for all the kids. Hey, I didn't try to attract him/her. I didn't do anything, but he/she came on over anyway.

At first, I thought the Red Robin had come to our table for Vicky's amusement. I mean, look at me. Do I look like the kind of person who attracts people, let alone birds? People usually stay away from me. My lack of charm and charisma is usually enough to make them think, "Fifty miles in the opposite direction sounds good."

I said, "Uh, oh. I think the bird's gonna land over here," or something. Sure enough he/she did. Right next to Vicky. So, I was assured this was all about my girl and I could stay out of it. I joked, "Just act like you don't see it. Maybe it will go away." And that was the wrong thing to say. Because the next thing I knew, the Red Robin was picking up my Freckled Lemonade and taking it away. Stupid bird!

When he/she began to taunt me, that's when I really didn't know what to do. I laughed uncomfortably. I joked a bit. Then, it did this hand sign... Come here.

Um... what?

Come here!

Vicky said, "Make friends!"

Ewwwww.... uhhhhh... here's the thing: I didn't know if that was a man or a woman. All I knew was that skooching over would put me directly at crotch level. Little "homophobia" thought bubbles startled to circle nearby. I didn't have much time to think, though. Vicky and the Bird were egging me on. So, Iskooched... and the Red Robin put his/her arm around me.

And then, the Bird gave me back my drink.

Vicky immediately expressed her sadness at not getting a picture.

"Too bad you didn't bring your camera," I easily quipped, relieved.

But then, she pulled out her cell phone.

I swear, the freaking bird preened! I might have squaked a bit but I skooched on back and Vicky snapped her shot.

Feeling entirely too weird at being that close to a strangers crotch - and, let's face it, the strange part was thinking it might have been a guy - I said something like, "I sure hope that was a woman."

"Of course, that was a woman. Look at her legs," Vicky answered. "Those are too thin to be a man's legs."

Good, I thought, relieved.

Then, I told Vicky that the bird had slipped her phone number into my pocket.

Artsy outlet

As Ken said a couple of weeks ago, we went on a shopping spree and I got my new camera. I fell in love with photography several years ago when I took a Photograpy 101 class at a local college. I had my 35mm cameras, but I really wanted one of those new fancy digital SLR cameras. Well here it is (go ahead feel free to drool a little)

It is a great entry level SLR camera for under $1,000, 12.2 megapixel, live view shooting, 3-inch, 230,000-pixel LCD, ISO 100 to ISO 1,600, image stabilizer lens, up to 3.5 frames per second...I could go on and on but I'll spare you.

We took the camera out to the Fullerton Arboretum so that I could have some hands on practice time with it. You can go to our photo website and check out some of the pictures in Vicky's Artsy Photos album (http://www.onepath.myphotoalbum.com/)

I'm just getting back into this, so the pictures aren't great, but tell me what you think, I'd love to hear from all of our readers.

Driving like it's 1999

Since I got my new Hybrid Escape I've become more aware of my driving habits. My car has a readout of my ongoing average MPG, so I'm very aware when I'm driving like I have extra fuel to burn. Since I got the car at the end of 2007, my MPG has ranged from 30 to 32, which is good for my small SUV. I'll admit, I had about a month when I wasn't paying attention to this stuff and my MPG suffered, but I'm getting it back up there again. But here's the thing, I don't race away from or to stop lights, I accelerate slowly, I coast to red lights, I drive slower on the freeway...and it's working, I'm saving on the cost of gas. So what the hell is wrong with every other driver I share the road with...They drive like they have all the money in the world to burn. The price of gas is going to hit at least $5 per gallon this summer, probably even more, and yet people are still driving like it's 1999.

Gay Marriage Day!...

Okay, that's probably not what they will call it... whoever "They" are... if "They" are even gay to begin with... but I am really happy that this day has come.

Yes, I'm straight. I'm married to a woman and I like having sex with her. That doesn't change the fact that homosexuals are human beings and deserve equal rights with those of us who like sex with the opposite sex. So, I'm very glad that day has come, at least, to California.

My memory goes back many years ago to Tim and Axel and how the ex wanted to throw their wedding in our back yard. I had to be the one to point out that a real wedding was illegal. Once it's legal, she said, we would do it - but then, she and I divorced. (Note to Crazy Conservatives: this was BEFORE gay marriage was legal.) I wish Tim and Axel were still together so Vicky and I could watch them wed... but Tim's an ass and, love him as much as we do, he's living through a very difficult part of his life where nothing's going quite right and he's racing to rock bottom. There's still hope, though. We'd still like to see things work out and be there to witness them take their vows.

This, of course, brings me to our other gay friend, Jeff. You wouldn't know Jeff was gay, even if you knew his sexual history. You'd think he was Jesuit - the man's freaking celibate! But even if he's not ready to marry that doesn't change the fact that he should be entitled to every right Vicky and I enjoy. (Even if "enjoy" is sometimes too strong a word...)

What we really need, now that we've taken a step closer to equal rights for homosexuals, is a holiday. We in America are great at making a holiday for any, old reason. Look at St. Patrick's Day! Nobody knows what the hell that's far - but everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day. If they had Gay Day, where everyone's gay, I'd dress less conservatively and learn how to dance just for the occasion. I might even put "product" in my hair. What the hell? Homosexuals don't necessarily want you to "go gay" but I'm pretty sure they'd like you to be less uptight, paranoid, and fascistic.

So, Happy Gay Married Day to all those homosexuals enjoying a little more rights in California. It's a big step but just the beginning. Congratulations!

Just a few hours home...

This is usually when I start to get that feeling that I've made a sizable mistake... right about when it's too late.

Vicky just dropped me off at work. She dropped me off... and my bike... and my gear. The idea is that I'll ride home tonight. It's about 12-14 miles home and, before you start asking what I was thinking, I thought it would be fun...

I really need to change my definition of fun.

In moment of lucidity, I think about all the things in my life I can't change. I'm stuck in a position that's pretty intolerable, I can't write here, and I'm not moved to work on my play at home. When lucidity descends, I try to change my Can't language to Can language and consider those things I can do. Taking a more active role in improving my health is something I can do and something I've been working on - if slowly - since my last cigarette nearly six months ago. Conditioning myself to be able to ride longer distances is one step in that direction.

It's just that, when I find myself in that "no going back" place, lucidity evaporates and all I'm left with is a guy who is far too old and far too fat to even think of doing this.

...

... oh well...

... see you at home.

(Posting this after I got home, I can tell you that the ride was fantastic! I finished it in 65 minutes – only one bug went down my throat (ick!) – and had a great time!)

Where was the carton of Camels?...

I thought I caught a glimpse of the future yesterday. I was at Costco, picking up HDMI cables - don't ask - and the couple behind me were vaguely familiar...

The old woman pushed a cart with nothing but bleach...

The old man held a bottle of Kettle One tight and close...

Ken & Vicky in 30 years???

I guess she really likes cars...

Last night, we bought Burnout: Paradise for our PS3.

We loaded it in. It went through its update routine. Then, the title screen blazed on the screen, the opening beats of Paradise City by Guns & Roses thumping to life.

Vicky lifts up her top, swings it around her head, and yells, "Whooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

... She really gets into those video games...

Wii Fat...

Dear Nintendo,

I am writing about your Wii Fit Yoga position called Shoulder Stand. Here's the thing... are you crazy or something?

Your trainer says, "Lay on your back with your palms down at your side. Inhale while lifting your legs. Exhale while lifting your back." Now, at this point, the trainer is impossibly positioned upside-down, standing on her shoulders.

I tried this.

I laid down on the floor.

I inhaled while lifting my legs.

And then I found out my body does not want me lifting my back. My body does not work that way!

I have a better idea.

Lay on your back with your palms down at your side.

Stay there.

Feel the burn....

Ken forgets an anniversary…

So, I call to Vicky to check the blog and later say, “Well? Well?”

“Happy Anniversary,” Vicky tells me. “But it’s not until June 20th.”

… um… what?

“It was Father’s Day,” she says.

Not my dad’s birthday, as I thought?

“Nope. Father’s Day. But it was nice of you to think of me, anyway.”

Yeah… sure… and I wonder how soon it is before I start referring to her as “That strange woman who says she’s my wife…”?

Happy June 8th!…

Last night, when we bought the camera and the PS3, I said to Vicky, “Well, happy late birthday, Vic.” And she said to me, “Well, happy early birthday, Ken.”

I told her, “This isn’t my early birthday present. It’s my June 8th present.”

Vicky gave me a blank stare.

You see, today is our 4th year anniversary. That’s right, Vic. That’s what June 8th is all about. Around this time four years ago, Vicky and I met for the first time at Dave & Busters. We didn’t go there to relive the day, as we previously had. Vicky’s been very busy and I didn’t want to crowd her schedule. But I want her to know how happy I am that we met because I am grateful to have her in my life.

Happy Anniversary, Vicky. I love you.

Happy… Birthday… Vicky…???

Believe me. We’re usually very responsible with our money. Honest.

So, here’s the thing. Vicky asked for one thing for her birthday, back on April 13. A camera. A bloody fucking expensive camera. The kind of camera where you want to yell “Bitch, I ain’t no fuckionnaire! Get your own damn camera!”… but you don’t because you realize your lack of a job means you should probably be nice to the wife who is being so supportive… or, at least, keep saying “Later. Later. Later.”

But there’s a problem with that strategy. Later often comes.

Gotta remember next time to say, “Next husband. After I die.”

But then, an odd combination of things happened. I got this crappy, poopie, shit job and thought, “Hell, if I’m making this money, I’m gonna spend it!” And then, I started thinking about how nice it would be to have a Blu-Ray player. We haven’t really bought anything new for the house since last year. It’s been a while. We deserve it. (And, anyway, I needed something to help me forget what a shithole I work in…)

It started at 3pm, when we put Suki in for grooming. We headed over to Circuit City and found out that Vicky’s camera was on sale… for $850!!!! I asked to see the Blu-Ray players and the salesman said, “If you’re wanting a Blu-Ray player, you should probably just get a PS3. That’s like having a Blu-Ray player and game machine all in one.” I thought, “Sure. Sure. Keep trying to sell.” Their Blu-Ray player was $399.

But we came to our senses and left. Anyway, their display camera was broken and, if Vicky was going to buy it, she wanted to check it out first. So, we headed across the street to La Curacao, which is a difficult store to go to with your wife because you’re surrounded by young, latina chicks with tight tops… their Blu-Ray player was $499! On to Costco, we went. They didn’t have the camera… or a Blu-Ray player… but they did have a PS3 bundle… for 499!!! Yikes!

But wait… if the PS3 bundle was $499…

After we got home with Suki, I checked the Internet(s) and… took Vicky back out to look at cameras… Another Circuit City didn’t even have a display model – but they found us one that did – in Irvine… geez, this was getting involved. But I had an ulterior motive!

In Irvine, they had a working display model as well as a young salesperson who wasn’t a dick – that’s harder to find that you might realize. So, we got the camera ($850!), a battery pack ($50!), a memory card ($20!), a bag ($43!), a 4-year protection plan (that included yearly cleaning - $220!)… and a PS3, because why not get a Blu-Ray player with a game machine included? ($399!), a remote ($25! – and how fucked up is it that you have to buy the remote???), and a game, cause, you know ($40!), and walked out spending more money that we had… oh… in a very, very long time.

So, Happy Birthday, Vicky. I was only two months late but I did it… and got a little sumthin’ sumthin’ for me.

Careful what I wish for…

After three months out of work, you can imagine how much I wanted this job. Pretty badly, I can tell you.

Then, I started. I have a two-faced boss who seems more interested in keeping me busy and keeping me there than giving me work less brain-dead or letting me leave on time to go to school in the Fall. (Yes, we discussed it in the interview – two-faced, remember?) I work in a fishbowl cubicle with no privacy and no time to relax. (This place is all about “Your job is your life.”) No bonuses, no perks, crummy benefits. (I’ve been told “This is a Chinese company, get used to it.”) And, lastly, though the job was described to me as one in which I would be performing competitive analysis and creative marketing material and creating strategies to move the products forward – it turns out that my job consists of proofing data sheets created in Taiwan and performing website maintenance, a job they could have hired anyone else to do.

Dammit.

So, what am I going to do? Well, to be honest, not a whole lot. I’m going to have to grin and bear it and keep applying for other jobs and hope for the best. If they don’t let me go to school in the fall – I’ve been threatened with disciplinary actions should I leave work at 6pm to go to school – Vicky and I have discussed this and I’ll quit. I’ll reopen my unemployment account and start looking for work again. In the meantime, I’ll do the best I can and see where that gets me.

And I’ll be none too happy about it, believe me. Though this ain’t no IMC Networks… sadly, it’s no Linksys, either.

With grades like this, Vicky’s going to expect me to keep going…

Optimally, I would like to not have to go to school, not have to go to work, and only be expected to sit around, play video games, and eat junk food.

… but life is cruel.

Not only did I get a new job but also my Spring 2008 grades have been made official. I didn’t mention my grade (singular – one class) for last semester because, well, it could have been a fluke. (Still could be, in fact.) But then, I received my most recent results and here’s how they add up:

Fall 2007: A
Spring 2008: A, B

Am I proud of myself? Sure… I guess… But at this rate, I’ll be going to decades to come. I’m a Junior now… Senior year seems so far away! … oh well.

The toughest part is that now I have to call my dad and ask if he’ll give me $10 for every A…

Hitting the spot…

Sunday, Vicky and I decided to get our bikes out and actually… what does one do with these things again?…

See, we had been using the bikes as dust collectors/art installations in our garage for some time but we figured using them for the reason we bought them – you know, to actually ride them – might be nice to try, too.

So, on Monday, Vicky and I actually rode down the Santa Ana River for five miles (well, five miles round trip). Vicky did really well and, with the exception of those jerks who think the trail is their personal gym and how dare we share it with them, it was really nice. This got me thinking that, being out of work and all, it would be pretty cool to go for ten miles – even more! That’s the thing with me lately; I’m loving anything free! And I’m lusting after anything that burns fat!

Not that I’m not also a huge pig. After our ride, Vicky and I were both famished, dying for something good to eat. I thought about Mutt Lynch’s, this great burger joint by Newport Pier. Driving down there, we both realized what a dope I was – hello! Memorial Day! Newport Pier! Hello!

So, instead, we started heading south on PCH, when we realized that a Cheesecake Factory was coming up soon, at Fashion Island. We pulled over, went on up… and waited… and waited… shit, Cheesecake’s always so busy! But that’s okay. I can be patient. Because it’s also damned good!

When we got our table, I was so famished – and, by that time, the craving for a big, fat, greasy, sloppy cheeseburger was so strong – I was ready to order a burger with the sliders as an appetizer. Instead, Vicky and I split a salad and we both ordered our burgers. Vicky ordered with burger on a baguette ordeal but I went with something called the Tons of Fun Burger. It was the same price as their regular burger so I figured it couldn’t be that much fun or that much of a ton.

Then, they brought it out.

And this is why I’m calling this “Hitting the Spot”. This thing was amazing. Big. Greasy. Sloppy. It was the size of my head! I picked it up, looking like Guy on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, like an ad for a big, greasy burger, and committed myself to eating it all, fitting the whole mother in my mouth, without losing it to gravity, entropy, and grease. My god. It was amazing. Hot and messy. It transcended eating; I was in bliss.

Just one table over, our waitress had to deal with this problem customer who wasn’t satisfied with anything. I hate those people, the ones who go to restaurants simply to complain and work the manager for a free meal. So, after I was through with my burger – and, I’m telling you, that last bite, with hardly any dripped onto my plate and none dripped anywhere else, was a grateful surrendering into what I knew was the loss of any benefit our bike ride earlier provided – I made sure to express my pleasure to our waitress. I don’t often tell anyone about how good a meal I had, as Vicky knows my life is far too often mostly about regret and the anticipation of regret, but that was the first time in a long time I could remember having a very distinct craving satisfied so completely.

Later today, when the sun comes up, I’m going to take that ten-mile ride. I doubt I’ll have a burger after – the odds just aren’t with me.

We Fit?… hardly…

Let me just start by saying, that thing will kick your ass in ways you can’t even begin to imagine!

I went down to Costco this morning to buy my Wii Fit – only to find that the truck was late… dammit… so I went home. I had a great phone interview with D-Link. Maybe things will work out there. They should, considering my 6+ years in networking. Anyway, we’ll see.

After, I gave Costco a call and – they had it! The Wii Fits (Feet?) Came In!

Of course, I dashed on down there, and bought it. (My $73 Costco rebate took care of most of the $79.99 charge.)

Setting it up was kind of a bitch, mostly because their documentation is WRONG! The book says to sync the Board before starting the game – little did I know that the game walks you through the syncing process… stupid book…

Once I got it up and running, though, I was amazed.

First, let’s get this out of the way. Am I OBESE? You bet! But the funny thing was that it set my Wii Age (which I’m guessing is your physical age determined by the Board) at 42, which for those counting is my chronological age, too. So, maybe there’s some consolation… perhaps.

The thing is a TON of fun. Once I got started, I tried some Yoga, some Strength Training, some Aerobics, and Some Balance Exercises - a little of everything. After 10 minutes, I was sweating! I defy anyone to do the Hoola Hoop exercise without sweating and/or laughing! It’s a blast!

But here’s a tip – wash your feet first! They suggest you use it with bare feet and mine, after walking around the house for a while, left some marks on the Board. Now, Vicky’s never going to use it unless I clean the thing.

But first, some more Yoga!

I see a haircut in my future...

"You look like David Cassidy!" Vicky told me, and I think it was her enthusiasm that made it even worse.

It wasn't the first time I'd started to grow my hair long and ended up hearing that.

A fat David Cassidy... yep, even losing weight won't help that. Short hair, here I come!

Want it. Want it. Want it....

Wii Fit comes out today... not for me, mind you. I'm waiting for the release at Costco. Being out of work, I have to rely on more creative methods of buying, such as using the rebate check we got from Costco! But Costco won't have Wii Fit for another week or so... sob!

In the meantime, for all those who purchase Wii Fit, please know I am intensely jealous. You get to jump around in your house like idiots, losing weight the Nintendo weigh... yes, it's silly and goofy and nerdy. Hello. My name's Ken.

My gay marriage question for Christian whackadoddles…

Now that gay marriage has been made legal in California (and, by the way, even if it is overturned: HA HA) and you Christian nutbars are getting your crosses up your asses (which would seem to make this ironic), I have a question.

I know that in your minds Jesus was all about denying basic, human rights to people, but it still bears asking. How many gay marriages have to occur before all the straight people who are married start fucking animals or puking frogs or turn into primordial slime or whatever it is you people think will happen? How many? Five gay marriages? Fifty? I mean, now that you can’t stop it from happening completely, where are you setting the imaginarily fucked-up bar to complete Armageddon, you intolerant, close-minded, sick mother fuckers?

So, I went to the gym this morning...

But I took Vicky's car. After all, I wasn't going to let some crazed insomniac behind the wheel of my car!

Lots of time to think…

It’s just after 2:30 am and I’m wide awake. God, how I hate insomnia. I’m not even sleepy. Tired? Sure. I didn’t sleep but a couple of hours yesterday morning. But nothing’s telling me to close my eyes. Instead, I keep thinking.

And I can’t stop.

I’ve got a couple of things on my mind this morning so I’m also posting another thought over on My Side. (Hey, I’ve got the time, you know?) Both come down to the choices we make and the effects they have.

I feel compelled to apologize to Vicky for being out of work. She reminds me that it’s not my fault and that’s true; Allied Schools laid a bunch of people off in a massive reorg. But that’s not why I’m apologizing.

I can’t help but think about my choices in the past few years. I worked at Linksys for about five and a half years and left because the people were not very nice and I couldn’t get any kind of career growth no matter what I did. I was offered and accepted a job at a place called IMC, not realizing that things would be 2000% worse there and that I’d be fired (spontaneously, injudiciously, and inexplicably) one month after getting a sizable raise. It took six months to find my job at Allied Schools and I really liked it. I felt as though I was doing something worthwhile. I felt fulfilled. It was nice.

Now, of course, I’m toast. I know that being unemployed is not entirely my fault but I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had I stayed at Linksys. I might be unhappy – but I’d be unhappily employed!

Dammit.

I’ll have a big shit sandwich with gravy… made of shit…

So, I didn’t get the job.

To make it worse, I was told what a great candidate I was and how I was such a close second choice and how they wish they had two positions and how – will you shut the hell up already?! Seriously, the job market is as empty as… well, my ability to write similes at the moment; I need a job! It’s like those rejection letters I get that read, “Loved your book. Thought it was amazing! Sorry, we can’t take another client.”

With school out, I thought I’d get back to some writing but I forgot how difficult it is to write in this situation. You’re too filled with dread to think of anything clever. Whenever I get close to being relaxed or enjoying myself, I become filled with guilt (don’t ask me why, the layoff was the result of the housing market, not me) and feel like I’m not doing enough, so I look through job sites that I already scoped several times that day… dammit.

… sigh.

Nothing else to say, really. This is just fucking sad.

The magic of the morning smoke…

Back when I drank with more regularity than I do now (or have for some time) and when I used to smoke, nothing met me with more enjoyment and dread than the morning smoke. Both, you ask? Yes, both. Because after you wake up with a hangover, the last thing you want to do is put more toxins in your body… but as a smoker, well, you really want to put more toxins in your body.

I was reminded of this today. Vicky and I were both dying in bed and Suki was dying on the floor, because she desperately had to go outside. I normally take her out around 8am but it was approaching 9:30. So, she was whining, scratching, doing anything to get our attention. Finally, I got up – because Vicky was feeling as bad as me and hers was not self-inflicted. How bad was I? Bad enough to remind me that getting that drunk is just plain stupid. It felt good in a “will someone please kill me” kind of way.

Downstairs, Suki and I went, and then outside. Walking actually helped me a little bit and I was starting to enjoy the morning – in so much as you can enjoy a morning while dragging your stomach five yards behind you – when around the corner came a smoker. This guy was making enormously puffy clouds behind him, smoking with the fervor of, say, a smoker who hadn’t had one all night because he was asleep. And I walked right into a cloud.

To say that I immediately wanted to through up would be an understatement.

To say that I was intensely jealous would be confusing to you non-smokers.
But the thing is, I was also relieved that the cigarette (and smoker attached) was gone and I could return to inhaling fresh air again… or what passes for it in southern California.

Retard Economics...

I just have to throw this out there. Why is it that as gas prices go higher and higher there are more and more of those massive, "2nd home" SUVs parked in my neighborhood?

That's some serious chili...

So... what's it mean when you go to the gym and your sweat smells... well... just like chili?

I gotta make me some more of that!

By the way, the recipe I posted may turn out a bit thick. It did with us. Next time I make it, I'll probably cut a pound of ground beef. Just a thought.

Five minutes you should watch...

Obama is addressing people's concerns and giving them hope without pandering or dishonesty, which so far have been the tools his opponents have tried to use against him.

Chili Aftermath...

Oh my! Huge thanks to the folks at I'm Just Saying (see link to the right) for posting this. I've watched it three times and I'm just dying. It reminds me of what happened after the chili. (See recipe below!)

Boj… Boj… Boj… something’s amiss…

I haven’t mentioned the job search in a while… mostly because the job search sucks a large ass… a large “post chili” ass, if you get my meaning…

In the last couple of weeks, the well has dried up and the jobs I keeping finding are ones I’ve already applied for. As you can probably imagine, that has me a little… nervous…

There is news to report. For the past couple of weeks, I have been working as a contract employee for a small web design company, writing web copy. This might sound good, until you hear how hesitant this guy is to actually PAY you for your work. Paychecks are late and the Internet(s) are littered with complaints from other people who never got paid. So, I’m wrapping that up and hoping I get all my money… ugh…

Last week, I had a really good interview with Epicor, a business software company. I’d be going back to tech writing but, with the way this economy is spastic like a 95 year old orgasming, I’ll take it. I say the interview was good but it wasn’t without its bumps. The woman I was interviewing with seemed to think it was her job to discourage me as best she could, I suppose to make sure I wanted it enough. She kept saying “You don’t want this. You don’t want this.” And I had to enthusiastically respond, “Yes, I do want it! I want it like a blowjob after a long bike ride!”… with the… you know… bicycle references. And I’ll stop at two sex references…

Things just aren’t looking great. And, as you can imagine, this puts Vicky in the uncomfortable position of having to say, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine… ONCE YOU FIND A JOB YOU… I mean, we’ll be fine…”

Two months into unemployment, and I can’t help remember that the last time went right down to the wire. Good times!

It's Chili in here!...

This is what happens when you think you've lost your chili recipe and hanker for something more substantial than the stuff from a can. Enjoy!


Ken’s Chili
Cooking time: 5-6 hours
Serves: So many you should probably half this thing!

2/3 lb. Red beans
2/3 lb black beans
1 lb bacon
1 lb chorizo
1 lb andouille sausage
2 lbs ground beef
3 lbs onion
2 bell peppers
2 poblano peppers
4 jalapeno peppers
4-6 cloves of garlic
12 oz “Homemade Chili sauce” or substitute (eg. Ketchup)
3 15oz cans of tomatoes
1 can tomato paste
1 cup of sun dried tomatoes
1 cup water/chicken broth
1 tablespoon black pepper
3 tablespoons chili powder
1 tablespoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon cumin
3 tablespoons “essence” (You have the recipe, right?)
as many hits of Tabasco as you need


This recipe was cobbled together as I lost my old recipe many years ago. (Many, many years ago.) And I can't remember what I did with my new recipe. (I’m old.)

Start the night before by soaking your beans. Some people say you don’t have to but what’s the deal? It takes five minutes. Just put them in a bowl full of water and put it somewhere safe from pets, bugs, and alien creatures.

Cooking day begins with bacon – and what better way to begin the day? Cook it up, drain it, and let it cool. Also, grill your peppers – your bells, your poblanos, and your jalapenos. Once they’re cool, peel and seed them and clean them up. Put them aside with your bacon. You’ll have fun with those later.

Begin making the chili by browning your ground beef and andouille sausage. Drain off the fat and put aside. Then, brown the chorizo. I can never really get chorizo to brown but do your best. You’ll want to do this in a really, really large pot – you’re going to be making a lot of chili here. When browning your meat, it’s a good time to add some of that essence. Once that’s browned, add the onions. Take your time on a low, even heat to wilt down your onions. Once that’s done, add your beef and andouille sausage to the pot.

At this point, you’ll have big pot of seasoned meat and onions. You could start making meat burritos but let’s continue making chili. Add your canned tomatoes – I like to take a hand mixer to puree the suckers a bit – along with your tomato paste. If you can get ahold of one of those little jars of “Homemade Chili Sauce” that comes in a little 12 ounce jar, good for you! Empty that into the chili. If you can’t, ketchup is one substitute… but it doesn’t come close. Also add your chicken broth now (or water if you don’t have broth).

Things are getting a bit soupy so add your beans - making sure to toss your reserve “bean water” first. Also, toss in your garlic. I like lots of garlic so I probably exceeded the six cloves. That’s just me.

Now, pull out your bacon (watch it!), peppers, and sun dried tomatoes. With your favorite cooking sheers, you can just clip these up into little pieces over the pot! Finish off with the black pepper (I like to use a coarse ground for long simmers), red pepper flakes, chili powder, cumin, and whatever essence you have left. This is going to make things a bit spicy so you might want to add half now and half later. Me? I put in WAY MORE!

Bring this to a good boil, then let it simmer. You’ll want to cook this for at least 5 hours, more if you can arrange it. Give the beans time to cook. Also the longer you let something like this cook, the better it gets.

Serve with cheddar cheese, sour cream, chips, whatever, and eat!