5:00am. My alarm went off and I could swear I just went to sleep. But I know I have to hit the gym cause I've been eating some real shitty food lately...
5:05am. "Come on, Vic. Time to get up." I wake up Vicky because she said she'd go to the gym with me. I know it's a bad idea but... she did say she'd go.
5:10am. "Come on, hon. We need to get going." I'm already dressed and ready as she slowly rolls over in the bed.
5:15am. Vicky has gotten out of bed and it taking Shipoopi out to pee... while I wait impatiently. Normally, I'd be gone by now. But I try not to say anything because she's already pissed and her brother owns a gun.
5:20am. Vicky's driving quietly and I'm in the passenger seat. "So, I had this dream where I'm in some city - Hong Kong or - no, wait, that would be the wrong part of the world - maybe somewhere in Europe, maybe Miami. Yeah, it could have been Miami. So, I'm swimming just outside of Miami when this great white shark gets spotted. Actually, the water's only up to my shoulders so I can just stand so I just stand there and watch as it takes out some kid next to me. Then, I decide to walk back to shore. But I can't walk back to shore because Godzilla is fighting some other monster and tearing up the city..." Having me as her passenger seems to be the closest possible thing to hell Vicky can imagine this early in the morning. Maybe if I had less energy. Maybe if I had a caved-in skull...
5:30am. We arrive at the gym and she trudges up to the door while I jog around her. She says, "Shut up," and means it.
5:45am. Vicky has disappeared and I'm jogging on the treadmill. For 15 minutes, I do 5.5 mph, which is enough to wake me up, remind me how fucking fat I am, and make me wish I'd stayed in bed all at the same time. Yes, until that point I wasn't totally awake. I just naturally have far, far, far, far, far, far more energy than Vicky... ever...
6:00am. Vicky is on the bike next to me, reading, trying to shut me out. I sit down on the bike next to her and set it on level 15 for 20 minutes, doing a constant speed over 80rpms. This might sound like nothing to some of you. Some of you suck.
6:20am. Vicky walks out with me and I'm pretty sure it's the last time ever, ever, ever. She gives me a look that says, "I'd be much happier if I could just legally kill you... with a spoon..."
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Election Results...
Just after 8pm our time, Obama became the next President of the United States.
I cheered. I kissed my wife. I hugged Jeff, who'd actually only come over for pizza and election results. I was very relieved.
I was also a little drunk. I'd been celebrating with Shiraz.
What does Obama's election mean to me? It means that, perhaps, people have decided to stop listening to lies if just for a little while. It means that a message of hope still has power over deceit. It means that we really have moved on to a new chapter in American history.
It doesn't mean we can rest easy. It doesn't mean that the forces of ignorance and hate have given up.
That was proven this morning, when California Proposition 8 won. Odds are, it'll be overturned in court. I can think of few things less constitutional than reserving civil rights for only one group of people. But think of what this says about Californians. Easily fooled by the forces of hate? Yes. Ignorant? You bet. And just possibly the start of a movement against hope, a movement promoting hatred.
Let's hope not - but, as a Californian, I am ashamed about that.
The fight goes on.
I cheered. I kissed my wife. I hugged Jeff, who'd actually only come over for pizza and election results. I was very relieved.
I was also a little drunk. I'd been celebrating with Shiraz.
What does Obama's election mean to me? It means that, perhaps, people have decided to stop listening to lies if just for a little while. It means that a message of hope still has power over deceit. It means that we really have moved on to a new chapter in American history.
It doesn't mean we can rest easy. It doesn't mean that the forces of ignorance and hate have given up.
That was proven this morning, when California Proposition 8 won. Odds are, it'll be overturned in court. I can think of few things less constitutional than reserving civil rights for only one group of people. But think of what this says about Californians. Easily fooled by the forces of hate? Yes. Ignorant? You bet. And just possibly the start of a movement against hope, a movement promoting hatred.
Let's hope not - but, as a Californian, I am ashamed about that.
The fight goes on.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Whatever shall I do?...
Now that we've all voted in this historical election - you did vote, right? - I thought a quick comment was in order.
As Vicky can tell you, I follow politics the way some people follow football. This is not to say I feel it is or should be a spectator sport. No, I'm talking about my level of passion.
After I left the Democratic Party and joined the Greens, I would attend their monthly meetings with great interest. The problem with the Greens, however, which I'll freely express, is that for all of their good ideas, they fall easily into the arrogance of being right. They are right - but they act as though that should be enough. So, they gather together, talk about how right they are, and wonder why nobody elects them into office. After the turn of the century, when the Republicans were expressing their contempt for the American people with such vitriol, I felt it was the perfect time for someone to express the ideas of the Green Party - but nobody was doing it. They had no pundits, no spokespersons, so I wrote to the guy who runs the Green Party website in Orange County and offered to write some regular content for them. I was promptly turned down, though, because being right they had no need to express why they were right - people were just supposed to get it!
My disillusionment with the Green Party is not the same as disagreement but it has left me uninspired, let's say.
Then, Vicky started talking about Barack Obama. I listened with a detached interest. Then, as I have said, he ran a campaign based on truth and decency, which proved to me he'd make a far better president that anything we'd seen this century.
How anyone could have sat out this election is beyond me. How could someone get excited about football or baseball - pick your poison - and not see the importance of what's happening in politics? You'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind! The results in the political arena affect the lives of people everywhere. Sports affects only a very few. Politics can be a force for incredible good as well as imponderable evil. Even if you look at it with the most cynical eye, knowing what's happening gives you insight into how to affect change outside the political arena, in your community, in your home. The alternative to political change is social change but neither exists in a vacuum. Being informed about the world is far from boring; nothing is more interesting. It's a window into the future, into the deepest questions, into the souls of mankind.
So, I look forward to tonight's results with great anticipation, but I don't see it ending tonight. No matter the outcome, enormous change is at our doorstep and, be it good or ill, we must face it.
As Vicky can tell you, I follow politics the way some people follow football. This is not to say I feel it is or should be a spectator sport. No, I'm talking about my level of passion.
After I left the Democratic Party and joined the Greens, I would attend their monthly meetings with great interest. The problem with the Greens, however, which I'll freely express, is that for all of their good ideas, they fall easily into the arrogance of being right. They are right - but they act as though that should be enough. So, they gather together, talk about how right they are, and wonder why nobody elects them into office. After the turn of the century, when the Republicans were expressing their contempt for the American people with such vitriol, I felt it was the perfect time for someone to express the ideas of the Green Party - but nobody was doing it. They had no pundits, no spokespersons, so I wrote to the guy who runs the Green Party website in Orange County and offered to write some regular content for them. I was promptly turned down, though, because being right they had no need to express why they were right - people were just supposed to get it!
My disillusionment with the Green Party is not the same as disagreement but it has left me uninspired, let's say.
Then, Vicky started talking about Barack Obama. I listened with a detached interest. Then, as I have said, he ran a campaign based on truth and decency, which proved to me he'd make a far better president that anything we'd seen this century.
How anyone could have sat out this election is beyond me. How could someone get excited about football or baseball - pick your poison - and not see the importance of what's happening in politics? You'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind! The results in the political arena affect the lives of people everywhere. Sports affects only a very few. Politics can be a force for incredible good as well as imponderable evil. Even if you look at it with the most cynical eye, knowing what's happening gives you insight into how to affect change outside the political arena, in your community, in your home. The alternative to political change is social change but neither exists in a vacuum. Being informed about the world is far from boring; nothing is more interesting. It's a window into the future, into the deepest questions, into the souls of mankind.
So, I look forward to tonight's results with great anticipation, but I don't see it ending tonight. No matter the outcome, enormous change is at our doorstep and, be it good or ill, we must face it.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Broken People...
After I lost Rosa, I felt broken. There's no other word for it. Broken. Irreparably.
It took me a while to write but every time I thought about writing, I thought about how I wanted to write about broken people, because I know. I know what it's like to be broken and I know there are a lot of us out there.
I never did write it. Granted, everything from then to now featured plenty of broken people, from my books to my plays, but they were always window dressing, always in the back. I never took my broken pieces, my broken qualities, laid them out on the ground and wrote a book about them, about being broken. You would think that death is the worst thing but being broken takes all the pain of death without the payoff - you have to keep going. Being broken drove me to some awful limits. Being broken drove me to the Grand Canyon. You think you heal but you never really do. Once you're broken, that's it. You're broken. You can try to mend the pieces but they remain broken, you remain broken.
I'm not talking about a broken heart, either. A broken heart is nothing. You know this if you've been broken. When you've been broken, it feels like someone's taken a bat to you, run you over with a truck, ripped out your guts, and laughed the whole time. A broken heart is passing but being broken just fucks you up.
Some readers at this point will already be thinking, maybe saying, "Yeah, but you have to keep going. You have to go on with your life." You're right. That's true. And that's what's so insidious about being broken: it doesn't matter. If someone broke your legs, you'd at least get a day off work. But when you're broken, nobody cares, nobody gives a shit.
It's taken me eight years. I gave up on writing about it a while ago.
Then, on Tuesday, I decided to just write whatever my fingers wanted to say, just to let my body say what it wanted to say. I had no agenda. I had no plot. I had no idea what was going to come out. And the story that was told was about a sad, beaten figure of a man who comes out of the Arizona desert, enters the train station in Kingman, and doesn't move. Across the terminal, a woman with a broken spirit and a body bought for her watches. She's sick of being a commodity. She's ready to take herself out of the world. And when the man falls to the ground, she's enraged that anyone can be more pathetic than she and she gets up to beat him but her foot's asleep - so she falls, too. Two ludicrous figures beneath the world's attention...
Broken people.
It took me a while to write but every time I thought about writing, I thought about how I wanted to write about broken people, because I know. I know what it's like to be broken and I know there are a lot of us out there.
I never did write it. Granted, everything from then to now featured plenty of broken people, from my books to my plays, but they were always window dressing, always in the back. I never took my broken pieces, my broken qualities, laid them out on the ground and wrote a book about them, about being broken. You would think that death is the worst thing but being broken takes all the pain of death without the payoff - you have to keep going. Being broken drove me to some awful limits. Being broken drove me to the Grand Canyon. You think you heal but you never really do. Once you're broken, that's it. You're broken. You can try to mend the pieces but they remain broken, you remain broken.
I'm not talking about a broken heart, either. A broken heart is nothing. You know this if you've been broken. When you've been broken, it feels like someone's taken a bat to you, run you over with a truck, ripped out your guts, and laughed the whole time. A broken heart is passing but being broken just fucks you up.
Some readers at this point will already be thinking, maybe saying, "Yeah, but you have to keep going. You have to go on with your life." You're right. That's true. And that's what's so insidious about being broken: it doesn't matter. If someone broke your legs, you'd at least get a day off work. But when you're broken, nobody cares, nobody gives a shit.
It's taken me eight years. I gave up on writing about it a while ago.
Then, on Tuesday, I decided to just write whatever my fingers wanted to say, just to let my body say what it wanted to say. I had no agenda. I had no plot. I had no idea what was going to come out. And the story that was told was about a sad, beaten figure of a man who comes out of the Arizona desert, enters the train station in Kingman, and doesn't move. Across the terminal, a woman with a broken spirit and a body bought for her watches. She's sick of being a commodity. She's ready to take herself out of the world. And when the man falls to the ground, she's enraged that anyone can be more pathetic than she and she gets up to beat him but her foot's asleep - so she falls, too. Two ludicrous figures beneath the world's attention...
Broken people.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The more they stay the same...
I hit the gym this morning - looks like the sun refused to get up early enough for a bike ride in the morning, for a while at least. So, I'll have to start hitting the gym pretty regularly. It was nice, though. All this cycling has kept me fit enough to start jogging and cycling in the gym with no trouble at all. It's nice not to wheeze and pant.
Anyway, they had Fox News up on the screen - the biggest reason NOT to go to 24 Hour Fitness if you can help it. I already have a membership, which is so cheap I basically just have to suck it up. Still, I hate watching Fox News.
That said, it's nice to know they are still running as far from truth and honesty as before - which leads to my political comment for the day.
The Republican Party and their ilk have been going so amazingly out of control, I'm surprised no one speaks out. George Will, where are you? First, they claimed that Obama was the most liberal member of Congress, which put the joke on Kucinich. Then, they claimed he was a Socialist, which is laughable when you see how centrist his politics are. But then, they made the jump to the "most liberal politician ever" (a quote yesterday from McCain) and claims that Obama is a Marxist.
Marxist? As in "Proletariat Revolution"? Nyet, Komrad! Say it ain't so, Joe! Seriously, has anyone asked the Communist Party how they feel about this? Most likely, they see Obama's politics as positively oppressive! Anyone who claims Obama's a Marxist just learned the word and obviously does not know a thing about Marxism.
But this goes even deeper, I think. That they believe they have to make their claims against Obama more and more extreme, taking headers into claims that he is on par with terrorists, shows a basic distrust of their party's message. Think about it. The Republican attack against Kerry was that he couldn't make up his mind. Against Gore, it was that he was too liberal and tied to Clinton. Against Clinton, it was that he was too liberal (it's a popular refrain). Against Dukakis, it was that he made hasty decisions. But go back as far as you want and you won't find such absurd claims made by a major party's candidate. You won't see one candidate saying of another that he "pals with terrorist" or that he "is a terrorist". You won't see a candidate embracing race baiting to create fear of the other candidate. It's not enough for them to say "We're the party of small government" because it's obviously not true. They can't say "We're against special interests"; look at their energy policy.
The Republican Party has become the party of war, of tax cuts for the rich, of squandered opportunity, of economic turmoil, of lies and deceit, of creationistic denial of science on a scale not seen since the flat earthers, of hypocrisy on a grand scale, of Orwellian NewSpeak, of intolerance and hate. And I am left to wonder how anyone could call themselves Republican. How could anyone who believes in the right to life because of religious faith call themselves Republican when the Republican Party is responsible for a war against a nation that never did anything to harm us? How could anyone who believes in fiscal conservatism call themselves Republican when the Republican Party squandered the surplus, giving it away to the wealthiest one percent? How could anyone who works for a living call themselves a Republican when the Republican Party platform provides tax breaks to the rich and increases taxes on the middle class? How could anyone with a conscious vote Republican?
You probably expect me to end this with an endorsement for Barack Obama. Okay. I won't let you down. But let me begin by stating that I am not a Democrat. I'm a member of the Green Party, having left the Democratic Party when they sided too many times with the Republicans, when they allowed themselves to acquiesce to those ethically lesser and drive our nation into a far darker place. So, with that said, why am I supporting Obama? Necessity. I told Vicky when the primaries began that I would vote based on a simple criteria: truth. During this election, only one candidate remained true. Only one refrained from telling the most outrageous lies to win a vote. Only one stayed true to the American people. Only one stuck by his principles of decency and refused to make truth the first victim. McCain and his Hockey Mom have found themselves caught in one lie after another. They laugh them off with contempt for truth and for the American people. But Barack Obama passed my criteria: he told the truth.
Those of you who know me know that I am passionate about politics and I know what I'm talking about. I take it very seriously and would never endorse someone I did not believe was the best person for the job. It's never an issue of "who has the best chance to win" because that is the fastest route to pandering. It's also not a matter of "who is the most popular", though Obama is; I won't deny that. Vicky believed in Obama long before me, believing in him the way some people find religion. But I stayed back, watching as lie after lie was cast upon him and as he brushed them off and refused to let them tarnish him.
Will he make mistakes? Undoubtedly. All people do. But I believe he will face every challenge with an honesty and decency that his Republican opponents couldn't find with both hands, a map, a sherpa, and a GPS. He'll face them true to the American people, something his opponents have shown they are not capable of. Finally, he'll face them with a spirit of honesty that has him prepared for the worst without sinking to the worst. That's what matters most. That's why he has my vote.
That is why I am asking you to join me in supporting Barack Obama and Joe Biden. Thanks for reading.
Anyway, they had Fox News up on the screen - the biggest reason NOT to go to 24 Hour Fitness if you can help it. I already have a membership, which is so cheap I basically just have to suck it up. Still, I hate watching Fox News.
That said, it's nice to know they are still running as far from truth and honesty as before - which leads to my political comment for the day.
The Republican Party and their ilk have been going so amazingly out of control, I'm surprised no one speaks out. George Will, where are you? First, they claimed that Obama was the most liberal member of Congress, which put the joke on Kucinich. Then, they claimed he was a Socialist, which is laughable when you see how centrist his politics are. But then, they made the jump to the "most liberal politician ever" (a quote yesterday from McCain) and claims that Obama is a Marxist.
Marxist? As in "Proletariat Revolution"? Nyet, Komrad! Say it ain't so, Joe! Seriously, has anyone asked the Communist Party how they feel about this? Most likely, they see Obama's politics as positively oppressive! Anyone who claims Obama's a Marxist just learned the word and obviously does not know a thing about Marxism.
But this goes even deeper, I think. That they believe they have to make their claims against Obama more and more extreme, taking headers into claims that he is on par with terrorists, shows a basic distrust of their party's message. Think about it. The Republican attack against Kerry was that he couldn't make up his mind. Against Gore, it was that he was too liberal and tied to Clinton. Against Clinton, it was that he was too liberal (it's a popular refrain). Against Dukakis, it was that he made hasty decisions. But go back as far as you want and you won't find such absurd claims made by a major party's candidate. You won't see one candidate saying of another that he "pals with terrorist" or that he "is a terrorist". You won't see a candidate embracing race baiting to create fear of the other candidate. It's not enough for them to say "We're the party of small government" because it's obviously not true. They can't say "We're against special interests"; look at their energy policy.
The Republican Party has become the party of war, of tax cuts for the rich, of squandered opportunity, of economic turmoil, of lies and deceit, of creationistic denial of science on a scale not seen since the flat earthers, of hypocrisy on a grand scale, of Orwellian NewSpeak, of intolerance and hate. And I am left to wonder how anyone could call themselves Republican. How could anyone who believes in the right to life because of religious faith call themselves Republican when the Republican Party is responsible for a war against a nation that never did anything to harm us? How could anyone who believes in fiscal conservatism call themselves Republican when the Republican Party squandered the surplus, giving it away to the wealthiest one percent? How could anyone who works for a living call themselves a Republican when the Republican Party platform provides tax breaks to the rich and increases taxes on the middle class? How could anyone with a conscious vote Republican?
You probably expect me to end this with an endorsement for Barack Obama. Okay. I won't let you down. But let me begin by stating that I am not a Democrat. I'm a member of the Green Party, having left the Democratic Party when they sided too many times with the Republicans, when they allowed themselves to acquiesce to those ethically lesser and drive our nation into a far darker place. So, with that said, why am I supporting Obama? Necessity. I told Vicky when the primaries began that I would vote based on a simple criteria: truth. During this election, only one candidate remained true. Only one refrained from telling the most outrageous lies to win a vote. Only one stayed true to the American people. Only one stuck by his principles of decency and refused to make truth the first victim. McCain and his Hockey Mom have found themselves caught in one lie after another. They laugh them off with contempt for truth and for the American people. But Barack Obama passed my criteria: he told the truth.
Those of you who know me know that I am passionate about politics and I know what I'm talking about. I take it very seriously and would never endorse someone I did not believe was the best person for the job. It's never an issue of "who has the best chance to win" because that is the fastest route to pandering. It's also not a matter of "who is the most popular", though Obama is; I won't deny that. Vicky believed in Obama long before me, believing in him the way some people find religion. But I stayed back, watching as lie after lie was cast upon him and as he brushed them off and refused to let them tarnish him.
Will he make mistakes? Undoubtedly. All people do. But I believe he will face every challenge with an honesty and decency that his Republican opponents couldn't find with both hands, a map, a sherpa, and a GPS. He'll face them true to the American people, something his opponents have shown they are not capable of. Finally, he'll face them with a spirit of honesty that has him prepared for the worst without sinking to the worst. That's what matters most. That's why he has my vote.
That is why I am asking you to join me in supporting Barack Obama and Joe Biden. Thanks for reading.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Seven miles... no waiting... and all you can eat...
Sunday turned out to be an interesting day for me.
I shouldn't let Saturday go without passing. Saturday was my World Cinema mid-term and, as I got out of my car to head to class, I realized almost too late the I'd pack a USED scan-tron for the test! The scan-tron from my last test, by the way. So, while that looked up at me with a score of 89 - look at how well you did! - I was faced with the horror of having no scan-tron for the test! So, I ran across campus, which is all kinds of ankle-icious fun in my Chacos, and got to the store with four minutes to spare. The scan-tron was a quarter, which was a quarter more than I had - seriously one of those days - so I frantically looked for something I could buy to make it enough to put on my debit card. (There's a limit.) But the girl behind the register - I don't know who she is but I feel eternally indebted to her, like I should send her flowers or a pint of blood or something - said, "I've got a quarter. Don't worry about it."
So, I ran to class and got in just as the instructor was finishing handing out the test. I sat down, sweating (cause I'm a fat fuck) and trying to collect myself, when I looked down at the test... and, wow, it was a really easy test! I will be surprised if I don't get an A, which is good because I'll be surprised if I do better than a C in my philosophy mid-term. (Here's an update: I got an A on my philosophy mid-term!)
Anyway... Saturday... mid-terms are over. Whew!
Sunday morning, I woke up - and woke up - and woke up - and finally Vicky was all, "Are you going for a ride today or what?"
"Fine! Fine, woman! Let me lift my distended gut from the bed and pack it in some obscenely tight clothing!"
I got on the bike and began to head up the trail. I started the morning with the same headache I had for a few days, so I wasn't expecting to break any records... or anything, for that matter. Then, as I pass Imperial Highway, I saw a big CLOSED sign on the trail. It seems someone is doing more work on it - you'd think they'd work on the San Gabriel River Trail... that needs it! Badly! Oh well, So, I turned around and decided to proceed up Imperial Highway into Anaheim Hills - and I mean UP! But I need to do some hill work. It's good exercise. And I'm a sick fuck.
I pull out onto the street, lean my foot down into the pedal - and slam my foot down as the chain pops off the gears!
... ouch. Nearly lost my balls.
I came so close to crashing - or looked like such a lame-ass - that a guy on a recumbent bike actually stopped back at the trail to see if I was okay. He wouldn't have been able to hear me through the distance and traffic so I just upended my bike and fixed the chain, just like when I was a kid. Then, I turned the bike over again and waved at the guy. He waved and me - and I kept going.
But something was wrong with the chain. I could feel it; it wasn't coasting right. It was pulling. It felt wrong. But I kept going. Up, up, up, I rode into the hills. I went less than half a mile when I reached Nohl Ranch Road. I won't kid you. I had to stop and pant and wheeze for several minutes. I felt like, if I didn't, I was going to throw up. Now, Nohl Ranch turns into Lincoln, heading back towards my neighborhood; I knew I could just take that back. And the way the chain was pulling, I figured that might be best. So, I started pedaling again, building up speed, ready to take the first hill, when... the gear shifted by itself - very disconcerting - and then the chain popped off, all in about five seconds or so.
And, there I was, in the cool morning air... I could keep trying to ride the dead horse, or... I pulled out my phone and called Vicky. I'd always warned her it might come to this. She was okay with it. She told me she'd be there soon... and so... I waited...
And the cool morning air began to grow pretty dang warm. This is Southern California, after all. I stripped off my cold gear and backpack and began to wait.
An asian couple walked by, the gentleman saying, "You taking break now?!" Scratch that - a couple of stereotypes walked by...
On Saturday, I'd seen some people protesting in favor of Proposition 8 with signs that read, "Prop 8 = Free Speech" and "Prop 8 = Parent's Rights". Funny. I thought Proposition 8 restricts human rights. How little I know. Well, as I stood there, waiting, I saw an SUV with a huge placard drive by that read, "Prop 8 = Religious Freedom". You bet. Freedom to be just as hateful and intolerant as you wanna be!
I was surprised, though - pleasantly so - by a jogger who came by. This guy jogged right up to me and asked, as he approached, "You okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "Bike problems?" "Yeah, it died. I'm waiting for a ride." "You sure everything's okay?" he asked. "Yeah, but thanks."
I guess the world is filled with intolerant assholes but there are also plenty of nice people ready to help you out.
Vicky did come by and we packed the bike into her car - Vicky moaning painfully the entire time - she hates when we put the bike in her car. Later, I brought it to the bike shop and they fixed it, no charge. Zak, one of the guys at Orange Cycle - the official bike shop of One Path - thanked me for having a sense of humor about it. These guys are always so appreciative I wondered, not for the first time, what kind of assholes they get in there. Seriously, how can you blame something like that on someone. I just figured it was part of the "break-in" period... I just didn't think something would actually break!
Well, I ended up with more free time than I expected, so I offered to cook dinner. I shredded some leftover chicken and chopped up some andouille sausage. Then, Vicky and I hit the store for some bell pepper, onion, and rice. Coming back home, I bitched and moaned about the kitchen being a mess - but cleaned it anyway. Then, I browned the pepper and onion with some celery, let it caramelize, and tossed in the sausage and chicken. That all cooked for a couple of hours, all told. Then, I dropped in more than three cups of rice, WAY too much rice! I mean WAAAAY too much! But... oh well. I covered that all up with six or so cups of water and let it boil, boil, boil. Oh, and I hit it with a shitload of spice. These things you don't need to measure after you've done it a few times but I keep my recipe out just to remind myself. I found out I was out of bay leaves, so the recipe suffered a little but, all in all, it was good and hot and spicy and hot... okay, I put in a little too much chili peppers...
We'll have leftovers for several days now. Yikes!
I shouldn't let Saturday go without passing. Saturday was my World Cinema mid-term and, as I got out of my car to head to class, I realized almost too late the I'd pack a USED scan-tron for the test! The scan-tron from my last test, by the way. So, while that looked up at me with a score of 89 - look at how well you did! - I was faced with the horror of having no scan-tron for the test! So, I ran across campus, which is all kinds of ankle-icious fun in my Chacos, and got to the store with four minutes to spare. The scan-tron was a quarter, which was a quarter more than I had - seriously one of those days - so I frantically looked for something I could buy to make it enough to put on my debit card. (There's a limit.) But the girl behind the register - I don't know who she is but I feel eternally indebted to her, like I should send her flowers or a pint of blood or something - said, "I've got a quarter. Don't worry about it."
So, I ran to class and got in just as the instructor was finishing handing out the test. I sat down, sweating (cause I'm a fat fuck) and trying to collect myself, when I looked down at the test... and, wow, it was a really easy test! I will be surprised if I don't get an A, which is good because I'll be surprised if I do better than a C in my philosophy mid-term. (Here's an update: I got an A on my philosophy mid-term!)
Anyway... Saturday... mid-terms are over. Whew!
Sunday morning, I woke up - and woke up - and woke up - and finally Vicky was all, "Are you going for a ride today or what?"
"Fine! Fine, woman! Let me lift my distended gut from the bed and pack it in some obscenely tight clothing!"
I got on the bike and began to head up the trail. I started the morning with the same headache I had for a few days, so I wasn't expecting to break any records... or anything, for that matter. Then, as I pass Imperial Highway, I saw a big CLOSED sign on the trail. It seems someone is doing more work on it - you'd think they'd work on the San Gabriel River Trail... that needs it! Badly! Oh well, So, I turned around and decided to proceed up Imperial Highway into Anaheim Hills - and I mean UP! But I need to do some hill work. It's good exercise. And I'm a sick fuck.
I pull out onto the street, lean my foot down into the pedal - and slam my foot down as the chain pops off the gears!
... ouch. Nearly lost my balls.
I came so close to crashing - or looked like such a lame-ass - that a guy on a recumbent bike actually stopped back at the trail to see if I was okay. He wouldn't have been able to hear me through the distance and traffic so I just upended my bike and fixed the chain, just like when I was a kid. Then, I turned the bike over again and waved at the guy. He waved and me - and I kept going.
But something was wrong with the chain. I could feel it; it wasn't coasting right. It was pulling. It felt wrong. But I kept going. Up, up, up, I rode into the hills. I went less than half a mile when I reached Nohl Ranch Road. I won't kid you. I had to stop and pant and wheeze for several minutes. I felt like, if I didn't, I was going to throw up. Now, Nohl Ranch turns into Lincoln, heading back towards my neighborhood; I knew I could just take that back. And the way the chain was pulling, I figured that might be best. So, I started pedaling again, building up speed, ready to take the first hill, when... the gear shifted by itself - very disconcerting - and then the chain popped off, all in about five seconds or so.
And, there I was, in the cool morning air... I could keep trying to ride the dead horse, or... I pulled out my phone and called Vicky. I'd always warned her it might come to this. She was okay with it. She told me she'd be there soon... and so... I waited...
And the cool morning air began to grow pretty dang warm. This is Southern California, after all. I stripped off my cold gear and backpack and began to wait.
An asian couple walked by, the gentleman saying, "You taking break now?!" Scratch that - a couple of stereotypes walked by...
On Saturday, I'd seen some people protesting in favor of Proposition 8 with signs that read, "Prop 8 = Free Speech" and "Prop 8 = Parent's Rights". Funny. I thought Proposition 8 restricts human rights. How little I know. Well, as I stood there, waiting, I saw an SUV with a huge placard drive by that read, "Prop 8 = Religious Freedom". You bet. Freedom to be just as hateful and intolerant as you wanna be!
I was surprised, though - pleasantly so - by a jogger who came by. This guy jogged right up to me and asked, as he approached, "You okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "Bike problems?" "Yeah, it died. I'm waiting for a ride." "You sure everything's okay?" he asked. "Yeah, but thanks."
I guess the world is filled with intolerant assholes but there are also plenty of nice people ready to help you out.
Vicky did come by and we packed the bike into her car - Vicky moaning painfully the entire time - she hates when we put the bike in her car. Later, I brought it to the bike shop and they fixed it, no charge. Zak, one of the guys at Orange Cycle - the official bike shop of One Path - thanked me for having a sense of humor about it. These guys are always so appreciative I wondered, not for the first time, what kind of assholes they get in there. Seriously, how can you blame something like that on someone. I just figured it was part of the "break-in" period... I just didn't think something would actually break!
Well, I ended up with more free time than I expected, so I offered to cook dinner. I shredded some leftover chicken and chopped up some andouille sausage. Then, Vicky and I hit the store for some bell pepper, onion, and rice. Coming back home, I bitched and moaned about the kitchen being a mess - but cleaned it anyway. Then, I browned the pepper and onion with some celery, let it caramelize, and tossed in the sausage and chicken. That all cooked for a couple of hours, all told. Then, I dropped in more than three cups of rice, WAY too much rice! I mean WAAAAY too much! But... oh well. I covered that all up with six or so cups of water and let it boil, boil, boil. Oh, and I hit it with a shitload of spice. These things you don't need to measure after you've done it a few times but I keep my recipe out just to remind myself. I found out I was out of bay leaves, so the recipe suffered a little but, all in all, it was good and hot and spicy and hot... okay, I put in a little too much chili peppers...
We'll have leftovers for several days now. Yikes!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
66 for the weekend...
This weekend wasn't all bad. After all, I wasn't at work. (Insert laugh here.)
Saturday morning, Vicky got her gumption up and agreed to go on a ride with me. So, we took the mountain bikes out and hit the trail. Vicky still needs some new tires; she's riding on these stubby, mountain tires that look (and probably feel) really weird on the trail. (Now that we have to pay for tables and tubs and tickets, though, I have no idea when we'll do that!)
I let Vicky lead and she took us up the Santa Ana River all the way to Yorba Regional Park, to what I call the "Rest Stop", because it looks like a rest stop on the side of the trail. This was the farthest Vicky's gone and she was feeling it. So, we relaxed, ate some beans, and enjoyed the shade before heading back. All told, she rode about 16 miles, which is really good for her. Heck, that's how long it is to the beach from our place - I don't know if she realizes that! I think if she enjoys cycling enough and gets herself motivated, I might actually have a riding partner one day. Well, I hope so, at least.
As for myself, I took the Giant out Sunday morning for it's first "long ride". The idea is to take this one out for a Century one of these days and I figured it was time to begin building to that. So, I hit the Santa Ana River Trail again, this time heading south. I left at 7:10am. I was going to leave earlier but the sun just wouldn't come up! So it wasn't too bright out or warm out when I left. I exited on Chapman Avenue and rode that west for a while. Riding with traffic is something I'm just going to have to get used to if I ever want to do a Century and I think I managed it pretty well. At Valley View, I headed north to Katella, where I turned west again and rode into LA County. The plan was to take that to the San Gabriel River Trail and when I hit it, just past the 605... I was a bit surprised. The San Gabriel River Trail is like the Santa Ana River Trail but not nearly as swank or well kept... which ain't saying much, believe me!! But this was the route I'd mapped out, so I took it despite the worn and broken pavement, despite the lanes as narrow as the bikes themselves, with daredevils passing in between. It wasn't that far before I hit PCH and exited onto a wide, well-paved bike lane.
Fortunately, I hooked up with a group of cyclists almost immediately and rode in a pack all the way to Warner. I felt like a real cyclist; it was a lot of fun. If I ever join a cycling club, I'm sure that's what it's like - except that I lucked out and these guys were in no rush. But we made some pretty good speed. We were doing nearly 20mph for a while there. Then, the strangest thing happened. Listen, I used to roller blade (check out my arm sometime) but I never clocked myself so I don't know what kind of speed I hit. So, I was shocked when, as I was doing 20mph, the guy on roller blades just zipped past me! He was crazy - wore no safety gear - he was in his 60's easy and just sped along like he was born to it. Then, just as quickly, he cut to the right in a blur and was gone down a side street. Amazing!
Well, shortly after that, I left the street and rode along the beach. I took a break at the same spot I'd stopped the last time I did 50 miles. I had thought my route would take me 60 or 70 but it looked like I was doing another 50 mile ride... dammit. It was about 9:30 and the weather was icy cold! (Maybe my sweaty clothes weren't helping, either.) Surfers were coming in from the water and showering, stripping off their wetsuits like it was nothing - and I was shivering! Enough of that, I got back on my bike and headed south towards the Santa Ana River. The speed limit for bikes is 10mph but I was passed by (and soon fell in line behind) a blonde girl on a beach cruiser doing 13mph. I let her clear a path and used her as an excuse to speed. (So, no, I didn't learn my lesson when I got my ticket!) Soon, I hit the Santa Ana River Trail. The Giant took me up pretty fast and I was shouting "coming up on your left" pretty regularly.
One major difference with this bike as opposed to my old one is the way it works my arms. The handle bars aren't in that mountain bike style and, even though I had the handle bars adjusted to I could ride with my hands on the brakes, I found myself lifting up my tired arms as I rode back up the trail. Did I saying "lifting up"? I guess I should say "trying to lift up" because my arms were so weary I could barely hang on. The bike is easier on my legs but I'm definitely going to have to strengthen up my arms - something you just don't expect from a bike. That's not a bad thing, though. I'll get used to this. I won't hit 100 miles next week but you'll see the number ascend and before too long, maybe you'll see Vicky and I doing 50 miles together and me taking the Giant out on Centuries.
I just gave Vicky a heart attack. LOL!
Saturday morning, Vicky got her gumption up and agreed to go on a ride with me. So, we took the mountain bikes out and hit the trail. Vicky still needs some new tires; she's riding on these stubby, mountain tires that look (and probably feel) really weird on the trail. (Now that we have to pay for tables and tubs and tickets, though, I have no idea when we'll do that!)
I let Vicky lead and she took us up the Santa Ana River all the way to Yorba Regional Park, to what I call the "Rest Stop", because it looks like a rest stop on the side of the trail. This was the farthest Vicky's gone and she was feeling it. So, we relaxed, ate some beans, and enjoyed the shade before heading back. All told, she rode about 16 miles, which is really good for her. Heck, that's how long it is to the beach from our place - I don't know if she realizes that! I think if she enjoys cycling enough and gets herself motivated, I might actually have a riding partner one day. Well, I hope so, at least.
As for myself, I took the Giant out Sunday morning for it's first "long ride". The idea is to take this one out for a Century one of these days and I figured it was time to begin building to that. So, I hit the Santa Ana River Trail again, this time heading south. I left at 7:10am. I was going to leave earlier but the sun just wouldn't come up! So it wasn't too bright out or warm out when I left. I exited on Chapman Avenue and rode that west for a while. Riding with traffic is something I'm just going to have to get used to if I ever want to do a Century and I think I managed it pretty well. At Valley View, I headed north to Katella, where I turned west again and rode into LA County. The plan was to take that to the San Gabriel River Trail and when I hit it, just past the 605... I was a bit surprised. The San Gabriel River Trail is like the Santa Ana River Trail but not nearly as swank or well kept... which ain't saying much, believe me!! But this was the route I'd mapped out, so I took it despite the worn and broken pavement, despite the lanes as narrow as the bikes themselves, with daredevils passing in between. It wasn't that far before I hit PCH and exited onto a wide, well-paved bike lane.
Fortunately, I hooked up with a group of cyclists almost immediately and rode in a pack all the way to Warner. I felt like a real cyclist; it was a lot of fun. If I ever join a cycling club, I'm sure that's what it's like - except that I lucked out and these guys were in no rush. But we made some pretty good speed. We were doing nearly 20mph for a while there. Then, the strangest thing happened. Listen, I used to roller blade (check out my arm sometime) but I never clocked myself so I don't know what kind of speed I hit. So, I was shocked when, as I was doing 20mph, the guy on roller blades just zipped past me! He was crazy - wore no safety gear - he was in his 60's easy and just sped along like he was born to it. Then, just as quickly, he cut to the right in a blur and was gone down a side street. Amazing!
Well, shortly after that, I left the street and rode along the beach. I took a break at the same spot I'd stopped the last time I did 50 miles. I had thought my route would take me 60 or 70 but it looked like I was doing another 50 mile ride... dammit. It was about 9:30 and the weather was icy cold! (Maybe my sweaty clothes weren't helping, either.) Surfers were coming in from the water and showering, stripping off their wetsuits like it was nothing - and I was shivering! Enough of that, I got back on my bike and headed south towards the Santa Ana River. The speed limit for bikes is 10mph but I was passed by (and soon fell in line behind) a blonde girl on a beach cruiser doing 13mph. I let her clear a path and used her as an excuse to speed. (So, no, I didn't learn my lesson when I got my ticket!) Soon, I hit the Santa Ana River Trail. The Giant took me up pretty fast and I was shouting "coming up on your left" pretty regularly.
One major difference with this bike as opposed to my old one is the way it works my arms. The handle bars aren't in that mountain bike style and, even though I had the handle bars adjusted to I could ride with my hands on the brakes, I found myself lifting up my tired arms as I rode back up the trail. Did I saying "lifting up"? I guess I should say "trying to lift up" because my arms were so weary I could barely hang on. The bike is easier on my legs but I'm definitely going to have to strengthen up my arms - something you just don't expect from a bike. That's not a bad thing, though. I'll get used to this. I won't hit 100 miles next week but you'll see the number ascend and before too long, maybe you'll see Vicky and I doing 50 miles together and me taking the Giant out on Centuries.
I just gave Vicky a heart attack. LOL!
All together now...
Table. Tub. Ticket. Theater.
Where to start?
It's been a pretty fucked up weekend.
I won't tell you how are kitchen table collapsed - but it did. Crash. Goodbye kitchen table.
And then, driving home from school on Saturday, just as I get on the freeway, this cop pulls up right behind me - tailgates me all the way until the exit, where he pulls me over. (Listen, I understand he doesn't want me to get away but - damn - this ain't Al Capone!) He yells about how I passed him when he was doing 80 and won't even let me tell him I had just got on the freeway. In fact, he won't let me talk at all. "I don't want to hear it," he keeps saying. Then, he tells me he's letting me off easy by only giving me a ticket for doing 75. Hold on. If I really did do over 80 (dick said I was doing over 90 easy), why not cut me a ticket for that? Why not use your dash cam to show me blasting past him in court? Why write a ticket for 75? I'm a little lost and a little fucked, cause there's a reason Vicky and I both drive like old people: we're poor and we can't afford tickets. God-dammit.
Vicky asked her brother, who is also a CHiPie, why this guy was such a dick. He said, "A lot of them are." At least, he's honest.
Fortunately, I got home just in time for a rejection notice. I'd written After You Fall after a theater had requested I submit something for the new season - in a way, I wish they hadn't because they ended up rejecting it. But, at least, it means I can submit it to other theaters... I guess.
Then, Sunday, after I took a long ride (more on that later), I came home to find Vicky washing Shipoopi in the tub. Downstairs, I found something on the floor - I thought Shipoopi had Shipeepeed. After I cleaned it up, though, I found more on the floor. It was water. Lots of water! Leaking from the ceiling!! It was our tub! Leaking through the floor!
... great weekend. Lots of fun.
Let's hope it's not a lead-in to tonight's mid-term...
Where to start?
It's been a pretty fucked up weekend.
I won't tell you how are kitchen table collapsed - but it did. Crash. Goodbye kitchen table.
And then, driving home from school on Saturday, just as I get on the freeway, this cop pulls up right behind me - tailgates me all the way until the exit, where he pulls me over. (Listen, I understand he doesn't want me to get away but - damn - this ain't Al Capone!) He yells about how I passed him when he was doing 80 and won't even let me tell him I had just got on the freeway. In fact, he won't let me talk at all. "I don't want to hear it," he keeps saying. Then, he tells me he's letting me off easy by only giving me a ticket for doing 75. Hold on. If I really did do over 80 (dick said I was doing over 90 easy), why not cut me a ticket for that? Why not use your dash cam to show me blasting past him in court? Why write a ticket for 75? I'm a little lost and a little fucked, cause there's a reason Vicky and I both drive like old people: we're poor and we can't afford tickets. God-dammit.
Vicky asked her brother, who is also a CHiPie, why this guy was such a dick. He said, "A lot of them are." At least, he's honest.
Fortunately, I got home just in time for a rejection notice. I'd written After You Fall after a theater had requested I submit something for the new season - in a way, I wish they hadn't because they ended up rejecting it. But, at least, it means I can submit it to other theaters... I guess.
Then, Sunday, after I took a long ride (more on that later), I came home to find Vicky washing Shipoopi in the tub. Downstairs, I found something on the floor - I thought Shipoopi had Shipeepeed. After I cleaned it up, though, I found more on the floor. It was water. Lots of water! Leaking from the ceiling!! It was our tub! Leaking through the floor!
... great weekend. Lots of fun.
Let's hope it's not a lead-in to tonight's mid-term...
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
More reasons not to drink from a bottle...
As many of you who read me frequently (with my humblest thanks) will know, Vicky and I do our best to avoid drinks in plastic. Especially water!
After a while, you learn just how wrong it tastes and it's not so hard to avoid.
For those still indulging, however, take a look at this:
Laboratory tests conducted for EWG at one of the countryʼs leading waterquality laboratories found 38 contaminants in ten brands of bottled water purchased from grocery stores and other retailers in nine states and the District of Columbia. The pollutants identified include common urban wastewater pollutants like caffeine and pharmaceuticals, an array of cancer-causing byproducts from municipal tap water chlorination, heavy metals and minerals including arsenic and radioactive isotopes, fertilizer residue and a broad range of industrial chemicals. Four brands were also contaminated with bacteria.
After a while, you learn just how wrong it tastes and it's not so hard to avoid.
For those still indulging, however, take a look at this:
Laboratory tests conducted for EWG at one of the countryʼs leading waterquality laboratories found 38 contaminants in ten brands of bottled water purchased from grocery stores and other retailers in nine states and the District of Columbia. The pollutants identified include common urban wastewater pollutants like caffeine and pharmaceuticals, an array of cancer-causing byproducts from municipal tap water chlorination, heavy metals and minerals including arsenic and radioactive isotopes, fertilizer residue and a broad range of industrial chemicals. Four brands were also contaminated with bacteria.
Happy Birthday Ken
I know that all of our One Path fans have been reading about the new bike Ken got for his birthday. I took a picture of it as soon as we brought it home and was supposed to email to Ken. He thinks that I forgot to email the picture to him (as would be typical Vicky fashion), but I've been purposely holding onto it so that I can post it for his birthday...Ha! I got him good.
Happy Birthday Honey...here's to you!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Santa Ana Windy Trail...
Okay, first off, these Santa Ana Winds. Not my fault! Honestly. I know I'm from Santa Ana and I am a blow hard but, honestly - the winds - didn't do it.
But it's a bitch if you're into biking. Those gusts would blow me on my ass faster than I could say "Hey, it's really windy out here, don't you think? It sure is windier than in any time recently and, in fact, I believe it's very windy, which is saying something if your whole point is to show that a hefty gust of wind might knock you down from atop your bicycle."
(It was funny to me!)
Saturday, I took the Giant, the new bike, out to my mom's house for a ride. I brought her the DVD copy of my dad's memorial service because, really, it's like those pictures they give you after the roller coaster - actually, I don't know why we would ever want to see that again. All I knew was that I had my mom's copy and I needed to drop it off. I hadn't done a ride, yet, that day, and Vicky was looking for a way to get rid of me. "Drive? Why drive when you can get there so much slower on your bike? Heck, while you're at it you might as well take in Maine. I hear the leaves are just beautiful this time of year. Would you like to work your way to Murmansk? I hear that's fun!"
On Saturday, the wind was coming from the coast and with a healthy gust. Actually, I don't mean healthy for me. I was panting and huffing and puffing, trying to pedal against the wind. I kept my speed over 13mph, not too bad considering, but there were a couple of times when my bike literally got out of the wind's way. It's so light (that's the bike - not me!) that it just hopped over a few inches, leaving me to worry... a lot. And that taught me to just steer clear of these Santa Anas.
By the way, I made it the 22 miles to my mom's and back in less than 90 minutes, didn't take in Maine, didn't go to Murmansk. Vicky was a bit disappointed.
But it's a bitch if you're into biking. Those gusts would blow me on my ass faster than I could say "Hey, it's really windy out here, don't you think? It sure is windier than in any time recently and, in fact, I believe it's very windy, which is saying something if your whole point is to show that a hefty gust of wind might knock you down from atop your bicycle."
(It was funny to me!)
Saturday, I took the Giant, the new bike, out to my mom's house for a ride. I brought her the DVD copy of my dad's memorial service because, really, it's like those pictures they give you after the roller coaster - actually, I don't know why we would ever want to see that again. All I knew was that I had my mom's copy and I needed to drop it off. I hadn't done a ride, yet, that day, and Vicky was looking for a way to get rid of me. "Drive? Why drive when you can get there so much slower on your bike? Heck, while you're at it you might as well take in Maine. I hear the leaves are just beautiful this time of year. Would you like to work your way to Murmansk? I hear that's fun!"
On Saturday, the wind was coming from the coast and with a healthy gust. Actually, I don't mean healthy for me. I was panting and huffing and puffing, trying to pedal against the wind. I kept my speed over 13mph, not too bad considering, but there were a couple of times when my bike literally got out of the wind's way. It's so light (that's the bike - not me!) that it just hopped over a few inches, leaving me to worry... a lot. And that taught me to just steer clear of these Santa Anas.
By the way, I made it the 22 miles to my mom's and back in less than 90 minutes, didn't take in Maine, didn't go to Murmansk. Vicky was a bit disappointed.
Friday, October 10, 2008
That's how the cookie crumbles...
Holy fuck balls on a hot shit biscuit! My favorite all-time most wonderful cookie in the world is no more!!
Mother's Cookies has gone out of business!!!
No more circus animals! No more yummy-tummy circus animals!!!!
Why must the universe hate us fat people so???
Mother's Cookies has gone out of business!!!
No more circus animals! No more yummy-tummy circus animals!!!!
Why must the universe hate us fat people so???
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Winter came early this year...
Don't worry. I'm not going to write about Global Cooling (yet another attempt by idiots to obfuscate the climate change issue). Nor am I going to write about my morning rides... although I pedalled over six miles this morning and realized my seat is just way too high. It's adjustment time!
No, this morning the issue is these morons at work and the damned Air Conditioner!!!
This place is usually a sauna. The folks in charge are so cheap they never crank the AC below 90. This morning, however, something new has happened. Someone's hit the AC, and they hit it HARD!
And we're freezing. Frost is forming on our coffee cups. Roaches are ice skating in the urinals. Idiots.
I'm at my desk right now, waiting for lunch and the possibility of sitting outside in the warm afternoon sun. As I have to sit in this ice box, though, I thought I'd write about the things that are keeping me warm. You see, I'm thinking about warm things today. Here's my list:
1) No list could start without my lovely Vicky. She warms me up, even when she's cold. I'm her personal furnace and when she's cold she snuggles against me and the world can be damned because ours is perfect. All I need to do is picture Vicky beside me and I instantly feel better.
(But then I open my eyes to type this and get cold again... dammit!)
2) Suki's belly. This morning, when I came home, Suki was very lovey dovey. She gave me her belly and rolled on her back and as I rubbed it she gave me very warm kissed on my arm. I should mention, however, that my arm was salty with sweat... so...
3) Shipoopi's belly. What can I say? You can't beat puppy belly! And Shipoopi has the sweetest, little puppy belly in the world. It's soft and warm and i just want to gobble it up!
... yes, I'm a freak.
4) Alacrity. My gentleman cat is still right there by my side, ready to loyally warm me up at a moment's notice. He laid down with me on the sofa the other night and we had the first snuggle in a long while. He is pretty much the perfect cat when it comes to being loyal and loving and true.
5) Blackrock Depths.
6) The Sunwell.
... what? It's been a while since I've played WoW!!!
No, this morning the issue is these morons at work and the damned Air Conditioner!!!
This place is usually a sauna. The folks in charge are so cheap they never crank the AC below 90. This morning, however, something new has happened. Someone's hit the AC, and they hit it HARD!
And we're freezing. Frost is forming on our coffee cups. Roaches are ice skating in the urinals. Idiots.
I'm at my desk right now, waiting for lunch and the possibility of sitting outside in the warm afternoon sun. As I have to sit in this ice box, though, I thought I'd write about the things that are keeping me warm. You see, I'm thinking about warm things today. Here's my list:
1) No list could start without my lovely Vicky. She warms me up, even when she's cold. I'm her personal furnace and when she's cold she snuggles against me and the world can be damned because ours is perfect. All I need to do is picture Vicky beside me and I instantly feel better.
(But then I open my eyes to type this and get cold again... dammit!)
2) Suki's belly. This morning, when I came home, Suki was very lovey dovey. She gave me her belly and rolled on her back and as I rubbed it she gave me very warm kissed on my arm. I should mention, however, that my arm was salty with sweat... so...
3) Shipoopi's belly. What can I say? You can't beat puppy belly! And Shipoopi has the sweetest, little puppy belly in the world. It's soft and warm and i just want to gobble it up!
... yes, I'm a freak.
4) Alacrity. My gentleman cat is still right there by my side, ready to loyally warm me up at a moment's notice. He laid down with me on the sofa the other night and we had the first snuggle in a long while. He is pretty much the perfect cat when it comes to being loyal and loving and true.
5) Blackrock Depths.
6) The Sunwell.
... what? It's been a while since I've played WoW!!!
Monday, October 06, 2008
Happy Birthday to me... Two whole weeks early...
Vicky spoils me - but I don't mind.
Yesterday, we went out looking at bikes. The intent was not to buy - but you know how that works, right? Seriously, why the hell look?
Our first stop was Jax, a southern California chain. We walked in, it was nicely laid out, not crowded or overrun... with help or service... In fact, no one even spoke to us. On top of that, they appeared to sell only one brand of bike, Trek, which I've read a few less than flattering things about. Out we walked...
After that, we went right to Orange Cycle. This place is right by the Orange Circle and although they're always busy there is a reason for that. Bottom line is they're a good shop and they know their stuff. Vicky and I have brought both of our bikes down there. My bike got a cheapo tune-up - they don't throw in stuff you don't need - and I got set up with some lights and a cycling computer. I also got my kevlars there; they just slapped them right on. Vicky's bike got a cheapo tune-up, too. They didn't charge her much; her bike was in pretty good shape. You have to wait a bit but that's because everyone brings their bike there; I'd worry if they weren't busy.
So, when we went in they were busy, as expected. Al, one of the guys, came right up to us though, and asked, "What do you need?" Now, listen, I've been reading a lot of stuff on bikes but I'm still basically a novice. I gave him our price range, told him what kind of riding I was going to be doing, what kind I've done, what I'm presently riding - and just like that, bam, he found one for me. It was over $100 below my limit but it had more features than I thought I'd be able to afford. I asked him if I could take it out for a test and he said, "Sure. Let's go." They're no-nonsense attitude works well because they're not gonna waste your time, either.
Outside, we were put in Zak's hands. He fitted the bike for me. We talked about the different kind of riding I should expect and he said, "Take it around the block and tell me what you think." Allrighty, then. Off I went. Now, the bike that has served me so well for these past seven years is a 15 year-old mountain bike. Heavy with kevlar tires that make it more heavy - so this new one took off like a sleek weasel and I was out on the road before I knew what hit me... and speaking of things hitting me, only then did I realize I was riding sans helmet. That kind of freaked me out a bit. But, too late for that, I decided just to take it in and enjoy it. The block zipped by in what felt like seconds and I was back.
"What did you think?" Zak asked. I told him about a couple of problem areas and he made a couple more adjustments - and out I went again. This time, I rode for two blocks, relishing in the very different gearing and the unbearable lightness of biking - I swear, I could have lifted the bike and myself right off the road! It felt really good.
The bike, which in case you haven't guessed already is now my new bike - my early birthday present - is a Giant TCR2. It was priced at $1250 but I got it for $899. In case you're wondering, yes, it really sells for $1250. A little web searching brought up prices exceeding that. Better still, it comes with Michelin Kevlar tires, not stock tires. I was shocked at how light they were, compared to the Armadillos on my other bike. So, better tires and a cheaper price. It was a pretty fair deal. I had them hook me up with lights for those late night and early morning rides and a cycling computer - because I'm taking this one on my first century ride: 100 miles. I don't know when but it's just the bike for the job.
This morning, I took the bike out at 5:30am. I didn't know how far I'd go but I wanted to get some time and miles on it. I didn't even make it to the river before I realized two important things: First, I went fast. Very fast. This was good. Second, I was cold. Very cold. This was bad. And sadly, they were both related, because I wouldn't have been so cold if I hadn't gone so fast. I'm going to need to adjust to this new bike in more ways that I expected.
Give me time.
Yesterday, we went out looking at bikes. The intent was not to buy - but you know how that works, right? Seriously, why the hell look?
Our first stop was Jax, a southern California chain. We walked in, it was nicely laid out, not crowded or overrun... with help or service... In fact, no one even spoke to us. On top of that, they appeared to sell only one brand of bike, Trek, which I've read a few less than flattering things about. Out we walked...
After that, we went right to Orange Cycle. This place is right by the Orange Circle and although they're always busy there is a reason for that. Bottom line is they're a good shop and they know their stuff. Vicky and I have brought both of our bikes down there. My bike got a cheapo tune-up - they don't throw in stuff you don't need - and I got set up with some lights and a cycling computer. I also got my kevlars there; they just slapped them right on. Vicky's bike got a cheapo tune-up, too. They didn't charge her much; her bike was in pretty good shape. You have to wait a bit but that's because everyone brings their bike there; I'd worry if they weren't busy.
So, when we went in they were busy, as expected. Al, one of the guys, came right up to us though, and asked, "What do you need?" Now, listen, I've been reading a lot of stuff on bikes but I'm still basically a novice. I gave him our price range, told him what kind of riding I was going to be doing, what kind I've done, what I'm presently riding - and just like that, bam, he found one for me. It was over $100 below my limit but it had more features than I thought I'd be able to afford. I asked him if I could take it out for a test and he said, "Sure. Let's go." They're no-nonsense attitude works well because they're not gonna waste your time, either.
Outside, we were put in Zak's hands. He fitted the bike for me. We talked about the different kind of riding I should expect and he said, "Take it around the block and tell me what you think." Allrighty, then. Off I went. Now, the bike that has served me so well for these past seven years is a 15 year-old mountain bike. Heavy with kevlar tires that make it more heavy - so this new one took off like a sleek weasel and I was out on the road before I knew what hit me... and speaking of things hitting me, only then did I realize I was riding sans helmet. That kind of freaked me out a bit. But, too late for that, I decided just to take it in and enjoy it. The block zipped by in what felt like seconds and I was back.
"What did you think?" Zak asked. I told him about a couple of problem areas and he made a couple more adjustments - and out I went again. This time, I rode for two blocks, relishing in the very different gearing and the unbearable lightness of biking - I swear, I could have lifted the bike and myself right off the road! It felt really good.
The bike, which in case you haven't guessed already is now my new bike - my early birthday present - is a Giant TCR2. It was priced at $1250 but I got it for $899. In case you're wondering, yes, it really sells for $1250. A little web searching brought up prices exceeding that. Better still, it comes with Michelin Kevlar tires, not stock tires. I was shocked at how light they were, compared to the Armadillos on my other bike. So, better tires and a cheaper price. It was a pretty fair deal. I had them hook me up with lights for those late night and early morning rides and a cycling computer - because I'm taking this one on my first century ride: 100 miles. I don't know when but it's just the bike for the job.
This morning, I took the bike out at 5:30am. I didn't know how far I'd go but I wanted to get some time and miles on it. I didn't even make it to the river before I realized two important things: First, I went fast. Very fast. This was good. Second, I was cold. Very cold. This was bad. And sadly, they were both related, because I wouldn't have been so cold if I hadn't gone so fast. I'm going to need to adjust to this new bike in more ways that I expected.
Give me time.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Crappy day syndrome...
You ever have one of those days that starts out bad and just continues to get worse? Even when you think, "Well, the bright side is it can't possible get worse," it gets worse still!
Welcome to my day.
The worst part about it, though, was that I rode my bike into work. Now, if you think a crappy day can really bring you down, imagine how stripped of gumption you'd be if you had to bike home! Got that? Now, imagine how hard it would be to bike ten more miles on top of that - because that's generally the plan for tonight.
I'm writing this down so you know you're not alone. I'm on the Crappy Day Express, too... the one that's busted an axle and gone off the tracks and is waiting for Pete's sake to get moving and FUCKING END ALREADY!!!!
... and if it sticks around for the weekend, I'm really going to be pissed...
Welcome to my day.
The worst part about it, though, was that I rode my bike into work. Now, if you think a crappy day can really bring you down, imagine how stripped of gumption you'd be if you had to bike home! Got that? Now, imagine how hard it would be to bike ten more miles on top of that - because that's generally the plan for tonight.
I'm writing this down so you know you're not alone. I'm on the Crappy Day Express, too... the one that's busted an axle and gone off the tracks and is waiting for Pete's sake to get moving and FUCKING END ALREADY!!!!
... and if it sticks around for the weekend, I'm really going to be pissed...
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Desperate Louse-wives...
It's generally acknowledged (in my house, at least) that Desperate Housewives has gone nowhere but downhill - fast - since its first season. Vicky and I have still watched it, though, hoping it would get better.
After watching the 5th season's premiere episode last night, however, I can assure you it's just not going to happen. Vicky and I were relieved in a way, thinking it was the show's final season... um... it's not!
After last night, I'm going to hate watching this show, but I will... for Vicky, because I already avoid several other shows she enjoys. I'm going to hate watching it but it'll give Vicky and I something to hate together. I'm not going to hate it because of the actresses or their characters; Vicky and I have rooted for them all. I'm not going to hate it because of the history; we've stuck it out through thick and thin. You want to know what I hate? I hate how obviously bored the creator, Marc Cherry, has become and how he's grown to detest his characters. That's the only explanation I can come up with. Take a look at the run-down:
Susan Mayer fell in love with Mike. Then, she lost him. Then, she got him. Then, she lost him. Then, she got her hair done. Then, she did some other stuff. Then, she got him, again... and again... This season, there's not even a pretense as to why she lost him. She dumped him because... of no fault of his own... But you know that by the end of the season she'll get him again.
Lynette Scavo has parenting issues. She always has. So does her husband. Every fucking season. I'm sick of it. Now? She still has parenting issues. The family needs to be locked up.
Bree Van de Camp isn't happy unless she's made everyone in the world feel like shit on her heel. We all enjoy watching her machinations - but this season, she's basically asking for pity because... she sucks... and not even in a way that would make Olsen look slightly less pussy-whipped.
Finally, there's Gabby and Carlos. Vicky and I have loved Gabby and Carlos. We couldn't wait for them to find their way to each other. Now, they're happily together (and you know Carlos will see again by season's end) and they're the Scavo's in year 4 of parenting, lousy at it and getting worse every day.
The thing is that Cherry can't find a story unless people are unhappy, which is fine in season one but he keeps returning to that well. He's returned so often, he's digging the well deeper and deeper and digging himself deeper as well. I can't imagine the actors finding a whole of fun in playing out the same storylines and if he really enjoyed the characters he'd give them something interesting to do!! Give us something interesting to watch!!
This isn't like Jericho. Vicky and I watched Jericho BECAUSE it was bad. We enjoyed how confused they were about basic science. But these lousy spouses aren't even fun to watch. They're the pathetic neighbors people talk about in disgust but never want to have to talk to.
So, let this serve as a warning: You have better things to do. Meanwhile, I'll make this sacrifice for my marriage.
After watching the 5th season's premiere episode last night, however, I can assure you it's just not going to happen. Vicky and I were relieved in a way, thinking it was the show's final season... um... it's not!
After last night, I'm going to hate watching this show, but I will... for Vicky, because I already avoid several other shows she enjoys. I'm going to hate watching it but it'll give Vicky and I something to hate together. I'm not going to hate it because of the actresses or their characters; Vicky and I have rooted for them all. I'm not going to hate it because of the history; we've stuck it out through thick and thin. You want to know what I hate? I hate how obviously bored the creator, Marc Cherry, has become and how he's grown to detest his characters. That's the only explanation I can come up with. Take a look at the run-down:
Susan Mayer fell in love with Mike. Then, she lost him. Then, she got him. Then, she lost him. Then, she got her hair done. Then, she did some other stuff. Then, she got him, again... and again... This season, there's not even a pretense as to why she lost him. She dumped him because... of no fault of his own... But you know that by the end of the season she'll get him again.
Lynette Scavo has parenting issues. She always has. So does her husband. Every fucking season. I'm sick of it. Now? She still has parenting issues. The family needs to be locked up.
Bree Van de Camp isn't happy unless she's made everyone in the world feel like shit on her heel. We all enjoy watching her machinations - but this season, she's basically asking for pity because... she sucks... and not even in a way that would make Olsen look slightly less pussy-whipped.
Finally, there's Gabby and Carlos. Vicky and I have loved Gabby and Carlos. We couldn't wait for them to find their way to each other. Now, they're happily together (and you know Carlos will see again by season's end) and they're the Scavo's in year 4 of parenting, lousy at it and getting worse every day.
The thing is that Cherry can't find a story unless people are unhappy, which is fine in season one but he keeps returning to that well. He's returned so often, he's digging the well deeper and deeper and digging himself deeper as well. I can't imagine the actors finding a whole of fun in playing out the same storylines and if he really enjoyed the characters he'd give them something interesting to do!! Give us something interesting to watch!!
This isn't like Jericho. Vicky and I watched Jericho BECAUSE it was bad. We enjoyed how confused they were about basic science. But these lousy spouses aren't even fun to watch. They're the pathetic neighbors people talk about in disgust but never want to have to talk to.
So, let this serve as a warning: You have better things to do. Meanwhile, I'll make this sacrifice for my marriage.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a house...
Milestones to report.
I passed 16 miles this morning. It hurt a great deal and I really had to push it but I did it, which will make the 13 miles to work this Friday that much easier! It'll be nice riding to work again (and getting a day off from the 22 freeway!!!).
When I got home, I jumped into the shower to wash off the bugs - ick! After, I thought I'd step on the scale and listen to it scream in agony... but it didn't. In fact...
... I went downstairs to the Wii to confirm my findings on WiiFit.
Holy crap! I've finally dropped beneath 250 pounds!!! It's a shock because I've been working on this since before May! And I've been riding pretty regularly since July, waiting for something good to happen. I've been feeling healthier (okay, except for the recent cold!) but haven't found any luck on the scale at all. Finally, I can see a change!
Mind you, I'm far from my target weight... really far... really fucking far, but it's a step in the right direction.
And about time!
I passed 16 miles this morning. It hurt a great deal and I really had to push it but I did it, which will make the 13 miles to work this Friday that much easier! It'll be nice riding to work again (and getting a day off from the 22 freeway!!!).
When I got home, I jumped into the shower to wash off the bugs - ick! After, I thought I'd step on the scale and listen to it scream in agony... but it didn't. In fact...
... I went downstairs to the Wii to confirm my findings on WiiFit.
Holy crap! I've finally dropped beneath 250 pounds!!! It's a shock because I've been working on this since before May! And I've been riding pretty regularly since July, waiting for something good to happen. I've been feeling healthier (okay, except for the recent cold!) but haven't found any luck on the scale at all. Finally, I can see a change!
Mind you, I'm far from my target weight... really far... really fucking far, but it's a step in the right direction.
And about time!
Monday, September 29, 2008
And back to 10...
Okay, actually 11.33. That's what I rode yesterday after spending two days struggling to so much as pedal.
Here's something they don't tell you: If you take a few days off, you're fucked. Really, we should be seriously hitting them for not telling us that.
I took a few days off from cycling - okay, about a week - and starting again was torture. Vicky tried to remind me that I wasn't completely over my cold but that didn't matter because I shouldn't have had to start off at square one all over again! Dammit!
And that's pretty much what I'm doing, struggling to carry myself just a wee bit over 10 miles, straining to take the smallest hills, killing myself just to go 14 mph! It's murder! And I hate it!
I can't wait until I can go further!
By the way, here are a few things I learned about my bike over the weekend. I knew it wasn't the best bike out there... and I hate being right. It's a 1993 model mountain bike. Its steel frame and kevlar tires add a lot of weight to the equation and keep me slow. But, you know what? I'm okay with that. I mean, the primary goal is to help me lose weight and struggling with a heavier bike may actually be good for me.
It could also give me a stroke.
Which would mean I'd have to start all over again... dammit...
Here's something they don't tell you: If you take a few days off, you're fucked. Really, we should be seriously hitting them for not telling us that.
I took a few days off from cycling - okay, about a week - and starting again was torture. Vicky tried to remind me that I wasn't completely over my cold but that didn't matter because I shouldn't have had to start off at square one all over again! Dammit!
And that's pretty much what I'm doing, struggling to carry myself just a wee bit over 10 miles, straining to take the smallest hills, killing myself just to go 14 mph! It's murder! And I hate it!
I can't wait until I can go further!
By the way, here are a few things I learned about my bike over the weekend. I knew it wasn't the best bike out there... and I hate being right. It's a 1993 model mountain bike. Its steel frame and kevlar tires add a lot of weight to the equation and keep me slow. But, you know what? I'm okay with that. I mean, the primary goal is to help me lose weight and struggling with a heavier bike may actually be good for me.
It could also give me a stroke.
Which would mean I'd have to start all over again... dammit...
Saturday, September 27, 2008
From 50 to 5 in just a couple of weeks...
(Alternate title: When you fall of a horse... kill it. Kill it and eat it. Then, eat some more. Then, kick it - beat it with a tire iron - revel in its innards - ... I'm sorry, where was I?)
Did I mention that I've been sick? Well, I have. I've been sick now for over a week... it sucks.
But I've been dying to get back on my bike, especially after my 50 mile ride. I've wanted to get off the river trail, move into some hills, take on some different scenery... but then, I got sick. Dammit.
Still, last night I gathered myself up and decided it was time to start cycling again. I even lubed up the chain - which isn't the metaphor Vicky thought I was going for when I told her, I actually lubed up the chain! I felt like a real bike mechanic dude and, anyway, I'd done so much riding the chain was squeaking quite a bit.
This morning, I went out at about 5:45 and rode. I rode and rode and returned, sweating, heaving, my nose running, at 6:20, feeling like I'd done myself proud.
... then, I saw the stats from my odometer: 5.5 miles, 11.9 mph average... crap.
Well, time to shoot for 10, I guess.
Did I mention that I've been sick? Well, I have. I've been sick now for over a week... it sucks.
But I've been dying to get back on my bike, especially after my 50 mile ride. I've wanted to get off the river trail, move into some hills, take on some different scenery... but then, I got sick. Dammit.
Still, last night I gathered myself up and decided it was time to start cycling again. I even lubed up the chain - which isn't the metaphor Vicky thought I was going for when I told her, I actually lubed up the chain! I felt like a real bike mechanic dude and, anyway, I'd done so much riding the chain was squeaking quite a bit.
This morning, I went out at about 5:45 and rode. I rode and rode and returned, sweating, heaving, my nose running, at 6:20, feeling like I'd done myself proud.
... then, I saw the stats from my odometer: 5.5 miles, 11.9 mph average... crap.
Well, time to shoot for 10, I guess.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Anti-smoking that came before Anti-smoking...
Today marks nine months since I quit smoking, with only one three-cigarette detour at my father's memorial service. I officially quit on Christmas Day 2007 and since that time have come to appreciate things like cycling, deep breathing... air...
But my personal anti-smoking marker - at nine months, it's like an anti-smoking baby! - falls serindipitously on the anniversary of another anti-smoking point in history. I'm talking about the move of physicians to stop smoking. No, not in the 1960's. We're talking a long time before then.
September 25, 1878, Dr. Charles Drysdale issued his warnings against smoking.
Well over a hundred years ago.
Thanks, doc. I'm glad I finally listened.
But my personal anti-smoking marker - at nine months, it's like an anti-smoking baby! - falls serindipitously on the anniversary of another anti-smoking point in history. I'm talking about the move of physicians to stop smoking. No, not in the 1960's. We're talking a long time before then.
September 25, 1878, Dr. Charles Drysdale issued his warnings against smoking.
Well over a hundred years ago.
Thanks, doc. I'm glad I finally listened.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Smackin' my kid around...
Okay. Okay. Not yet.
I don't even have a kid.
But I think about what kind of parent I'll be when I do have one and I hope I'll be good at it.
There's an article on Slate that has me thinking this morning about just that. I often hear people give arguments for and against whopping on a kid. "My kid knows I'll hit him if he misbehaves." "Kids who don't get hit think they can get away with anything."
... not very convincing.
One point this article makes is: Opponents of corporal punishment also advance moral and legal arguments. If you hit another adult you can be arrested and sued, after all, so shouldn't our smallest, weakest citizens have a right to equal or even more-than-equal protection under the law? In this country, if you do the same thing to your dog that you do to your child, you're more likely to get in trouble for mistreating the dog.
Anyway, it's an interesting read and worth your time.
I don't even have a kid.
But I think about what kind of parent I'll be when I do have one and I hope I'll be good at it.
There's an article on Slate that has me thinking this morning about just that. I often hear people give arguments for and against whopping on a kid. "My kid knows I'll hit him if he misbehaves." "Kids who don't get hit think they can get away with anything."
... not very convincing.
One point this article makes is: Opponents of corporal punishment also advance moral and legal arguments. If you hit another adult you can be arrested and sued, after all, so shouldn't our smallest, weakest citizens have a right to equal or even more-than-equal protection under the law? In this country, if you do the same thing to your dog that you do to your child, you're more likely to get in trouble for mistreating the dog.
Anyway, it's an interesting read and worth your time.
Vicky and Ken: Year Three...
Just weeks after we met, I told her I loved her.
We set a date before we knew it.
After a couple of months, I was on one knee in her mother's restaurant, proposing.
Though I hadn't sworn off marriage, I never really thought I'd meet someone I'd actually want to marry - let alone rush headlong into it at the speed with which Vicky and I were wed.
Now, I'm not going to tell you Vicky is perfect. Don't misunderstand me. She's not.
But every day, when I'm at work, I look forward to seeing her face. My hand instinctively goes for hers. There's nothing better than spending a day with her.
Vicky sometimes complains that, while I'm quick to tell people I love her, I never seem to mention reasons why. And she's right. And I've done a lot of meditating on that problem... and she's right. But it's like trying to find reasons why you love air. Seriously. You take the smoggiest skies. You take the dirtiest air. Bet you wouldn't want to breathe anything else. Sure, there's cleaner air but that's still air. You can only think of one reason why, too, and that's because you'd die if you breathed anything else.
Take it from someone who knows.
Give me Vicky at her worst and there's nobody else I'd rather have by my side. Would I rather have her at her best - well, that goes without saying. Fortunately, the days she's at her worst are few and far between.
... this isn't coming across nearly as romantic as I'd hoped...
Vicky's fond of saying, usually when I'm sick, "In sickness and in health, right?" She repeats snips of our wedding vows back to me as if to say, "You'll make it up to me." I'm grateful that she gets how I can't always be at my best, either, that she allows me my humanity. That's a reason why I love her so much. There's more, of course, because in those times when I can't carry my fair share, she takes the heavier part of the load. That's why I love her so much. And while I'd probably point it out - "By the way, did you notice how I've been taking care of Shipoopi and Suki every day when I get home?" - she doesn't bother... mostly because she knows I'm so fucking neurotic I kick myself when I don't do enough. That's why I love her so much. In short, Vicky's got my back. She looks out for me. She's the best friend I have in the whole world and I probably don't deserve her and she probably deserves far better than me.
... and, yes. That's why I love her so much - but that's not quite it.
I love her because she's Vicky. That's why I love her so much.
We set a date before we knew it.
After a couple of months, I was on one knee in her mother's restaurant, proposing.
Though I hadn't sworn off marriage, I never really thought I'd meet someone I'd actually want to marry - let alone rush headlong into it at the speed with which Vicky and I were wed.
Now, I'm not going to tell you Vicky is perfect. Don't misunderstand me. She's not.
But every day, when I'm at work, I look forward to seeing her face. My hand instinctively goes for hers. There's nothing better than spending a day with her.
Vicky sometimes complains that, while I'm quick to tell people I love her, I never seem to mention reasons why. And she's right. And I've done a lot of meditating on that problem... and she's right. But it's like trying to find reasons why you love air. Seriously. You take the smoggiest skies. You take the dirtiest air. Bet you wouldn't want to breathe anything else. Sure, there's cleaner air but that's still air. You can only think of one reason why, too, and that's because you'd die if you breathed anything else.
Take it from someone who knows.
Give me Vicky at her worst and there's nobody else I'd rather have by my side. Would I rather have her at her best - well, that goes without saying. Fortunately, the days she's at her worst are few and far between.
... this isn't coming across nearly as romantic as I'd hoped...
Vicky's fond of saying, usually when I'm sick, "In sickness and in health, right?" She repeats snips of our wedding vows back to me as if to say, "You'll make it up to me." I'm grateful that she gets how I can't always be at my best, either, that she allows me my humanity. That's a reason why I love her so much. There's more, of course, because in those times when I can't carry my fair share, she takes the heavier part of the load. That's why I love her so much. And while I'd probably point it out - "By the way, did you notice how I've been taking care of Shipoopi and Suki every day when I get home?" - she doesn't bother... mostly because she knows I'm so fucking neurotic I kick myself when I don't do enough. That's why I love her so much. In short, Vicky's got my back. She looks out for me. She's the best friend I have in the whole world and I probably don't deserve her and she probably deserves far better than me.
... and, yes. That's why I love her so much - but that's not quite it.
I love her because she's Vicky. That's why I love her so much.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
On waiting the day before...
On the day before my third wedding anniversary, I find myself with an uncommon lack of anything to write about. In fact, I kind of wish it was Wednesday so I can write about the actual anniversary. And it's this impatience that reminds me very well of another impatience... and gives me something to write about...
The day before my wedding, for me, was a wasted day. Basically, I watched time pass and thought about the tuxedo that waited for me in Clostio's hotel room.
Clostio, my best man, was staying at a hotel in Garden Grove and Sean drove me over there in the middle of the day. He couldn't stick around long, Megan was sick, so he dropped me off and was on his way. Clostio and I didn't really have anything planned so we mulled about while I looked at my tuxedo and figured I had a full day before I'd get to wear it. Then, we walked, which is something we normally did. We hoofed it up Garden Grove Boulevard to Harbor, stopping at the Dairy Queen for fattenning foods - I was off my diet - and several smokes. I don't remember what we talked about while we were there but the memory of us talking is a good one; I haven't seen Clostio in a couple of years.
We walked and walked, just passing time as the sky turned dark.
I couldn't sleep. I walked around in the middle of the night.
The next morning crawled by as I got my hair cut, and Sean, Clostio, and I hit Denny's for breakfast... and we waited. Now, for a little context, Vicky and her friends were having a blast, whooping it up - but I wasn't having quite so much fun. The truth is I wanted more than anything to see Vicky and to marry her. There were a variety of reasons ranging from me being afraid I'd lose my nerve to just simply that I loved her. It wasn't so much that I wanted to get it over with; I just wanted to do it!
So, not surprisingly, I arrived at The Hacienda on the day of my wedding early. Easily an hour early! The guy at the door said they were still setting up. I, standing there in my tux, almost running in place, asked if the "groom group" could just hang out in the "groom's room". "No," he told me, calmly as though he was talking to a crazy person. "We're still setting up."
I replied, "Of course, you are," and got back in Jeff's car.
Back at the hotel, I was a wreck, pacing, gesticulating, and - yes - smoking.
Gail said, "Just get it out of your system. We can get the smell out." So the smoke was followed by gum, cologne, antibacterial hand wash... "It's good that you're nervous," she said. "You're supposed to be nervous. It shows you don't take this lightly."
Take it lightly? Obviously, Gail did not know with whom she was dealing.
Now, it's the day before our third anniversary. I'm barely getting over a cold and I really hope I'm over it tomorrow. I'd like to lay a big fat kiss - or ten - on my wife but I don't want to get her sick; it would be a bad way to start year four, you know? But the impatience is familiar and, when we go out tomorrow night, I'll probably be ready an hour early.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Obama's got one, too!...
I know. I know. The big news today is McSame and his 13 cars, multi-millions, outta touch, yada yada yada - Isn't it enough that he has horrible policies and lies a lot?
Listen, the real news, for those of you paying attention is Obama and his family's one car. Vicky always says we couldn't make it with just one car but it's going to be harder for her to maintain that argument now that we know Obama and Vicky have...
The same car!!!
That's right. I guess Vicky doesn't need an Obumbersticker cause she has the whole damn car to show her support.
(No truth to the rumor that we planned it this way.)
Listen, the real news, for those of you paying attention is Obama and his family's one car. Vicky always says we couldn't make it with just one car but it's going to be harder for her to maintain that argument now that we know Obama and Vicky have...
The same car!!!
That's right. I guess Vicky doesn't need an Obumbersticker cause she has the whole damn car to show her support.
(No truth to the rumor that we planned it this way.)
Friday, September 19, 2008
Just wondering...
Ever have one of those colds that made you think that buying stock in Kleenex might not be such a bad idea??
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Before and After...
I know I've been writing quite a bit about cycling lately. Consider it my addiction. But I promise to cut back soon, on the writing if not the cycling. I'm presently at a point where I keep hitting markers, landmarks if you will, where I exceed what I thought was possible.
... and this afternoon, my sinuses began to cry "Headcold! Headcold!"
Damn. I've fought off so many headcolds since my last that I should be thankful but all I can think of is "Not now! My last ride of the week is tomorrow! I'm missing days this week! I don't want to be sick, too!!"
I think it's just tough luck.
So, today, I thought I'd sit here with my increasingly stuffed-up head and my sneezes and my body aches and look back at how much I've accomplished since I started cycling. Once I started, I realized, I have quite a bit to be proud of.
For instance, the day I was offered my current job I took a long bike ride: 10 miles. Now, I'm up to 50. My daily ride is up to 17 1/2 miles. It used to take me three rest stops to do that. Now, I ride it straight through. Back then, I was lucky to hit 20 mph if I really pushed myself, and could only do it for a very short time. Now, I can maintain speeds of up to 18 and 19 mph for pretty good distances. My normal speed used to be 10 mph, now its about 14.
When I first started cycling, I wore what shorts and t-shirts I had. I still do, but on long rides I wear cycling shorts and t-shirt to keep my cool and, um, padded. My bike now has headlights and taillights and a cyclocomputer on which I've logged nearly 700 miles!
Most importantly, though, is the difference I feel from one year or even five years ago. I didn't cycle five years ago. I'd try to jog now and then, blow out my knee, smoke and drink. Cycling doesn't take its toll on my knee nearly so much and, better still, I don't smoke and my drinking isn't nearly at the same level. (Though sometimes I really feel like tying one on!) Body aches aren't as bad and go away much faster. Hell, I rode 50 miles on Sunday and had recovered by Sunday night!
So, here I sit, sniffling, dreaming about what the future holds. And what is that? Well, I want to do more 50 mile rides, hopefully every Sunday. I also want to start changing up my routes, which includes leaving the security of the Santa Ana River Trail for more street riding. I think I can do that if I chose my streets wisely. That'll introduce more hills and a wider range, all of which will be good for me. Beyond that, though, I would really like to get a proper road bike. As I've mentioned here before, my bike is kind of cobbled together from one given to me by a friend. A real road bike will help me improve my performance and increase my range.
Once I get over this cold...
... and this afternoon, my sinuses began to cry "Headcold! Headcold!"
Damn. I've fought off so many headcolds since my last that I should be thankful but all I can think of is "Not now! My last ride of the week is tomorrow! I'm missing days this week! I don't want to be sick, too!!"
I think it's just tough luck.
So, today, I thought I'd sit here with my increasingly stuffed-up head and my sneezes and my body aches and look back at how much I've accomplished since I started cycling. Once I started, I realized, I have quite a bit to be proud of.
For instance, the day I was offered my current job I took a long bike ride: 10 miles. Now, I'm up to 50. My daily ride is up to 17 1/2 miles. It used to take me three rest stops to do that. Now, I ride it straight through. Back then, I was lucky to hit 20 mph if I really pushed myself, and could only do it for a very short time. Now, I can maintain speeds of up to 18 and 19 mph for pretty good distances. My normal speed used to be 10 mph, now its about 14.
When I first started cycling, I wore what shorts and t-shirts I had. I still do, but on long rides I wear cycling shorts and t-shirt to keep my cool and, um, padded. My bike now has headlights and taillights and a cyclocomputer on which I've logged nearly 700 miles!
Most importantly, though, is the difference I feel from one year or even five years ago. I didn't cycle five years ago. I'd try to jog now and then, blow out my knee, smoke and drink. Cycling doesn't take its toll on my knee nearly so much and, better still, I don't smoke and my drinking isn't nearly at the same level. (Though sometimes I really feel like tying one on!) Body aches aren't as bad and go away much faster. Hell, I rode 50 miles on Sunday and had recovered by Sunday night!
So, here I sit, sniffling, dreaming about what the future holds. And what is that? Well, I want to do more 50 mile rides, hopefully every Sunday. I also want to start changing up my routes, which includes leaving the security of the Santa Ana River Trail for more street riding. I think I can do that if I chose my streets wisely. That'll introduce more hills and a wider range, all of which will be good for me. Beyond that, though, I would really like to get a proper road bike. As I've mentioned here before, my bike is kind of cobbled together from one given to me by a friend. A real road bike will help me improve my performance and increase my range.
Once I get over this cold...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Short-haired Ken...
I'm not going to say my hair has gotten long, but is has grown far too long for my helmet. I must look like Animal (the Muppet) with my helmet on and all this hair sticking out at every angle!
Well, it's Animal no more after tonight because I'm going for my Wedding Anniversary cut tonight. I'm going to Terrilynn (who's name I am probably mispelling), the same woman who cut my hair on the day of my wedding.
I remember it very clearly. It was the first time she and I had met but Vicky had assured me she'd do a good job, and this was important because, after all, it was my wedding day. She washed my hair, I sat down in front of her mirror, and she asked, "So, what do you want done?" I told her how Vicky liked my hair short - so I wanted it really short. Really, really short. But I wanted it to look cool and I needed to look awesome because I'd be getting married in a few hours. I told her I'd trust her completely... and she want to work.
Meanwhile, Clostio was outside, smoking and sweating over the toast he'd have to give in a few hours at the reception, and Sean was basically writing it for him, which is ironic because Clostio was the writer.
For those who haven't seen what my hair looked like on that day, you can check our photo site. It was short but I told her, "Go shorter." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yeah. Go ahead." So, she went shorter. As she cut, I told her about how nervous I was about the wedding, about what a mess I'd made out of my first marriage and how important it was for me to make Vicky happy.
Meanwhile, Vicky and her friends were partying it up, having a grand, old time. She wasn't nervous at all.
But I knew better.
My favorite part of the hair cut were the little accents she put in by twisting my hair. That's probably not going to happen so much tonight because I know I'll be back on my bike tomorrow morning, fucking up any genius Terrilynn puts in my hair, making a mess of her hard work.
Little traditions like this are important to me. They make things like my marriage more sacred, in a way. It's my way of saying, "I am still the man who loves you so much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you."
... besides, I don't think Vicky likes the idea of being married to Animal.
Well, it's Animal no more after tonight because I'm going for my Wedding Anniversary cut tonight. I'm going to Terrilynn (who's name I am probably mispelling), the same woman who cut my hair on the day of my wedding.
I remember it very clearly. It was the first time she and I had met but Vicky had assured me she'd do a good job, and this was important because, after all, it was my wedding day. She washed my hair, I sat down in front of her mirror, and she asked, "So, what do you want done?" I told her how Vicky liked my hair short - so I wanted it really short. Really, really short. But I wanted it to look cool and I needed to look awesome because I'd be getting married in a few hours. I told her I'd trust her completely... and she want to work.
Meanwhile, Clostio was outside, smoking and sweating over the toast he'd have to give in a few hours at the reception, and Sean was basically writing it for him, which is ironic because Clostio was the writer.
For those who haven't seen what my hair looked like on that day, you can check our photo site. It was short but I told her, "Go shorter." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yeah. Go ahead." So, she went shorter. As she cut, I told her about how nervous I was about the wedding, about what a mess I'd made out of my first marriage and how important it was for me to make Vicky happy.
Meanwhile, Vicky and her friends were partying it up, having a grand, old time. She wasn't nervous at all.
But I knew better.
My favorite part of the hair cut were the little accents she put in by twisting my hair. That's probably not going to happen so much tonight because I know I'll be back on my bike tomorrow morning, fucking up any genius Terrilynn puts in my hair, making a mess of her hard work.
Little traditions like this are important to me. They make things like my marriage more sacred, in a way. It's my way of saying, "I am still the man who loves you so much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you."
... besides, I don't think Vicky likes the idea of being married to Animal.
Monday, September 15, 2008
What it's like at 50.35...
I told myself yesterday that I would write about the whole ride today. But details slip from your mind as quickly in real life as when you wake from a dream. The thing that remains most clear to me now is the pain.
And the hurting.
And the misery.
And the pain.
So, let me tell you about it.
I woke up early Sunday morning, giving myself plenty of time to check my bike out, loud up my gear and my food, and dress in my new cycling clothes. Vicky had gone with my down to REI, where I found another pair of cycling shorts, to save my fat ass, along with an orange shirt (that we thought was made of spandex but is actually bamboo!). I had second thoughts about wearing a shirt over that - it was cold out - but decided to let my body temp take care of me. I'd generate enough heat on the road.
As soon as I hit the trail, I began to have my doubts. Cyclists, and there were already plenty of them out there, were wearing these sleeves on their arms. Not attached to their clothes, they looked like 80's leg warmers for your arms: Arm Warmers! And sure enough, I've since found them online - what will they think of next? But I was sure things would warm up eventually and I was making good time. I hit the beach in less than 90 minutes and took in the increasingly familiar sight. Now, the first time I rode to the beach, I was already tired when I got there. This time, hitting the beach was only half the job. Looking up the misty, overcast coast, I was anxious for part two.
The beach was already becoming crowded, even that early, and I veered in and out of groups as I rode. There's a speed limit on the beach of 10 mph and I observed it just as I observe every speed limit... I tried to keep it under 12... Getting to the pier was no problem but, from there, the path narrows significantly and I realized why so many riders were on the street. They were doing 15, 16, 17 mph or more and I was stuck waiting on slowpoke crowds that couldn't go any faster than their feet - seven miles per hour... six miles per hour. Finally, I had to put the brakes on my impatience. It wasn't for speed that I was riding but for the thrill of riding.
Once I started taking in the scenery instead of wondering when I'd reach that spot ahead or how I could increase my speed, I began to enjoy just how beautiful the beach really was. Sure, the western horizon was littered with oil rigs and the east side of PCH has spawned an ugly new growth of oil pipelines and I had to narrow my focus a bit but then I began to see new things I could never see from the street. Flocks of surfers and armies of children, beautiful little parks, stretches that looked right out of some old movie with their squat, little, wood fences, an array of life and story that made being there the best thing possible. And I shared the trail with other cyclists, with joggers, with roller-bladers, and I saw how un-cynical we all were, such a change from everyday life. How can you be cynical when you're trying to improve your life by getting just a bit more fit?
I reached a zone, a whole stretch of coast, where I felt oblivious to any weariness, any fatique both bodily and existentially. I realized I was "that guy". "That guy" is the guy you watch on TV or see in a movie and think, "I wish I could do that. I'd like to do that." I was doing that and everything was good.
I stopped just past the 25 mile mark for an asian pear, some beef jerky, and a few Jelly Belly Sport beans. I had a 20 minute break, enjoying the sea air, the cool morning, the women surfers pulling wet suits over their bikinis - hey, I'm a guy - and then, I was back on the road. I was surprised at how fast the coast passed me by or visa versa. As I neared the Santa Ana River, I thought, "I should find a bathroom and take a leak before I get on the river trail. You don't know how long it'll be before you find another bathroom." Only, I thought that after I'd passed the last bathroom - and I turned onto the river trail without taking a bathroom break!
Dammit. Oh well, I thought, there's a park by the 405 freeway. I'll use the bathroom there. Only, that park had no bathroom. Oh well, I thought, there's a part just after 17th street. I'll use the bathroom there... or pee my pants! Now, in case you're wondering, 17th street is about six miles from home, 10 miles up the trail from the beach. I covered most of the ground on the way home having to pee!!!! On top of that, I was getting very tired. By the time I hit Segerstrom, not yet halfway home, I was losing my grip (my hands sore) and having a hard time keeping up the pace. When I hit the 17th street park, I raced to a place to park my bike, locked it up, raced inside... and realized I had just left my backpack with all my gear laying on the grass. "Hurry up! Hurry up!" I thought. After all, I was back in Santa Ana, my home town, and I knew better than to trust anyone!
But my backpack was still out there and my bike was fine - I'm such a fucking cynic. The sky was still overcast and it was nearing 11am. As I passed beneath the 22 freeway, however, I went from cool, overcast sky on one side - to sunny heat on the other. How the hell does that happen? I knew I was getting close so I gobbled more beans and poured on the speed.
I made it home after about 3.5 hours of riding... in pain... a lot of pain. But I did it. My first half-century. It doesn't matter how much I hurt today or how much I'll hurt after the next time. Pain isn't important; it's just inconvenient. I'll do this ride again and again and maybe, later, I'll go even further.
I just gotta stop hurting first...
And the hurting.
And the misery.
And the pain.
So, let me tell you about it.
I woke up early Sunday morning, giving myself plenty of time to check my bike out, loud up my gear and my food, and dress in my new cycling clothes. Vicky had gone with my down to REI, where I found another pair of cycling shorts, to save my fat ass, along with an orange shirt (that we thought was made of spandex but is actually bamboo!). I had second thoughts about wearing a shirt over that - it was cold out - but decided to let my body temp take care of me. I'd generate enough heat on the road.
As soon as I hit the trail, I began to have my doubts. Cyclists, and there were already plenty of them out there, were wearing these sleeves on their arms. Not attached to their clothes, they looked like 80's leg warmers for your arms: Arm Warmers! And sure enough, I've since found them online - what will they think of next? But I was sure things would warm up eventually and I was making good time. I hit the beach in less than 90 minutes and took in the increasingly familiar sight. Now, the first time I rode to the beach, I was already tired when I got there. This time, hitting the beach was only half the job. Looking up the misty, overcast coast, I was anxious for part two.
The beach was already becoming crowded, even that early, and I veered in and out of groups as I rode. There's a speed limit on the beach of 10 mph and I observed it just as I observe every speed limit... I tried to keep it under 12... Getting to the pier was no problem but, from there, the path narrows significantly and I realized why so many riders were on the street. They were doing 15, 16, 17 mph or more and I was stuck waiting on slowpoke crowds that couldn't go any faster than their feet - seven miles per hour... six miles per hour. Finally, I had to put the brakes on my impatience. It wasn't for speed that I was riding but for the thrill of riding.
Once I started taking in the scenery instead of wondering when I'd reach that spot ahead or how I could increase my speed, I began to enjoy just how beautiful the beach really was. Sure, the western horizon was littered with oil rigs and the east side of PCH has spawned an ugly new growth of oil pipelines and I had to narrow my focus a bit but then I began to see new things I could never see from the street. Flocks of surfers and armies of children, beautiful little parks, stretches that looked right out of some old movie with their squat, little, wood fences, an array of life and story that made being there the best thing possible. And I shared the trail with other cyclists, with joggers, with roller-bladers, and I saw how un-cynical we all were, such a change from everyday life. How can you be cynical when you're trying to improve your life by getting just a bit more fit?
I reached a zone, a whole stretch of coast, where I felt oblivious to any weariness, any fatique both bodily and existentially. I realized I was "that guy". "That guy" is the guy you watch on TV or see in a movie and think, "I wish I could do that. I'd like to do that." I was doing that and everything was good.
I stopped just past the 25 mile mark for an asian pear, some beef jerky, and a few Jelly Belly Sport beans. I had a 20 minute break, enjoying the sea air, the cool morning, the women surfers pulling wet suits over their bikinis - hey, I'm a guy - and then, I was back on the road. I was surprised at how fast the coast passed me by or visa versa. As I neared the Santa Ana River, I thought, "I should find a bathroom and take a leak before I get on the river trail. You don't know how long it'll be before you find another bathroom." Only, I thought that after I'd passed the last bathroom - and I turned onto the river trail without taking a bathroom break!
Dammit. Oh well, I thought, there's a park by the 405 freeway. I'll use the bathroom there. Only, that park had no bathroom. Oh well, I thought, there's a part just after 17th street. I'll use the bathroom there... or pee my pants! Now, in case you're wondering, 17th street is about six miles from home, 10 miles up the trail from the beach. I covered most of the ground on the way home having to pee!!!! On top of that, I was getting very tired. By the time I hit Segerstrom, not yet halfway home, I was losing my grip (my hands sore) and having a hard time keeping up the pace. When I hit the 17th street park, I raced to a place to park my bike, locked it up, raced inside... and realized I had just left my backpack with all my gear laying on the grass. "Hurry up! Hurry up!" I thought. After all, I was back in Santa Ana, my home town, and I knew better than to trust anyone!
But my backpack was still out there and my bike was fine - I'm such a fucking cynic. The sky was still overcast and it was nearing 11am. As I passed beneath the 22 freeway, however, I went from cool, overcast sky on one side - to sunny heat on the other. How the hell does that happen? I knew I was getting close so I gobbled more beans and poured on the speed.
I made it home after about 3.5 hours of riding... in pain... a lot of pain. But I did it. My first half-century. It doesn't matter how much I hurt today or how much I'll hurt after the next time. Pain isn't important; it's just inconvenient. I'll do this ride again and again and maybe, later, I'll go even further.
I just gotta stop hurting first...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Act One… the first act…
What can I tell you? I finished Act One of Murielle’s Big Date. Is it a better play than After You Fall? Probably. Is it a better play than any of my others? Absolutely.
Is it in any way meaningful or substantial? No fucking way.
Here’s the thing. Murielle’s Big Date is a fever dream. It comes out of me like a geyser from a place I didn’t know existed. It’s not as though I thought I wasn’t possible of silliness, extreme whimsy, bat-shit-whacko… I just didn’t think I could do it this consistently.
You have 40 pages of people being nuts, of joyous, in your face, randomness. A general fuck you to the world.
And I love it. Every bit.
After You Fall turned on the spigot.
Murielle’s Big Date is the surge of sewer water that exploded after.
(First one who says, "Now you have to write Act Two", gets slapped.)
Is it in any way meaningful or substantial? No fucking way.
Here’s the thing. Murielle’s Big Date is a fever dream. It comes out of me like a geyser from a place I didn’t know existed. It’s not as though I thought I wasn’t possible of silliness, extreme whimsy, bat-shit-whacko… I just didn’t think I could do it this consistently.
You have 40 pages of people being nuts, of joyous, in your face, randomness. A general fuck you to the world.
And I love it. Every bit.
After You Fall turned on the spigot.
Murielle’s Big Date is the surge of sewer water that exploded after.
(First one who says, "Now you have to write Act Two", gets slapped.)
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I want to ride my bicycle - I want to ride my bike...
Who knows the song?
I'm getting ready to hit my first half century - that's a 50 mile ride. For you non-cyclists, that a very long ride for a big, fat fuck like me... laughable for anyone who's serious about biking. But I have to say in my own defense that, aside from being a big, fat fuck, I don't really have a bike for long rides. My bike was a hand-you-down from a friend and, while nice, not really suited to long distances. Vicky says she'd like to buy me a real road bike... but I don't have the heart to tell her how much that would cost.
So, in the meantime, 50 is my goal.
This morning, I tore through my morning ride. I was really proud of myself. I covered 16 miles in 72 minutes. My average speed was 14 miles per hour. According to Bicycling Magazine, that's considered "vigorous effort". When you hit 16 mph, you've entered the realm of "racing speed". Sure, I'm not there, yet. I may never get there. But I'm a damn lot faster than I was just a month or so ago when I was averaging 12 mph (light effort).
Tomorrow, I'm extending my weekly commute from 26 miles up past 30 miles to get some extra roadwork in. Then, on Saturday, I'll ride 30 miles up to the end of the Santa Ana River. That's all prelude to Sunday. The big day. That's when I'll go for the half century, down the river trail to the beach, up the coast to Warner Avenue, and back again!
This is all relatively new to me. Just last year, I was a regular smoker. There was no way I could get on a bike and go five miles, let alone 50! But I knew a change was needed. I didn't know what it would be and I didn't realize what I charge I'd get out of cycling until Vicky suggested we take a ride. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be over 250 pounds and...
Wait.
Hold on.
See, this is what's really bugging me. This morning I got on the scale and weighed myself. It read 250... and it didn't budge. Not an inch. Vicky heard two loud farts and I said, "Dammit! Farts don't weigh anything!" You'd think that after all this riding, I'd lose more weight. Granted, I've come down from the edge of 260 - only a few months ago - but you'd think I'd lose more.
Maybe after 50 miles. Maybe I have to start looking towards 75...
Eventually...
I'm getting ready to hit my first half century - that's a 50 mile ride. For you non-cyclists, that a very long ride for a big, fat fuck like me... laughable for anyone who's serious about biking. But I have to say in my own defense that, aside from being a big, fat fuck, I don't really have a bike for long rides. My bike was a hand-you-down from a friend and, while nice, not really suited to long distances. Vicky says she'd like to buy me a real road bike... but I don't have the heart to tell her how much that would cost.
So, in the meantime, 50 is my goal.
This morning, I tore through my morning ride. I was really proud of myself. I covered 16 miles in 72 minutes. My average speed was 14 miles per hour. According to Bicycling Magazine, that's considered "vigorous effort". When you hit 16 mph, you've entered the realm of "racing speed". Sure, I'm not there, yet. I may never get there. But I'm a damn lot faster than I was just a month or so ago when I was averaging 12 mph (light effort).
Tomorrow, I'm extending my weekly commute from 26 miles up past 30 miles to get some extra roadwork in. Then, on Saturday, I'll ride 30 miles up to the end of the Santa Ana River. That's all prelude to Sunday. The big day. That's when I'll go for the half century, down the river trail to the beach, up the coast to Warner Avenue, and back again!
This is all relatively new to me. Just last year, I was a regular smoker. There was no way I could get on a bike and go five miles, let alone 50! But I knew a change was needed. I didn't know what it would be and I didn't realize what I charge I'd get out of cycling until Vicky suggested we take a ride. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be over 250 pounds and...
Wait.
Hold on.
See, this is what's really bugging me. This morning I got on the scale and weighed myself. It read 250... and it didn't budge. Not an inch. Vicky heard two loud farts and I said, "Dammit! Farts don't weigh anything!" You'd think that after all this riding, I'd lose more weight. Granted, I've come down from the edge of 260 - only a few months ago - but you'd think I'd lose more.
Maybe after 50 miles. Maybe I have to start looking towards 75...
Eventually...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Not dead... yet...
I know the Large Hadron Collider has been causing some distress. Will it destroy the world? Will we all die?
Well, as part of the service here, here's a website that can always let you know if it's wiped us out, yet.
Well, as part of the service here, here's a website that can always let you know if it's wiped us out, yet.
Monday, September 08, 2008
How Murielle got her big date...
Bored.
Bored. Bored. Bored.
See, the thing is I work with people who think it takes weeks to write two pages of copy. And I do that in hours. So, they can't generate enough to keep me busy... and I get bored.
I know I have to study for school. And I know I'll have three papers to write. But, right now, I'm bored.
I know I have a new book to write - but I can't do that without more information, which I'll mostly extract from my class in Epistemology. So, I've got a couple of months before that starts.
Hey! I know! Why not write a play filled with sex jokes and filthy language - you know, the kind I like to write. After You Fall turned out to be a nice dramedy but what about a balls out comedy?
Here's the thing: On the way in today, I had this conversation running through my head - which is usually how I know something wants to be written - between Murielle (a mid-20's modern girl) and Sam (a 21st century free spirit), talking about the virtues of having sex with whoever you want. Murielle is getting ready for her third date with a guy, who's coming over for dinner. Her neighbors, Sam and Angela (a middle-aged slut) give her advice but, mostly, they don't want another guy messing up Murielle's life. They each plan to test this new guy, Mark (a generally decent individual), in their own way - and generally make a mess of their date.
Murielle's Big Date is the name of the new show. Should be fun.
Bored. Bored. Bored.
See, the thing is I work with people who think it takes weeks to write two pages of copy. And I do that in hours. So, they can't generate enough to keep me busy... and I get bored.
I know I have to study for school. And I know I'll have three papers to write. But, right now, I'm bored.
I know I have a new book to write - but I can't do that without more information, which I'll mostly extract from my class in Epistemology. So, I've got a couple of months before that starts.
Hey! I know! Why not write a play filled with sex jokes and filthy language - you know, the kind I like to write. After You Fall turned out to be a nice dramedy but what about a balls out comedy?
Here's the thing: On the way in today, I had this conversation running through my head - which is usually how I know something wants to be written - between Murielle (a mid-20's modern girl) and Sam (a 21st century free spirit), talking about the virtues of having sex with whoever you want. Murielle is getting ready for her third date with a guy, who's coming over for dinner. Her neighbors, Sam and Angela (a middle-aged slut) give her advice but, mostly, they don't want another guy messing up Murielle's life. They each plan to test this new guy, Mark (a generally decent individual), in their own way - and generally make a mess of their date.
Murielle's Big Date is the name of the new show. Should be fun.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
A final eulogy...
I want to thank everyone for being here. I think if my father were here… if he was alive right now, he’d…
If my father was alive right now…
If my father was alive right now, he’d be a very sick man.
Feel free to laugh. One of the few things my father and I shared was comedy. He left us when I was five or so and one of the few things he left behind was a comedy album by Don Adams – of Get Smart fame. I listened to it over and over again until I had it memorized. I memorized every scratch and tick as the album grew older and worn out and later performed them as sketches in school talent shows.
I didn’t have a father so much. I didn’t really know what that was like. But I had comedy.
When I started writing, I wrote comedy. And I would try to show what I wrote to my father. And he would give me this look that so many of those who knew him would always hope not to receive. It would say, “You are an idiot. A big one. With flashing lights and stereo sound. And now I have to pretend you’re not an idiot... and I really don’t want to do that. So, just between you and me – because I’m not going to say this out loud – You’re an idiot.”
My father communicated in looks. In the years I knew him, it was rarely with words. He was the master of the non-sequiter. I’d say, “Dad, I want to be a comedian when I grow up.” And he’d reply, “Don’t be so sure you’re growing up.” I’d say, “I think I want to be an actor.” And he’d reply, “Act like you’re in a silent movie.” He wasn’t exactly what you’d call nurturing… without laughing…
I can’t stand up here and tell you about my father’s faults. You just don’t have the time.
But we did have conversations. They were so few and far between, though, that I’d hold on like they were jewels of wisdom. Other times, he’d talk to me – a boy of 12 or 14 – about finances and what to look for when you’re buying a house and evil democrats. But I remember what he said when I was 16 or 17, when I’d discovered my muse, and said to him, “Dad, I think I want to be a writer.” He looked over his newspaper at me – he was frequently sequestered behind a singular, imposing wall of a newspaper – and said, “If you want to write, write.”
If you want to write, write. What an amazing gift that was, the summation of every artistic directive ever uttered, condensed, refined, clarified, and spoken to me at a time when I had no clue what writing or art even were. If you want to write, write. The only way you’ll ever become good at what you love to do is to go and do it as often as you can. So, I wrote. I wrote short stories, novels, and plays. I have grown to love writing the way you might love air, all as a result of this invaluable advice. If you want to write, write.
And then, I grew up… and I realized something.
This kid walks up to you. You’re trying to read your newspaper. Over and over, he’s bugged you, saying “I want to be a comedian” or “I want to be an actor.” And now, this time, the kid’s going on and on about this latest, teenage crush he has – not on a girl or even a sport. No, this time, he talks incessantly about how he wants to be a writer. What do you do? You loook over your paper and, in words as kind as you can muster – because what you really want to say is, “Can’t you shut your mouth for ten minutes?” – you say, “If you want to write, write.” Just leave me alone!
My father’s kindest words, his most informative passing of wisdom, always seemed strange to me. Oddly, it gives me some comfort to know he was probably just trying to shut me up.
My father was once an artist, too, so I’ve been told. I’ve heard rumors but we all know he was a musician. He left those dreams, whatever they were, behind at some point. I don’t know his level of regret but I can imagine what it must have been. So, I keep creating, acting, and writing, not because of my wonderful success – that much is clear – but because I am certain he felt some pride that I have not given up.
Most of my father’s life is a mystery to many of us. And I can say that however much I understood him, I doubt I ever really knew him. The way you understand that the sun will rise without knowing the formulae why. The way you might understand a poker hand without knowing if you’ll win. The way I, in my pursuit of wisdom, religion, and philosophy, can understand the value of faith without knowing it myself. I understood my father. But I never really knew him.
Once I heard he went AWOL while in the service, that he took off rebelliously, saying, “No more! I choose a new course for my life, one that doesn’t include militarism or violence or war.” And then, I asked him one day what that was all about. He said he never went AWOL, in that way he said things, that way that defied you to know him. He always seemed to speak through concrete walls. But then, he stopped himself – this was in 1988 after a long silence, when we found each other again and were trying to start a new chapter in our lives – and, remarkably, he explained that he’d been visiting a girl off the base and, without going into detail – wouldn’t want that – he said that he was there too long and didn’t get back to the base on time. He went AWOL cause of a girl – better than what I had made up in my mind in my attempt to figure him out.
I never expected to figure him out. So, on those few occasions when I saw him – and, believe me, they were few – I watched him very carefully. I became anthropological in my study of my father. This became very important from a very early age – 9 or so – and all because of this new person who entered his life: Blanche. You see, my parents had this horrible divorce with three kids who each ended up horribly scarred in his or her own way. Four years – ten years – twenty years after – all of us were branded, broken, bleeding, just mauled by the event.
And here comes Blanche. My first memory was of a time when Dad and Blanche brought the three of us – myself, Keith, and Audrey – to Disneyland. When my father did take us out, it was always to some Disney-centric event, where he would spend the day, the night, the hours, the entire time just going on and on about how much he hated Disney. But he fooled no one. Absolutely no one. So, we have Dad over there on one side, telling us how much he hated Tomorrowland and “Let’s go on that ride” and Blanche over there on the other side. She was smiling. She was completely at ease. She wasn’t neurotic – I didn’t even know what neurotic was and I could tell. She was, in short, some kind of freak. That’s what I was thinking at 9 years of age. What’s all that smiling about? She was a nice person and exactly what my father needed.
When I was 16, I studied my father coming home from work at lunch and calling someone to tell this person how his day was going. It took me a while to figure out that he was calling Blanche. I had no idea what it meant to tend your garden, to keep your relationship strong, but I learned from that. I’m not saying it was his idea – odds are it was something Blanche taught him – but I learned it from him. I never waited for him to tell me – and most of my father’s lessons were “Never act like that” but I learned just the same.
We didn’t really have a relationship until after 1988. After he had walked my bride down the aisle. After he had cried at my wedding – a thought that still leaves me kind of speechless. Most of our conversations consisted of, “Are you still working? Okay, here’s Blanche.” But it was something. The thing was, I didn’t care if he wasn’t a great father. He wasn’t a great father. But he was there.
Anyway, I got a perfect opportunity to do something I never got to do as a teenager: Rebel against my father. Towards the mid-1990’s, I was doing research on a book I was writing and the research consisted of studying the Communist Manifesto. Now, I’d done the long hair thing and I’d done the motorcycle thing, both of which turned my father’s eyes red. But the day I sat down on his sofa and plopped down a dog-eared copy of the Communist Manifesto, the day he came out and looked at it like it was – Dad had a phrase. “Gag a maggot on a gut cart” – He looked down at me, practically shaking with anger and disgust. He pointed at the book. He asked, “What is that doing there?”
I looked up and said, “Oh, hi dad. Yeah, I’m reading it.”
It was priceless. And there was little he could do. My father and I had this unspoken understanding about things like that. Kind of like “You missed your chance.” I had an incredibly amount of fun at his expense. Had this been 20 years before or even 10, he would have probably thrown me out of the house. But he grumbled. And I moved the book. And he sat down where it had been and turned on the TV.
I say we didn’t have a relationship until after 1988 but it really didn’t start until much later than that. We both had some adjusting to do. I was a liberal atheist. He was a right-wing whacko – and I only say that because he’s not here. But when my marriage fell apart eight years ago – I guess we both decided we’d adjusted enough and I began to see that he really did care about me. And I began to see the changes that were taking place, like his hair that went from black to gray to gone.
What do I mean? The story that best sums that up is about when my father first met Vicky, my second wife. I thought I had his number on this. He’d been close to my first wife and I had screwed things up there. My father’s sense of what was right would surely prevent him from welcoming Vicky into his life. This was clear to me and I was pretty nervous about the whole thing. I knew Blanche would accept Vicky but I was doubtful about my father until they came to our door, I showed them in, and my father gave Vicky a big hug as they both welcomed her into their lives.
Something was surely wrong.
And to make matters worse, at our rehearsal dinner, where I kind of expected that my father would insist on paying – his sense of what was right again – he told me he loved me. My father. I don’t think it was the first time he said it but I know it was the first time he sounded like he meant it, as though it wasn’t a formality. He believed it.
I didn’t know what to do. You know, you have a father like mine and being told something like that really throws you off balance. I told Vicky, “He’s gotta be sick or something.”
Sometimes, you don’t want to be right.
We all know about my father’s illness. Even as doctor after doctor was struck puzzled, he withered away. It was slow. It was agonizing. I found myself on the banks of an Egyptian river. By the time I realized what was happening, when I said to my wife, “I’m a writer. I should be interviewing him so I can write his story,” it was already too late. But I take from those three years something just as important as the knowledge of a father I never really knew. I know for sure that I loved my father and that my father loved me. As his illness, struck away pound upon pound of his mortal flesh, it also served to tear down the concrete encasements in which he’d wrapped himself for so many years. He became human, more loving, and more deserving of love.
And now, here we are.
As I have mentioned, I am an atheist, something my father was not too keen about. And so, my meditations on the life of this man do not include thoughts of what may come after. A few words come to mind, however, with which I would like to close.
“People are greedy. They ignore the blessing they have in this life to imagine something that comes after." My father’s passing reminds us all how blessed we are in this life. Even with a man who never felt entirely comfortable talking to me, I know I have been blessed with the relationship we finally grew into. It reminds us that every day is an opportunity to embrace the miracle that is life, something I saw my father grow to understand.
From Shakespeare, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts...” My father held down a lot of jobs in his life but the most amusing was when he worked for a cruise line. I used to tell a joke about that. “You don’t want to go to Mexico! You want to go to Alaska!” More than that, though, my father showed how change is possible in any life – if you want it.
Finally, from the Gospel of Thomas, “The father’s kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people do not see it.” So, it is easy to get caught up in details or the way things should be done. My father often got caught up in that dilemma, as do I, as I am sure do my brothers and sister.
Nobody is going to tell you my father was perfect. He can’t, anymore. He was often a shmuck. Other times, he could be a jerk. (See, my father hated it when I used swear words. To this day, he still hasn’t read any of my books or seen my plays… but I keep hoping…) The thing is, yes, he was a shmuck. And, very often, so am I. And are you. And you. And everyone here. And everyone else.
Thank you for coming.
If my father was alive right now…
If my father was alive right now, he’d be a very sick man.
Feel free to laugh. One of the few things my father and I shared was comedy. He left us when I was five or so and one of the few things he left behind was a comedy album by Don Adams – of Get Smart fame. I listened to it over and over again until I had it memorized. I memorized every scratch and tick as the album grew older and worn out and later performed them as sketches in school talent shows.
I didn’t have a father so much. I didn’t really know what that was like. But I had comedy.
When I started writing, I wrote comedy. And I would try to show what I wrote to my father. And he would give me this look that so many of those who knew him would always hope not to receive. It would say, “You are an idiot. A big one. With flashing lights and stereo sound. And now I have to pretend you’re not an idiot... and I really don’t want to do that. So, just between you and me – because I’m not going to say this out loud – You’re an idiot.”
My father communicated in looks. In the years I knew him, it was rarely with words. He was the master of the non-sequiter. I’d say, “Dad, I want to be a comedian when I grow up.” And he’d reply, “Don’t be so sure you’re growing up.” I’d say, “I think I want to be an actor.” And he’d reply, “Act like you’re in a silent movie.” He wasn’t exactly what you’d call nurturing… without laughing…
I can’t stand up here and tell you about my father’s faults. You just don’t have the time.
But we did have conversations. They were so few and far between, though, that I’d hold on like they were jewels of wisdom. Other times, he’d talk to me – a boy of 12 or 14 – about finances and what to look for when you’re buying a house and evil democrats. But I remember what he said when I was 16 or 17, when I’d discovered my muse, and said to him, “Dad, I think I want to be a writer.” He looked over his newspaper at me – he was frequently sequestered behind a singular, imposing wall of a newspaper – and said, “If you want to write, write.”
If you want to write, write. What an amazing gift that was, the summation of every artistic directive ever uttered, condensed, refined, clarified, and spoken to me at a time when I had no clue what writing or art even were. If you want to write, write. The only way you’ll ever become good at what you love to do is to go and do it as often as you can. So, I wrote. I wrote short stories, novels, and plays. I have grown to love writing the way you might love air, all as a result of this invaluable advice. If you want to write, write.
And then, I grew up… and I realized something.
This kid walks up to you. You’re trying to read your newspaper. Over and over, he’s bugged you, saying “I want to be a comedian” or “I want to be an actor.” And now, this time, the kid’s going on and on about this latest, teenage crush he has – not on a girl or even a sport. No, this time, he talks incessantly about how he wants to be a writer. What do you do? You loook over your paper and, in words as kind as you can muster – because what you really want to say is, “Can’t you shut your mouth for ten minutes?” – you say, “If you want to write, write.” Just leave me alone!
My father’s kindest words, his most informative passing of wisdom, always seemed strange to me. Oddly, it gives me some comfort to know he was probably just trying to shut me up.
My father was once an artist, too, so I’ve been told. I’ve heard rumors but we all know he was a musician. He left those dreams, whatever they were, behind at some point. I don’t know his level of regret but I can imagine what it must have been. So, I keep creating, acting, and writing, not because of my wonderful success – that much is clear – but because I am certain he felt some pride that I have not given up.
Most of my father’s life is a mystery to many of us. And I can say that however much I understood him, I doubt I ever really knew him. The way you understand that the sun will rise without knowing the formulae why. The way you might understand a poker hand without knowing if you’ll win. The way I, in my pursuit of wisdom, religion, and philosophy, can understand the value of faith without knowing it myself. I understood my father. But I never really knew him.
Once I heard he went AWOL while in the service, that he took off rebelliously, saying, “No more! I choose a new course for my life, one that doesn’t include militarism or violence or war.” And then, I asked him one day what that was all about. He said he never went AWOL, in that way he said things, that way that defied you to know him. He always seemed to speak through concrete walls. But then, he stopped himself – this was in 1988 after a long silence, when we found each other again and were trying to start a new chapter in our lives – and, remarkably, he explained that he’d been visiting a girl off the base and, without going into detail – wouldn’t want that – he said that he was there too long and didn’t get back to the base on time. He went AWOL cause of a girl – better than what I had made up in my mind in my attempt to figure him out.
I never expected to figure him out. So, on those few occasions when I saw him – and, believe me, they were few – I watched him very carefully. I became anthropological in my study of my father. This became very important from a very early age – 9 or so – and all because of this new person who entered his life: Blanche. You see, my parents had this horrible divorce with three kids who each ended up horribly scarred in his or her own way. Four years – ten years – twenty years after – all of us were branded, broken, bleeding, just mauled by the event.
And here comes Blanche. My first memory was of a time when Dad and Blanche brought the three of us – myself, Keith, and Audrey – to Disneyland. When my father did take us out, it was always to some Disney-centric event, where he would spend the day, the night, the hours, the entire time just going on and on about how much he hated Disney. But he fooled no one. Absolutely no one. So, we have Dad over there on one side, telling us how much he hated Tomorrowland and “Let’s go on that ride” and Blanche over there on the other side. She was smiling. She was completely at ease. She wasn’t neurotic – I didn’t even know what neurotic was and I could tell. She was, in short, some kind of freak. That’s what I was thinking at 9 years of age. What’s all that smiling about? She was a nice person and exactly what my father needed.
When I was 16, I studied my father coming home from work at lunch and calling someone to tell this person how his day was going. It took me a while to figure out that he was calling Blanche. I had no idea what it meant to tend your garden, to keep your relationship strong, but I learned from that. I’m not saying it was his idea – odds are it was something Blanche taught him – but I learned it from him. I never waited for him to tell me – and most of my father’s lessons were “Never act like that” but I learned just the same.
We didn’t really have a relationship until after 1988. After he had walked my bride down the aisle. After he had cried at my wedding – a thought that still leaves me kind of speechless. Most of our conversations consisted of, “Are you still working? Okay, here’s Blanche.” But it was something. The thing was, I didn’t care if he wasn’t a great father. He wasn’t a great father. But he was there.
Anyway, I got a perfect opportunity to do something I never got to do as a teenager: Rebel against my father. Towards the mid-1990’s, I was doing research on a book I was writing and the research consisted of studying the Communist Manifesto. Now, I’d done the long hair thing and I’d done the motorcycle thing, both of which turned my father’s eyes red. But the day I sat down on his sofa and plopped down a dog-eared copy of the Communist Manifesto, the day he came out and looked at it like it was – Dad had a phrase. “Gag a maggot on a gut cart” – He looked down at me, practically shaking with anger and disgust. He pointed at the book. He asked, “What is that doing there?”
I looked up and said, “Oh, hi dad. Yeah, I’m reading it.”
It was priceless. And there was little he could do. My father and I had this unspoken understanding about things like that. Kind of like “You missed your chance.” I had an incredibly amount of fun at his expense. Had this been 20 years before or even 10, he would have probably thrown me out of the house. But he grumbled. And I moved the book. And he sat down where it had been and turned on the TV.
I say we didn’t have a relationship until after 1988 but it really didn’t start until much later than that. We both had some adjusting to do. I was a liberal atheist. He was a right-wing whacko – and I only say that because he’s not here. But when my marriage fell apart eight years ago – I guess we both decided we’d adjusted enough and I began to see that he really did care about me. And I began to see the changes that were taking place, like his hair that went from black to gray to gone.
What do I mean? The story that best sums that up is about when my father first met Vicky, my second wife. I thought I had his number on this. He’d been close to my first wife and I had screwed things up there. My father’s sense of what was right would surely prevent him from welcoming Vicky into his life. This was clear to me and I was pretty nervous about the whole thing. I knew Blanche would accept Vicky but I was doubtful about my father until they came to our door, I showed them in, and my father gave Vicky a big hug as they both welcomed her into their lives.
Something was surely wrong.
And to make matters worse, at our rehearsal dinner, where I kind of expected that my father would insist on paying – his sense of what was right again – he told me he loved me. My father. I don’t think it was the first time he said it but I know it was the first time he sounded like he meant it, as though it wasn’t a formality. He believed it.
I didn’t know what to do. You know, you have a father like mine and being told something like that really throws you off balance. I told Vicky, “He’s gotta be sick or something.”
Sometimes, you don’t want to be right.
We all know about my father’s illness. Even as doctor after doctor was struck puzzled, he withered away. It was slow. It was agonizing. I found myself on the banks of an Egyptian river. By the time I realized what was happening, when I said to my wife, “I’m a writer. I should be interviewing him so I can write his story,” it was already too late. But I take from those three years something just as important as the knowledge of a father I never really knew. I know for sure that I loved my father and that my father loved me. As his illness, struck away pound upon pound of his mortal flesh, it also served to tear down the concrete encasements in which he’d wrapped himself for so many years. He became human, more loving, and more deserving of love.
And now, here we are.
As I have mentioned, I am an atheist, something my father was not too keen about. And so, my meditations on the life of this man do not include thoughts of what may come after. A few words come to mind, however, with which I would like to close.
“People are greedy. They ignore the blessing they have in this life to imagine something that comes after." My father’s passing reminds us all how blessed we are in this life. Even with a man who never felt entirely comfortable talking to me, I know I have been blessed with the relationship we finally grew into. It reminds us that every day is an opportunity to embrace the miracle that is life, something I saw my father grow to understand.
From Shakespeare, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts...” My father held down a lot of jobs in his life but the most amusing was when he worked for a cruise line. I used to tell a joke about that. “You don’t want to go to Mexico! You want to go to Alaska!” More than that, though, my father showed how change is possible in any life – if you want it.
Finally, from the Gospel of Thomas, “The father’s kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people do not see it.” So, it is easy to get caught up in details or the way things should be done. My father often got caught up in that dilemma, as do I, as I am sure do my brothers and sister.
Nobody is going to tell you my father was perfect. He can’t, anymore. He was often a shmuck. Other times, he could be a jerk. (See, my father hated it when I used swear words. To this day, he still hasn’t read any of my books or seen my plays… but I keep hoping…) The thing is, yes, he was a shmuck. And, very often, so am I. And are you. And you. And everyone here. And everyone else.
Thank you for coming.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Shipoopi's Big-Assed Adventure
Last night was it. Shipoopi was done fooling around. She barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked and barked... and wouldn't shut up.
This is, of course, all Vicky's fault. I tried to tell Vicky from the beginning that Shipoopi has to get used to being on her own at night but Vicky insisted on staying up until 10pm or 11pm or 12am - until Shipoopi fell asleep. You can imagine what it's going to be like when we have a child.
So, last night, when Vicky wanted to go to sleep, Shipoopi started barking, because by that time she knew who was boss.
... I went to sleep.
Vicky brought Shipoopi up to our room and put her on the floor - but Shipoopi wasn't going to stand for that. She wanted up on the bed and wouldn't take "almost" for an answer. So, she barked and barked and... well, you get the picture.
When I awoke this morning, Shipoopi was in the bed with us. Vicky had broken quickly and put her there before going to sleep.
I can imagine what stopped her barking. She was surrounded by giant asses, staring her down! Must not move, she probably thought. The slightest sound might alert them and they'll roll over and crush me! So, she remained still all through the night. Still and silent, praying that neither of us farted.
... hey, she asked for it.
This is, of course, all Vicky's fault. I tried to tell Vicky from the beginning that Shipoopi has to get used to being on her own at night but Vicky insisted on staying up until 10pm or 11pm or 12am - until Shipoopi fell asleep. You can imagine what it's going to be like when we have a child.
So, last night, when Vicky wanted to go to sleep, Shipoopi started barking, because by that time she knew who was boss.
... I went to sleep.
Vicky brought Shipoopi up to our room and put her on the floor - but Shipoopi wasn't going to stand for that. She wanted up on the bed and wouldn't take "almost" for an answer. So, she barked and barked and... well, you get the picture.
When I awoke this morning, Shipoopi was in the bed with us. Vicky had broken quickly and put her there before going to sleep.
I can imagine what stopped her barking. She was surrounded by giant asses, staring her down! Must not move, she probably thought. The slightest sound might alert them and they'll roll over and crush me! So, she remained still all through the night. Still and silent, praying that neither of us farted.
... hey, she asked for it.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Damn you, Mister Sun...
For those of you keeping track, I've been cycling for a few weeks now. In fact, I passed the 500 mile mark on my odometer - so I've put in a little pedalling time. My usual schedule included cycling 25 or so miles every morning. I get up at 5am, head on out, and return in time to get ready for work.
... at least, I used to...
Thanks to the stupid tilt of the earth, and a sun that is less than reliable, the sun has been rising later and later every morning. Yesterday, it didn't rise until I was nearly back home. Most of my ride was spent in the darkness, despite my headlight, trying my hardest not to veer from the trail. Riding in the morning has been nice and refreshing but riding in the dark just plain sucks.
So, what do I do?
This morning, I started out 15 minutes later, hoping to catch the sunlight as I rode, but wouldn't you know it? The stupid sun rose even later! And, as I observe the Old Farmer's Almanac (the Internet is a fine thing, kids!), I notice it'll just keep getting later and later until the Autumnal time change, when it'll start all over again. Hell, by January, the sun won't be up until nearly 7am!
I guess this means summer is coming to a close, and just as I discover cycling!
Oh well. I guess I'll have to start leaving later, riding faster - or finding better excuses to flake...
... at least, I used to...
Thanks to the stupid tilt of the earth, and a sun that is less than reliable, the sun has been rising later and later every morning. Yesterday, it didn't rise until I was nearly back home. Most of my ride was spent in the darkness, despite my headlight, trying my hardest not to veer from the trail. Riding in the morning has been nice and refreshing but riding in the dark just plain sucks.
So, what do I do?
This morning, I started out 15 minutes later, hoping to catch the sunlight as I rode, but wouldn't you know it? The stupid sun rose even later! And, as I observe the Old Farmer's Almanac (the Internet is a fine thing, kids!), I notice it'll just keep getting later and later until the Autumnal time change, when it'll start all over again. Hell, by January, the sun won't be up until nearly 7am!
I guess this means summer is coming to a close, and just as I discover cycling!
Oh well. I guess I'll have to start leaving later, riding faster - or finding better excuses to flake...
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
And it's all because of...
Sunday afternoon, I sat on our love seat and announced to Vicky that I was happy.
I just finished my first 40-mile ride. I had a great shower and was wearing comfortable clothes. Vicky had set out some breakfast and we'd eaten it watching a little TV. She massaged my weary muscles. And we'd both pet our little menagerie, especially our newest member, the little 12-week old: Shipoopi.
It doesn't take much and, yet, things have to work out perfectly.
If my bike had broke down or if the water in the shower had been too cold or if my clothes reminded me how fat I am by being too tight or if there wasn't any breakfast or if she hadn't given me a massage or if there wasn't anything good on TV or if our pets weren't so sweet... even if you take that one item, if Shipoopi wasn't such a love-muffin, the perfection of that morning would have been popped like a soap bubble.
So, it's important to me to understand how much my happiness relies on so many others. Thousands of people - maybe more. The other riders on the trail. The people who keep the water running and the power on. The makers of my clothes. My wife - and everyone who made her as wonderful as she is. Those who bred and raised our pets before we had them. Even, though I hate to say it: TV execs. Sometimes, though rarely, their influence comes together to make me happy.
I'm not a big fan of thanking an imaginary God when it is so important to thank real people.
Thanks for the Sunday, folks.
I just finished my first 40-mile ride. I had a great shower and was wearing comfortable clothes. Vicky had set out some breakfast and we'd eaten it watching a little TV. She massaged my weary muscles. And we'd both pet our little menagerie, especially our newest member, the little 12-week old: Shipoopi.
It doesn't take much and, yet, things have to work out perfectly.
If my bike had broke down or if the water in the shower had been too cold or if my clothes reminded me how fat I am by being too tight or if there wasn't any breakfast or if she hadn't given me a massage or if there wasn't anything good on TV or if our pets weren't so sweet... even if you take that one item, if Shipoopi wasn't such a love-muffin, the perfection of that morning would have been popped like a soap bubble.
So, it's important to me to understand how much my happiness relies on so many others. Thousands of people - maybe more. The other riders on the trail. The people who keep the water running and the power on. The makers of my clothes. My wife - and everyone who made her as wonderful as she is. Those who bred and raised our pets before we had them. Even, though I hate to say it: TV execs. Sometimes, though rarely, their influence comes together to make me happy.
I'm not a big fan of thanking an imaginary God when it is so important to thank real people.
Thanks for the Sunday, folks.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Approaching half a century…
Cyclists refer to distance in strange ways. They call 100 miles a century. They call 50 miles half a century.
Well, today I rode down the Santa Ana River and up the coast. I snacked near the Huntington Beach Pier and rode my bike on back for a total of 40.5 miles, the longest single trip I’ve done. As an ex-smoker and guy who is pretty obviously overweight, it gives me a good deal of pride to know I can do that and sets my sights on a half century goal.
Vicky was very sweet, by the way. She had coffee brewing when I got home and we sat together with coffee and fruit and biscotti and watched the last of the Democratic National Convention – and wasn’t that amazing – while I rested my incredibly weary bones. She even gave me a massage.
So, today I’m feeling pretty good about my life.
Neurosis returns tomorrow – never fear.
Well, today I rode down the Santa Ana River and up the coast. I snacked near the Huntington Beach Pier and rode my bike on back for a total of 40.5 miles, the longest single trip I’ve done. As an ex-smoker and guy who is pretty obviously overweight, it gives me a good deal of pride to know I can do that and sets my sights on a half century goal.
Vicky was very sweet, by the way. She had coffee brewing when I got home and we sat together with coffee and fruit and biscotti and watched the last of the Democratic National Convention – and wasn’t that amazing – while I rested my incredibly weary bones. She even gave me a massage.
So, today I’m feeling pretty good about my life.
Neurosis returns tomorrow – never fear.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Bad hair...
Sit! Stay! For god's sake, play dead!
This is the problem with my hair. It has reached that point where it's too long to be short but to short to be cool. So, it hates me. It hates me and it's trying to kill me.
Through embarrassment!
Fucking hair.
This is the problem with my hair. It has reached that point where it's too long to be short but to short to be cool. So, it hates me. It hates me and it's trying to kill me.
Through embarrassment!
Fucking hair.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Stepping into my father’s shoes…
Blanche took Keith and I aside shortly before I left Arizona to give us a couple of things he wanted us to have. Keith got my dad’s bible. They both share the same name so it’s the perfect gift to leave. Many years ago, bible’s held entire family histories within their bindings and, in a metaphoric sense, the same thing was happening here. All I wanted were some cds I’d given him. The one thing we shared was a sense of humor and it seemed fitting, somehow, that we should share the same jokes that he enjoyed while he was alive.
Blanche asked if there was anything else we’d like of his.
She asked if we wanted his shoes.
Now, at the time, that innocent offer felt pretty damned ghoulish. It felt like stripping shoes off his body, eminently disrespectful. Only this morning – only moments ago – did the irony catch up to me. It didn’t sneak up, either. It crashed into the back of my head with the velocity of a small truck.
Walking in my father’s shoes.
You saw that, didn’t you?
I was wondering how I could tell you about the developments on the new book. How can I, I wondered, describe this journey I am only beginning to take? The answer came: Step into your father’s shoes.
Of course. You see, I wanted to interview my dad. I wanted to hear his whole life’s story. But I was too late and he died and I barely got a few words out of him. And then, I went home to this idea for a new book, and idea about free will and if it really existed and my theories and how they amount to little more than behavioralism on steroids. I wondered what’s the good of free will, if it really did exist. Surely, it’s not to make us more money or to get us more fame. Indeed, it seems more and more that it’s not for us at all. If anything, free will is a support system for future generations.
And that brought me to AvalokiteÅ›vara, the Buddhist ideal of the bodhisattva, the individual with such compassion for the world that he rejects nirvana if it means just one person remains unsaved. It might sound analogous to Jesus Christ but it’s more than that. Some Buddhists see AvalokiteÅ›vara as really existing but I know idealized versions of anything are no more likely to exist than absolute evil – so I can blaspheme in any number of religious traditions and call AvalokiteÅ›vara more a goal than a thing, a goal of what we can be, each of us. Bodhisattvas are people and, so, AvalokiteÅ›vara can be the ideal of all peoples. (This is a primary difference between eastern and western thought. In the west, Christians try to live a Christ-like existence – some, at least – but not to be Christ. In the east, the goal of Buddhists is to become Buddha, to waken to your Buddha nature.)
Evolution. That’s what I’m talking about.
If Climbing Maya told how to be successful in your life, this book would tell how all of humanity can fulfill its potential. It’s the obvious next step.
Now, you might think I sound pretty smart but that’s only one part of the story. Because after I returned home, I started thinking about how I could portray my father in a book like this. He could have been an archeologist, I thought, and I could be the son who carries on his work! … um, no. My dad was no archeologist. He was just a guy. Okay… I imagined he could have been a university professor and I would be the son who found all of his notes! … no, no, no. The problem was, how could I start a story that led to AvalokiteÅ›vara unless I had a father who sent me down that road?
I couldn’t. Because my father would never send me there. My father was no archaeologist, no college professor. He didn’t truck with eastern religion. He didn’t contemplate free will. My father’s last words to me were words of regret, about how much he wished he could have done for his children. And when he asked for forgiveness, I gave it gladly. That’s the man I wanted to write about because he is all men. He wanted more for his children; he felt he hadn’t done enough. That’s the man who would inspire…
And that’s when the truck slammed into the back of my head.
My dad didn’t leave me any archaeological ruins or teacher’s notes. He left me a legacy of regret, of how I wished I had done better. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The beauty of my theories on free will is that change is possible; it’s just slow. Free will is the gift of one generation to the next and we can be the people we hope to be; it just takes a while.
The key to this book is honesty, just as it was with Climbing Maya. This will be marketed as fiction but that doesn’t mean I have to lie.
I just have to remember my dad and stand in his shoes.
Blanche asked if there was anything else we’d like of his.
She asked if we wanted his shoes.
Now, at the time, that innocent offer felt pretty damned ghoulish. It felt like stripping shoes off his body, eminently disrespectful. Only this morning – only moments ago – did the irony catch up to me. It didn’t sneak up, either. It crashed into the back of my head with the velocity of a small truck.
Walking in my father’s shoes.
You saw that, didn’t you?
I was wondering how I could tell you about the developments on the new book. How can I, I wondered, describe this journey I am only beginning to take? The answer came: Step into your father’s shoes.
Of course. You see, I wanted to interview my dad. I wanted to hear his whole life’s story. But I was too late and he died and I barely got a few words out of him. And then, I went home to this idea for a new book, and idea about free will and if it really existed and my theories and how they amount to little more than behavioralism on steroids. I wondered what’s the good of free will, if it really did exist. Surely, it’s not to make us more money or to get us more fame. Indeed, it seems more and more that it’s not for us at all. If anything, free will is a support system for future generations.
And that brought me to AvalokiteÅ›vara, the Buddhist ideal of the bodhisattva, the individual with such compassion for the world that he rejects nirvana if it means just one person remains unsaved. It might sound analogous to Jesus Christ but it’s more than that. Some Buddhists see AvalokiteÅ›vara as really existing but I know idealized versions of anything are no more likely to exist than absolute evil – so I can blaspheme in any number of religious traditions and call AvalokiteÅ›vara more a goal than a thing, a goal of what we can be, each of us. Bodhisattvas are people and, so, AvalokiteÅ›vara can be the ideal of all peoples. (This is a primary difference between eastern and western thought. In the west, Christians try to live a Christ-like existence – some, at least – but not to be Christ. In the east, the goal of Buddhists is to become Buddha, to waken to your Buddha nature.)
Evolution. That’s what I’m talking about.
If Climbing Maya told how to be successful in your life, this book would tell how all of humanity can fulfill its potential. It’s the obvious next step.
Now, you might think I sound pretty smart but that’s only one part of the story. Because after I returned home, I started thinking about how I could portray my father in a book like this. He could have been an archeologist, I thought, and I could be the son who carries on his work! … um, no. My dad was no archeologist. He was just a guy. Okay… I imagined he could have been a university professor and I would be the son who found all of his notes! … no, no, no. The problem was, how could I start a story that led to AvalokiteÅ›vara unless I had a father who sent me down that road?
I couldn’t. Because my father would never send me there. My father was no archaeologist, no college professor. He didn’t truck with eastern religion. He didn’t contemplate free will. My father’s last words to me were words of regret, about how much he wished he could have done for his children. And when he asked for forgiveness, I gave it gladly. That’s the man I wanted to write about because he is all men. He wanted more for his children; he felt he hadn’t done enough. That’s the man who would inspire…
And that’s when the truck slammed into the back of my head.
My dad didn’t leave me any archaeological ruins or teacher’s notes. He left me a legacy of regret, of how I wished I had done better. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The beauty of my theories on free will is that change is possible; it’s just slow. Free will is the gift of one generation to the next and we can be the people we hope to be; it just takes a while.
The key to this book is honesty, just as it was with Climbing Maya. This will be marketed as fiction but that doesn’t mean I have to lie.
I just have to remember my dad and stand in his shoes.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Letting me be me…
Sometimes, I think people have trouble pinning me down. I can be very “out there’ at times, vocal about my opinions and just about anything. Other times, though, I can be reserved… downright neurotic.
I’ll give you an example.
This past weekend, I met lots of my father’s family but I didn’t network with them. It’s not just that I had other things on my mind; I didn’t feel comfortable. Well, there was one person who made me comfortable. My aunt Pam… probably because she was a nice person and, therefore, completely unlike any blood relative. (Okay, that’s harsh… completely unlike 99% of my blood relatives.) I took down her contact information.
… and then came the point where I began to wonder what to do with it.
I could send her the link to our photo site.
I could send her an email.
I could send her a link to One Path… oh, wait… no, I couldn’t. Because she’d tell Blanche or Dwight or, god forbid, my mother. I wouldn’t want my mother reading my blog because… um… why, again? I forgot.
Here’s the thing: I haven’t provided any of my family with links to my blogs because, deep down… further… further… under that… move that aside… down there… further… take the stairs… down the – there you go… further… right, down there… deep down, I want to be liked. And One Path and My Side – okay, especially My Side – can sometimes be ever so slightly offensive.
But that’s me, right? And if I never share my blogs with my family, I’m hiding away a part of myself.
And that’s not good.
But I worry.
Perhaps my fucking cussing will turn them away… cunt.
Maybe my atheism and mocking of idiotic, religious afterlife insurance will make them angry.
Possibly my expression of my political views and my beliefs that Democrats and Republicans can both tend to be morons could just keep them from liking me.
But, if they stop liking me because of that… well, I guess they never did like me, did they? So, I guess this is the time to finally come out of the closet.
NO. NOT THAT CLOSET.
It’s time to open up the blinds, pull back the shades, draw the curtains and let the real Ken come through – the one nobody likes!
… wait…
I’ll give you an example.
This past weekend, I met lots of my father’s family but I didn’t network with them. It’s not just that I had other things on my mind; I didn’t feel comfortable. Well, there was one person who made me comfortable. My aunt Pam… probably because she was a nice person and, therefore, completely unlike any blood relative. (Okay, that’s harsh… completely unlike 99% of my blood relatives.) I took down her contact information.
… and then came the point where I began to wonder what to do with it.
I could send her the link to our photo site.
I could send her an email.
I could send her a link to One Path… oh, wait… no, I couldn’t. Because she’d tell Blanche or Dwight or, god forbid, my mother. I wouldn’t want my mother reading my blog because… um… why, again? I forgot.
Here’s the thing: I haven’t provided any of my family with links to my blogs because, deep down… further… further… under that… move that aside… down there… further… take the stairs… down the – there you go… further… right, down there… deep down, I want to be liked. And One Path and My Side – okay, especially My Side – can sometimes be ever so slightly offensive.
But that’s me, right? And if I never share my blogs with my family, I’m hiding away a part of myself.
And that’s not good.
But I worry.
Perhaps my fucking cussing will turn them away… cunt.
Maybe my atheism and mocking of idiotic, religious afterlife insurance will make them angry.
Possibly my expression of my political views and my beliefs that Democrats and Republicans can both tend to be morons could just keep them from liking me.
But, if they stop liking me because of that… well, I guess they never did like me, did they? So, I guess this is the time to finally come out of the closet.
NO. NOT THAT CLOSET.
It’s time to open up the blinds, pull back the shades, draw the curtains and let the real Ken come through – the one nobody likes!
… wait…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)