Santa's leftovers

I'm thinking of starting a new tradition. Every year, no matter how sharp Santa is, there's always a little something that he could have delivered, but that was missed. Maybe Saint Nick would benefit from a humble clean-up crew.

My wife stopped by to get a CD that she wanted. I picked up a second-hand clock radio for myself; nothing fancy, but the one I have has black LED's that are invisible in the dark. I'm stuck with sitting up and glaring blearily at my wife's. It's inconvenient enough at that, but that chick can pile so much crap on her nightstand that neither of us know what time it is until the sun comes up, so somebody hadda do somethin'. Heh.

Also, I've got my eye on an ultra-cheap microphone to go with some other mid-range equipment I've got, and I wouldn't mind a CD or two as well. Just to round out the Christmas spirit, you understand.

In with the good

I got to see my brother recently. We haven't gotten together in a while, and it was good to see him again. It was generous of him, but I shouldn't have let him pay for lunch - times are tight for both of us. Then again, I didn't want to insult him, and sometimes it feels good to say: "I'll buy." I'll spring next time.

I caught cold on Christmas, so soon after the last one. It irritated me, but I've been lucky - my discomfort has been mild, and I've been able to do a lot of things that want to do.

We were able to get my son a respectable pile of loot for Christmas, which feels good for a parent. More selfishly, I got some wonderful loot myself without it being overdone. Just right, as Goldilocks would say.

I haven't had a lot of practice looking on the sunny side, but I easily admit that there's a lot in my life to be thankful for. One could say I've got it made.

Sierra Re-creation

God help me, I think I'm going to resurrect "SierraRecreation.com," or at least its spirit.

It was months ago that I ceased thrashing about in the dark, struggling against a slowly-diminishing ignorance of Content Management Systems, an equally-slowly diminshing ignorance of the Sierra Nevada itself, and the fact that no one but me ever joined a site that I had hoped would engender at least some enthusiasm from, well, enthusiasts. I ceased thrashing, and I gave up.

After I stopped crying, (I take my perceived defeats entirely too seriously) I realized that I still have an interest in the Sierra Nevada. Although I also still don't get out in the rough enough, I still daydream about it, read about it and care about it. And I do occasionally actually get out and kick rocks, and it's fun to write about it or take photos for display. When you've got an interest in something and it just keeps nagging at you, you can either drink until it goes away, or you can stop resisting and do something about it. Me, I'm doin' both.

I also envision doing some sort of videography project about recreation in the Sierra Nevada; the details are always hazy and require that I chase them (which I am currently doing), but the personality of the thing is clear in my mind: something useful, somewhat intelligent, but also approachable, funny and down-to-earth. I'd like to do some sort of a series, even if it's a series of 10-minute webisodes (although I'd rather do more-standard, 30- or 60-minute productions), and an accompanying website just sounds like such a natural place to host such productions (or clips thereof), that I know I've got to do it someday.

Plus, there are so many good resources of different media and perspectives that I am driven by a natural instinct to collect them and display them, and redistribute some of them in more modern or useful ways than I originally found them.

One hang-up is money. "If it cost a nickel to shit, I'd have to go puke somewhere." Thanks to Jeff S. for that handy and unforgettably digusting saying. But it makes my point; I can't afford even one more hosting plan right now, so I'm currently planning on reviving my little monster as a subfolder of my current hosting account. Luckily, it will be full-featured in all other ways, allowing me to build and play and break things. Besides cost, another plus is that a relatively anonymous subfolder homestead will remove any pressure to make it "be" anything other than what it is: a personal work in progress.

Hopefully, it will end up being something worth "re-launching" someday, and showing to the cold, cruel webosphere for somebody to get some use out of it.

Until then, I'll keep the domain name under my thumb for later use. Until then, I'll tinker.

Fish fried

Oh man. I went to what was supposed to be a small affair, a little get-together over some locally caught fish, and a few friendly refreshments. I had four beers, two fish and an inordinate amount of salt. That's how I like my fish.

I woke up the next day feeling like, as I've heard it said, I'd been "eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff." Now, four beers is a significant consumption, but not even close to a harmful amount, hangover-wise. If you're not sure, take my word for it - I've done the research.

For my entire Sunday, I trudged through the day as if I'd been poisoned or beaten, and although I was game enough to be intermittently active, my heart was certainly not in it. Muscle aches, headache and sleep deprivation sapped my strength, and I haven't been so glad to retire for the night in quite some time.

I awoke today at 5am, feeling so much better that I couldn't stay in bed. There's nothing like briefly feeling thoroughly like shit to remind you how good normal feels.

Small actions

Rereading my previous post, it's easy to see that I need to take some action toward my stated goal (wish). So, I'm taking whatever steps I can think of.

Sorry if this post is cryptic and nonsensical. It makes sense to me at the moment, and that's enough.

Discord

Today has been quite imperfect. I've forgotten to bring items with me that are a normal part of my everyday routine; infrastructure that I normally take for granted are non-operational; due to a minor back strain, many simple motions that are normally effortless require concentration
and exact a cost of pain - a recent sneeze was spectacularly sharp and bracing, as striking and transient as being dipped in ice water.

These are the types of oddities and variances that give life its texture and flavor; to a driven and purposeful man, they are incidental. Without a unifying goal, they just feel likes slaps in the face, a little more quicksand that sucks at my legs.

I feel weak today. I want to return to a point where I have a sense of control and purpose and a command of the aspects of my life. It's been so long since that's been the case that I can't really point to a date on the calendar when it was so.

These things change - they always do. I do wish I could accelerate that change and maintain a sense of security and control.

I'll show you

I'm grateful there's a cafe with hi-speed Internet nearby, but they're overly cautions with their Webwasher site blocking software, because it frustates me when it (often) prevents me from looking at fairly harmless websites.

So, this morning I brought up some porn on the screen, just to show it that I could. Take that, oppressively technology!

France calling

I have been dreaming again of France. It remains a magical event in my memory.

Google Maps has a balm for this painfully sweet longing: the Street View feature. I can go and revisit our little hotel, the Pantheon I visited on a crisp solo morning, and other locations.

I am consistently susprised at the power of the experience and nostalgia, now a few years later. The architecture, the food, the different-ness of everything. Just intoxicating.

I had secretly hoped to work some things out this year, and make another trip possible. We're absolutely not in such a position, and while I'm completely unsurprised, I'm secretly bitterly disappointed.

But this post is not intended to be about bitterness; it's about what joy I had in visiting, experiencing and remembering another place and culture. To be in another land, surrounded and immersed by another language and another history.

Tradition

Monday, I had sincerely planned to increase my exercise, both in frequency and intensity. I went to bed feeling a mite peaked, and woke up with a cold. I've tried before to soldier on through a cold, working outdoors and exercising, and I've learned through experience that it's a reliable and effective way to punch up the severity of an illness. So, last Monday I made a conscious effort to chill out and take lots of fluids.

That paid off, and my cold was relatively gentle and short-lived. Feeling about 95% yesterday, I made good on the promise I'd made myself last week, and continued my tradition of only the most intermittent exercise. Just often enough to cause significant discomfort, that's my motto. Therefore, I am in the kind of pain that makes me move about and groan like a mummy with a spinal cord injury. I couldn't tuck my head in properly when crouching into my car seat, and bashed my head on the edge of the roof.

I don't think I can take much more of this healthy lifestyle.

Off the grid

What a week. Good, bad and indifferent, all smeared messily across 6 days or so. In that time, I've/we've:

• Finished our meager Christmas shopping
• Partied with some truly great people
• Counseled a troubled, rowdy drinker to hew to a moral (me, can you believe it?) and considerate path (what is it about me that says: "amateur pastor?")
• Spent the next day riding out a doozey of a hangover
• Made a killer deal on some exercise equipment that might actually work for us
• Caught a cold

I've been too busy to spend much time in front of the computer, as much blessing as curse. How have you been?

"Black Ice" review: on the other hand

[This is a second part of a two-part review of AC/DC's "Black Ice" CD. Read the first, angry part.]

Ever since I hit "post" on my review, I immediately felt regret that it was so negative - embarrassment as if I had drunkenly slandered a family member. I'm just not comfortable shitting on AC/DC like that, after their years as icons of Rock, deserving of my admiration and a more circumspect review. Here is that second look.

For the past few album releases, it has often been the case that I was initially disappointed in the music, as it did not stack up to former glories. Later though, the music, although different, grew on me. For example: "Rock Your Heart Out" sounded fluffy, but over time I was able to appreciate it more on its own terms. "Boogey Man" sounded great on their "No Bull" concert DVD (thanks to Steve for the lend). There are plenty of other examples, and the new album is no different.

It's somewhat (not entirely) unfair to compare new music to past performances. A rigid attitude like the one I took leaves little room for growth. With that in mind, songs like "Stormy May Day" and "War Machine" are actually very worthwhile songs, expressive and effective. "Rock N Roll Dream" also has its own sound, slow and dreamy before stomping into a contrastingly forceful chorus.

I must admit, my initial review felt a lot more correct than the drivel I've read elsewhere, like "Black in Blacker!" Please, calm yourself, douchebag. I hope that balancing out it with this more considered reflection gives a more complete review to anyone considering buying the album.

I must say, I wasn't all wrong: "Money Made" still plods along like a Communist ballad or a slave's mantra, and "Rock N Roll Train" still sounds trite. I can almost hear the mechanical background sounds from Queen's "Back to Humans," a very good song in its own right. "She Likes Rock N Roll" hits me like a throwaway. I still wish the lyrics overall were more complex and specific, but that's me - I enjoy tight lyrics. Who knows what will grow on me in time?

I still rock this CD and I do recommend it.

Making it up as I go along

Perhaps my needs for something metaphysical in which to believe would be served well enough by creating such icons and avatars from whole cloth, out of my own imagination and experiences. I certainly find the idea no less valid; if anything, believing in things I dreamed up for myself is more legitimate than that of someone else's mythology, not less. What do they know of life, death and afterlife that I don't? Nothing, that's what.

It's no surprise, coming from a guy (me) who coined his own faith years ago, that of "Solipsistic Pelagianism." The description, whose motivations are self-evident from its name, is a little less attractive to me lately because it still implies an attachment to religious leanings, which I have less and less anymore. But, it's still as accurate as I can be with such few words.

Hmmm. I'll have to ponder this a while longer, but a homemade belief system seems an attractive and useful option.

I need a spiritual Tom-Tom

In the movie "Big Trouble in Little China," there's a secondary hero who early in the film fails to perform some bar trick with a meat cleaver and a liquor bottle (it's a fun film like that, you should see it). He blames his failure on the fact that (I'm paraphrasing - give me a break, it's likely been decades since I've seen it) "my mind and my spirit are going in different directions."

Aside from the fact that I don't prescribe to eastern (or any other) spirituality, this accurately describes how I feel lately. Conflict within and without, wall-to-wall dissonance. All my energies are poorly aligned and allocated, and it literally feels like they're piling up inside me, and not comfortably, either.

I've been here before, and it's presaged the lower points in my sense of well-being. I feel like I'm a few hundred yards into a rutted, gravel road, with a long, shitty, teeth-rattling journey ahead of me. I'm desperately searching a blurry, poorly-marked map for an alternate route.

AC/DC's "Black Ice" review: initial reaction

[This review is my initial, hotheaded reaction to AC/DC's "Black Ice" CD. Read the mellower, more reasoned second half of the review here.]

I got a hold of AC/DC's latest CD, "Black Ice," within days of its release. I've avoided reading reviews about it so that I could form my own opinions, independently of others'. Ever since its release date was announced, I've turned away from the nagging internal voice that worried whether AC/DC's music quality would continue the downward slide propagated by at least their last two albums. Unfortunately, it has done exactly that, taking the band's legacy deeper underwater.

For example: "Rock N Roll Train" starts out with a serviceable guitar riff and beat, but never gets out of first gear. Lyrics are unimaginative, including: "Give it all, give it, give it what you got; come on give it all a lot; pick it up and move it, give it to the spot." That's not sexy, dangerous or clever; it sounds like instructions for installing a washer/dryer. And later: "Runaway train, runnin' right off the traaack... Runaway train, runnin' right off the traaack..." I know it's just the chorus, but shit. Tedious, flat, dull. And what is this damned song about, anyway?!

"Skies on Fire" similarly begins with some foreboding lyrics, but never gets to the point, and the lyrics quickly become repetitive, uninteresting and banal. I'm left with the same confusion as to the point of this one.

The whole CD, nearly without exception, has the feel of a high school homework assignment that a student had eight years to complete, but still waited until the last minute to finish. Brian Johnson's vocals are sincere and energetic; I sadly have to lay the blame on the creative process that cranked out music like my ex-wife fucks: perfunctorily and without any real skill or enthusiasm. Lyrics are simplistic and even disjointed. The music (and this is the part that really hurts) is amateurish. It sounds like a (very good) garage band's demo, that of a group who will really be something, once they find their voice and hit a groove.

But this is AC-fucking-DC, true Gods of rock, we're talking about. These are "the lads" who for decades consistently churned out chords that infested the base of your spine like a sinister disease, giving you literally no choice but to tremble, bow your head and nearly uncontrollably make the word "rock" an active, spasmodic verb. The roiling chaos of "Bedlam in Belgium." The diabolic, baleful foreboding of "Hell's Bells." The cheeky, insouciant triumph of "Back in Black." These are the guys who wrote lyrics that were both clever and approachable, daring and unrepentant like those in "Dirty Deeds" and "'74 Jailbreak." "What's Next to the Moon," for crying out loud!

They know how to do it, and do it better than anyone else. Why, how, could they go to print with such a lackluster release? Is it that the idea mill finally ran out of grist? Is it just about the money now?

One relatively bright spot is "War Machine." This one starts out with the thumping of war drums, providing a slow grind and malevolently mellow framework for the guitar and lyrics to sit upon. The rhythm guitar kicks in carries us into the song. If I could understand the lyrics, I could pass better judgment. I'll have to look them up.

Most of the other songs have good points about them, but they are very much diamonds in the rough, and one has to listen carefully to catch hints of brilliance. "Rock N Roll Dream" has another deceptively calm backdrop which allows the rest of the song to "pop," to leap forth. Sadly, there's not a lot of leaping going on. In "Stormy May Day," I can truly hear the melancholy and angst that this song wanted to express, fighting and failing to come across in the meterological non-sequitirs: "The storm is ragin', The winds are howlin; The water's calling - Rescue You." The music is almost persuasive enough to take you somewhere, but the lyrics dash and drown these hopes like the current a storm-swollen river. Ironically, that's what I think this song wanted to be about.

After listening attentively to the CD several times, I queued up "Nick of Time" and "Bedlam in Belgium," just to refresh my memory of what the boys can (could) really do. I'm so disappointed. Ah well - we'll always have the seventies and eighties to look back on. Jesus, I could almost weep.

Life goes on

You know it's bad when my brother blogs more recently than me. It's never a good sign when my blog goes quiet. It just indicates things are... not entirely well with me.

But, things are not all bad. The immediate family is healthy and happy - my poor brother is still fucked, and I wonder against which gods he has transgressed for such a persistent, brutal curse to befall him- but everybody under my single roof is of reasonably good cheer.

Speaking of which: Ken, my wife's dad who has lived with us for several months now, moved back home to the ranch last week, taking another ragged swipe at matrimony and hoping for sunny days ahead. Our best wishes go with him.

"The best argument against democracy..."

"I'm not against Proposition 8; if gay people want to get married, whatever, but I heard there's a component that calls for it to teach children about gays in the schools. I mean, I'd almost rather have them be taught about God, or something. I mean, why can they learn about gays, but not God...?"

I managed to quip all but the final syllable of the response: "Well, gay people actually exist..." before thinking better of it and clamming up. Luckily, my interlocutor only pays intermittent attention at best, and it was as if I'd never opened my mouth at all.

I'm definitely getting less timid about my own views, but I'm not sure at all whether that's a good thing or not. Adopting a more vocal stance and a less vocal one are both are tempting and extreme.

Machiavelli doesn't live here

We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Some people think I'm a little too quick to note my weaknesses, and they have a point. On the other hand, I find that humility agrees with me, and speaking in muted tones about my gifts and being realistic about my flaws keeps my feet nicely on the ground, where I like them.

One strength I do not have is a circuitous, conniving mind, capable of multilayered, manipulative thinking. Whatever abilities are granted to my little simian brain, they are of a straightforward nature, procedural, for better or worse. I am terrible when it comes to gauging what others are thinking, what their next moves are, and why, and how I should play my cards for my own benefit. Although I know for a fact that I could have gone farther in life much faster if I had these types of cognitive skills, I am largely ambivalent about their lack; I am not bitter or regretful about it, but I do recognize where they are handy.

My pathetic compensation for the absence of these skills is that I abhor when they are used against me. If I find that I have been manipulated in such a fashion, I am bitterly spiteful; for that, I carry a grudge like I carry my last ounce of blood. I am profoundly unforgiving when I find I have been tricked or lied to. It's closing the barn door after the horses are gone, but it's what I've got.

Also, I'm not at all comfortable when I sensed they are employed around me. When I catch a whiff of deception and evil guile, I quickly realize I'm in a place I don't want to be, whether it's personal or professional. I am learning to heed that sense of discomfort, and act upon it in a more timely manner.

I wonder if such craftiness is a skill one can learn. If so, I wonder if I would want to learn it. It's tempting...

Don't tell me it's rainin'

I've been idly ruminating on the usefulness of myths and religion and the positive effects of self-delusion.

It is so comfortable and sustaining to have a belief system whose tenets exist largely outside the tangible or scientific realm. It almost doesn't matter what it is - whether you pray to Jehovah or Zeus or send silent pleas and gratitude to a faceless, nameless cosmos, having the belief that somebody out there/up there looking out for you, planning, scheming, directing events and taking blame for incidents in your everyday life, it really adds a cushion to the harder knocks of each day's trials and triumphs.

Think about it: assigning unseen hands to the otherwise random forces around you is a powerful method of redirection. Lost your job? It's for a higher purpose. Got a tumor? It's all part of the Lord's plan. Atheists and agnostics have no recourse but to sit and ponder the stark and often bland realities, while the more imaginative among us can find pixies and leprechauns in any event or object under the sun. How liberating that is!

What more powerful example than love? It is a truly intoxicating state of being, where the slightest whims and whispers teem with meaning, questions and promise. What an exciting state of affairs (so to speak) when one's mind is completely enveloped and engaged in the thoughts of another! No action or happening can be too miniscule to elicit pain or joy. At least with love, there is often a likelihood that the object of your affections and dreamy calculation does exist.

What more sinister example than the slogan "Arbeit macht frei," or "work will set you free," which according to Wikipedia: 'was placed at the entrances to a number of Nazi concentration camps "as a kind of mystical declaration that self-sacrifice in the form of endless labour does in itself bring a kind of spiritual freedom."'

How many people over the centuries have slaved tirelessly away at grueling labors, motivated by the bizarre and sometimes perverted psychological alchemy where increasing hardship and toil equals some benefit seen only by the slave, like a seat in heaven?

Grim as this account is, the idea is certainly not all bad. How many people struggle through their workdays even now, tolerating tedium and conflict, sustained by thoughts of loved ones or material reward? How many kids sweat through and endless summer of lawnmowing or burger-flipping, thinking about a shiny new bike or their first rusted-out set of wheels and the new opportunities they bring.

I find that having abandoned the mental mirage of being watched over and fated to certain outcomes by larger forces, it is like losing cartilage in a joint - the bumps are bumpier. However, I also find that it's worth that loss of manufactured comfort. If it's not real, I'm better off without it. Still, if I could find a more romantic view of the world that works for me, and doesn't make me feel like such a sucker I'd happily embrace it. I'll have to keep an eye out for one.

...

It occurs to me that I may have answered my own questions. Reading over the above, it strikes me that I should be investing more "money in the love bank," and working harder to please my wife. If I'm looking for a romantic world view, I could do worse than to start there.

My wife can cook

Holy shit, can my wife fry a fish.

Someday, when I'm lying powerless in the aftermath of the inescapable and final stupid action that is my ultimate undoing, I fully expect that as my life flashes before my eyes one of its singular pleasures - and exquisitely regrettable in that it is never again to be - will be that of a meal including cold beer and my wife's fried, salted trout.

Watch your mouth

My irascible streak continues through today. When pressed, I even shared my caustic wit (translation: I mouthed off) a bit with someone in a position of authority over me. It was quite a natural occurrence, and it was out of my mouth before I had a chance to consider it. I guess I'm getting careless in my old age.

I really shouldn't make a habit of it, but it felt so good and right, it can't have been all bad.

Up yours

I've got no sense of humor this morning. I'm cranky. This feeling always passes, and I hope it does soon.

Human wheels

I never really enjoyed the fall season before. It was simply a buffer between two extremes, and for much of my life, I've lived as if the extremes were the only thing worth experiencing. The hottest, the coldest, the most, the least, the highest... you get the idea. Driving home last night, the evening was anything but extreme, unless you consider it "extremely mild." No blazing sun, no numbing cold; and it was an astounding night.

I must confess, I've been reading a book lent to me by one of my customers, called: "The Tracker," by Tom Brown Jr. It's about a New Jersey boy who befriends a young American Indian and is mentored in tracking and outdoor life by his grandfather. It's filled my head with outdoor adventures and Brown Jr.'s pursuit and embrace of a spiritual connection to nature. I wouldn't say I'm converted, but it does divert my state of mind to a more reverent place regarding the Great Outdoors.

Getting back to last night: it was so placidly beautiful, I couldn't have dreamed up a more striking experience. The first storm of the season had just made its way through, and while the air was perfectly still and calm, I could watch the clouds continue their solemn patrol to the east, carrying their gray gloom and atmospheric power with them. Indeed, I had watched them from my car window as I drove, and I could scarcely stay behind the wheel and resist the urge to pull over on a hilltop and watch the show. Once home, I did just that - kissed my wife, grabbed a cold beer, and walked to the end of the largely-deserted street with the closest and best easterly view.

Along the way, the view of the sky delivered on its promise. As I walked, the rolling hills moved and turned around me; the clouds however, remained, with that glacial, implacable majesty that clouds always have about them. At once streaking through the sky at jetliner speeds, while seeming to remain perfectly still. Only comparing them against the crescent moon's gleaming west surface betrayed that they wheeled by on their way to drench the Sierra Nevada mountains.

There was definitely something in the air last night, and the cosmos bombarded me with wordless thoughts. Whispering to me about the flow of time, the flow of life, my own mortality, the enormousness and smallness all around us, my head, my senses, my entire body was on a magnetic swivel, trying to accept all the input.

Magical!

Un beau rêve

I've been dreaming more lately than I have in a long time. I don't know why.

Late this morning, I had the most exquisite reverie, that my wife and I were back in Paris. It was my brain's delicious cocktail of legitimate memories, mixed with the idealized fantasy of things and places I've never experienced, but had every mark of realism for the dreamer.

It's funny in that way: I dreamed of this small, neighborhood bar, and not for the first time. It was on the ground floor of a crowded group of shops and restaurants, lots of brick, and even had a pool table. Since we never went to a bar in Paris, I'm sure we've never been to such a place, and yet I know I've dreamed of it before. This time, it had even changed in the small ways that places change when you haven't visited in some time; ways that the regulars never notice, ways that are given contrast only by periodic absence.

I seated my wife, and stowed our bicycle (bicycle?) in our "usual spot" (again, never happened), and greeted the bartender in French and ordered our drinks. I was taking in the joy of "being there again" and noting my still-lingering newness to the French language when my son cried out in his sleep from the next room. I didn't snap out of my womblike vision right away; rather, I luxuriated in my happy hallucination, and willed myself to remain, to bask, almost baste myself in the false-but-convincing sensory perceptions of the time and place. Slowly and inevitably, I did drift away, but thankful that I had a few brief moments to say goodbye to the second home of my heart.

Deja vu

I'm at a point in my work dynamic that feels familiar. I am over the honeymoon period where everyone is nice, all projects look like opportunities and most efforts I put out bring a positive return. I am into a lurch now, where people have learned not just my abilities but my occasional downfalls, and I have learned theirs. My efforts rarely bring kudos anymore, and new tasks just feel like more work.

The vibrancy is draining out of all the colors in my professional world, leaving a drab, gray canvas that is less-than-inspiring. I've been here before. When I was, I chose to cave in to apathy, tuning out and offering less of myself. For many reasons, it only makes sense: why give and give when you get less and less back? In retrospect, I don't blame myself for these subtle implosions. The law of diminishing returns is a powerful deterrent.

On the other hand, I can now look back on those daily choices to withdraw and objectively wonder to myself: Were they the best way to handle a given situation? Sure, I probably saved myself a significant degree of workload learning to protecting my cubicle's status quo. I got to a point where I could identify at fifty yards anyone who even smelled like they were bringing me additional work; shrugging or scowling at them was occasionally useful in repelling their stack of paperwork, but what did it leave me with? I can look back now and see that I didn't learn much, I didn't grow, and I'm certain I've missed some opportunities because of it.

The key lies in finding and doing projects that align with my own goals of personal growth and learning by doing. I am fortunate in my position that I can select many projects that I take on. I should use that advantage more. Rather than empty days of avoidance, I will have learned new things and picked up the small victories that build up over time.

Maybe I will find the energy to push forward, to resist vocational hibernation in the face of a dull, sepia landscape. And don't kid yourself - it takes a significant amount of energy, and in daily doses, to trudge forward when all signs indicate that you're just throwing your best efforts on the fire to warm an empty house. Honestly, some days I just don't have that energy. But some days, I do. Best to try, I suppose.

Precious few bottles on the shore

Just a minor note of update: I mentioned before that I've sent several e-mails out in new areas of interest, and waited for a response. Only a few replies have been received; while I'm a little disappointed, I'm not deterred.

I met with one person interested in meeting 'talent,' or entertainment-minded people. Without animus, I must say she sounded primarily interested in a something-for-nothing arrangement, which left me fairly cold. The meeting was not so toxic that I would hesitate to work with her, but I felt a heightened need to look after my own self-interests, lest they be shoved aside by hers. Not surprising, not bad, but not ideal.

Another correspondent on a grassroots political front was non-committal. His input was not negative, and I wonder if he's not interested in my ideas, or just too busy to take on new commitments. This is one time (of many) where being excessively polite may be muddying the waters. After a period of time, I'd rather hear "Hell no" than "Maybe..."

On still another front, I sent e-mails to two local newspapers, asking for a free ad to placed, looking for open mike talent. I've been told that both papers will post such a cattle call. I wrote the clearest letter I could muster, and both correspondents still were confused with my request. I'm fully willing to admit that this is my fault, as I am new to this type of endeavor. Hoepfully some good will yet come of it.

Stoopid coons

Last week was more "balance."

The first three-fourths of Sunday was just a mess. It was as if the Three Stooges were playing Fate, and all my orderly little plans were bumping into each other and going "nyuk nyuk nyuk."

The real pleasure of the day was at the end. My son was away for the evening, and I got to skin a raccoon we'd caught earlier. I don't take pleasure in killing them necessarily, but I felt less guilty about it when I recalled the one chicken that was beheaded outright, and the chickens and ducks that suffered shredded necks because of a renegade beastie who couldn't quite seal the deal. Most of the eventually died, and the one survivor won't be the same again.

The last time I skinned one, it was a hurried and mildly drunken affair. Last night, I took my time and ended up pretty swervy by the time I was done, too, but I think I did a good job. (One thing about "Natural Ice" beer - every swallow tastes like cheap regret, but that stuff packs a deceptive punch. I gotta be careful before I "come to" with a skinless cat in my hands. Hmmm...) My point is that I had the time to myself, worked with my hands and enjoyed giving myself over to a consuming task. I'm sure PETA members would prefer I took up model trains, but this is where we find ourselves.

Anyway, besides taking my time, I also did some other things differently: I hung the little weasel up in the air at a convenient height, rather than laying him in the dirt like I did last time, a silly mistake. I listened to my MP3 player and once I got going, the chore turned into a pleasant undertaking and time ceased to register. Before I knew it, I had a naked raccoon and it was dark.

Another thing I did differently: I took the skin all the way off his skull, and kept the cranium as a trophy. I've seen them boiled on TV to remove the meat and er, stuff. I tried it, and it doesn't smell real good, especially the next day.

This week, I've scraped and salted the skin, and I'm not real sure what to do with it now. Even better, we've trapped another raccoon. Anybody want a hat, or something? Sheesh!

It's all ca-ca

I'm feeling really down today, defeated. Yesterday was a lot of effort just to get what used to be the status quo back into sight, just on the horizon. Efforts that should have yielded a sense of accomplishment instead generated only frustration and misery.

Today things aren't much better. These feelings rarely last, but they always return. I'm still searching for an effective and appropriate way to handle them. My last method, throwing furniture and destroying my own property, were less than ideal.

Currently, I simply stew in impotent contempt for the entire planet and everyonethinginonit. And drink beer. It's not the ideal method, but it's what we've got today.

See you tomorrow.

Downside

The balance of life seems to be rigidly enforced lately. No good can be enjoyed without a price, a backlash.

Yesterday was a very good day; I slipped up to the mountains for a hike and some photos, and had a very good time. No beer last night, and I slept well and fully.

After such a pleasant chain of events, I am swept into the undertow of "balance," which asserts itself like cosmic retribution. My brother's illness is hammering him and what shreds of well-being he enjoys. My DSL is down because we're struggling to pay the bill. My son cherished a beach towel on the way to pre-school where he will play in the water on a hot day, and we forgot it in the car when I dropped him off.

When life kicks at me like this, it makes me want to kick back.

Open letter to John Bizarre

John Bizarre is a skilled writer, filmmaker and former comedian. His writings inspire me not only through their humor, but also through their idealism and calls to action. It is with respect that I formulate this reply to his recent notebook/blog entry. I'd write him directly, but I get the sense that he only desires selective and limited feedback, especially to avoid kooks. Maybe I'll send it to him anyway. He recently writes in part:

Look, I don't even know what to write anymore. 98% of Americans who take the time to go out and vote this November will actually feel good about themselves after having voted for a carefully packaged corporate candidate that has been promoted by a whore house disguised as a news channel.

To him, I'd say this:

John, you've written about the state of things as they are, and it's been effective. I have been moved to change my apathetic and lazy ways as a result. But there's more to the task. You want to know what to write? Here's a recommendation:

Write less about how everyone around you is a mooing bovine, and write more about how you have recently acted to change the world and country that you live in. Tell me how you toiled to affect the change for which you see such a desperate need. Describe how you came to settle upon a challenge, why it is important to the cause as you see it. Tell us how you came out of your ideological, West Hollywood ivory tower, got your hands dirty and took the fight to the stuffed shirts having the Big Laugh at our expense.

Communicate how you launched yourself alone against the hordes of the current system, or how you banded together with people exactly like yourself and/or wildly diverse; how you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a tie-wearing Republican and a paunchy, unconvincing Elvis impersonator, trying to make a difference.

Tell us how the waves of your struggle crashed against the shores of indifference and the hideously entrenched status quo, and won the day like a White Knight with a big dick. Even better, tell us how they failed laughably, and how you found the guts and fire to press on, even when it seemed beyond hopeless.

It's not enough to document your perceptions from the outside, looking in. Actively join the fight. And if you have, tell us about that. That's what I'm waiting for you to write. Because the shit you've been writing has been done well, but done nearly to death. It's time for the next chapter.

Respectfully,

Tom Bickle

I think I will send it...

Vic Mackey is coming

The seventh and final season of The Shield begins this Tuesday, 9/2/08. I eagerly anticipate it.

Pushing my luck

I find that I'm less and less inclined to forcefully stated religious musings as time goes by. Couple that with blue-haired old ladies sending forwarded e-mails that I'm not interested in (and that I am mildly offended by) pisses me off, and you get what we had this morning.

Someone sent me an e-mail describing how people who have scorned God, including John Lennon and Bonn Scott, have been struck down by His mighty hand, or whatever. Plus, they did it by listing all recipients in the Cc: field of the e-mail. My reply is below. Since the environment from which the sender knows me is a professional one, I redacted a few of the sassier comments (in red below). What remains is still plenty cheeky:

Correspondent,

You're a wonderful person and I want to be respectful of your beliefs. Let me share some items with you, however:

First, when sending out an e-mail to a list of recipients, be sure to list their addresses in the "Bcc:" field (not the "Cc:" field); "Bcc:" stands for Blind Carbon Copy, and it will protect their (our) privacy by making it impossible for other recipients (including spammers) to see or abuse this information, while still sending the information to all on your list. There are dozens of addresses below, and they'll all get more spam because of e-mails like this.

Second, I would be more comfortable on the list below in black and red than the e-mail recipient list above. Please feel free to leave me off any "forwarded" e-mail you might send out in the future. I am happy to hear from you personally, but I hope to avoid recycled, fear-based, religious, hoogey-boogey propaganda.

Finally, Bon Scott's vocals weren't Satanic but were an allusion to crossing a dangerous stretch of highway to get to a bar. Further, the lyrics were co-written by Angus and Malcolm Young, who are alive and well today, and still rocking with a brand-new album out, called Black Ice. Highway to Hell launched their careers to a new high, solidifying their rank in the annals of music history. If this is God's punishment, then truly he is a merciful Lord. Check out http://www.ACDC.com for details.

I hope you understand. Have a great day, and I look forward to seeing you again soon.

I took the liberty of copying said e-mail to all the recipients in the list next to my name. I hope somebody benefits from an alternative point of view. Writing this e-mail sounded wrong, but felt right. Today, I'm going with what feels right.

Last night sucked

I got home to find out:

• Somebody left the propane barbecue "on" last time we used it, blowing dollars and a tonight's barbecue dinner out our ass
• The dog yakked on the carpet at some point during the day
• Somebody left the freezer open, thawing our food and overtaxing the freezer motor

Kid got on my nerves and I just wanted to go camping. Immediately.

Let's hope today is better. Otherwise, forward my calls to Spicer Meadow Reservoir.

Social butterfly

I am making an effort to reach out to the world around me. I have made contacts lately with political, artistic and commercial entities, and have generally made a pest of myself. I am trying to drum up interest, both my own and others', in events in my area.

I have sent messages in bottles out to the horizon. Some will come back, some won't, but I am working to open myself up to opportunities and change in ways that are new to me. I am coming out of my cave, if only a little bit, blinking and grunting in the harsh sunlight. It is an awkward effort, but I am learning to embrace these discomforts, as they are a key to a more interesting life.

Social butterfly - hmph. More like social pterodactyl - like a butterfly, but older, louder, out of place and hideously anachronistic. This is how you humans put down roots, isn't it? Make connections? Feels so odd...

Poop onna koilet

It's been about three days since a momentous event occurred at our house. My son pooped on the potty for the first time.

He's been peeing like a big boy for months now, but I had seriously begun to doubt number two would ever happen: we have been employing dynamic combinations of carrot, stick and Jedi mind-control for a long time, and been greeted by all the monolithic resistance a four-year-old boy can muster (and the little fucker can muster quite a bit, let me tell you).

One night, without a bit of advance prodding or fanfare, he just shut himself in the john. He emerged several minutes later to proudly proclaim that he "went poop onna koilet!" (As his mastery of the English language constantly and quickly improves, his childish imperfections disappear. I am quietly hanging on to his mild speech impediments as long as I can, and I celebrate the fact that he slightly mispronounces the word "toilet.")

He's gone from the stiffest of resistance, to pooping on his own volition and sleeping without a diaper, all in one day. My head still buzzes in amazement, especially at the whipsaw element of the transition.

Olympic-level disinterest

All I can say about it is: I just don't care about the Olympics. China's apparently a shamefully smoggy nation that backed out on all the pretty promises it made to entice the Olympic games into hosting there.

The games just have no appeal to me, and I don't think they ever did. It's like the run up to a Presidential election, which we'll see again soon enough: a bunch of bullshit that interrupts the true and best purpose of my television set: entertainment programming.

Boundless apathy; can't wait til it's over.

Screaming

Sometimes, when the music is up real loud, and the sound rampages through my head and it swirls into a formless cacophony, I hear sirens, babies crying or phones ringing. I don't know what that means, if anything.

CCTA

I've gone and joined a small political organization in my area. I'm not too sure what they're all about yet, but if they chase the rainbows they've advertised that they chase, it could be a worthwhile investment of time and energy.

Or, they could be the nuttiest gaggle of kooks this side of the Sierra Nevadas; but that's the gamble you take on any group of hominids these days, so what have I got to lose? I look forward to finding out.

Got my new HDD adapter, works well

I did finally get my hard drive adapter, and it works really well. True to my procrastinating nature, I have yet to download the data therein, which I have coveted so greedily ever since the Big Crash. I'm different.

Try, try again, to adapt

I bought an adapter recently to try and overcome the loss of data that occurred when my laptop failed and I was left wishing I'd made more recent backups. The adapter gizmo I bought should have installed inside my desktop machine's case and allowed me to use the laptop drive like a regular hard drive.

For reasons about which I'm still uncertain, it didn't work. The desktop didn't recognize the drive, as if I should done something different with the jumpers. Since I don't have laptop jumpers nor a simple/nearby place to get them, I went a different route.

I've gone and ordered a USB hard drive enclosure, that should give me similar functionality without the hassle of cracking the case and diggling with jumpers. Who needs that?

UFC for you and me

Another big-name UFC event tomorrow night, and I'm pumped to see it. I tried to get a couple of pals over to help me watch it, but they had contravening plans. Dicks.

So, I've got a line out for one or two other gents who want to watch sanctioned brutality and drink beer. And if they don't make it, I'll be equally happy to watch it all by myself. I like that I'm happy in my own company.

Dry

It's an odd thing, to blog about how much you drink, or how much you don't. I do odd things, though...

For the last several weeks, I'd zip home from work and crack open a beer, and several (less than six, invariably) of its little brothers. It gets to be a habit. Sometimes, it gets to be a little more than that. There are several things I've come to dislike about my afternoon ritual; chief among them, the bleached-out feeling my body has the next morning.

Not hung over, but certainly and significantly minus the zest for life. It feels very much like my vital organs have been thoroughly rinsed of some essential chemicals they normally produce, the ones that put a twinkle in my eye, and pep in my step. Like I said: not hung over. No nausea nor headache, and it leaves me with a perfectly reasonable amount of energy and alertness, but not a bit more. It occurs to me that if I didn't drink on such a regular basis, this effect wouldn't be so prevalent. Apparently, it's a cumulative efffect.

That, plus weight gain and low resistance to voracious snacking are enough to give one pause to look around and take stock of just how one got here. The truth is, I have no problem with chemically tweaking your mood or even consciousness. Coffee, pot, alcohol, any reasonable adult should be able to avail himself of these, as long as he keeps his head on straight. Perhaps I am straightening my head at this point.

But like I said, it's become a habit, and not an altogether good one. This is particularly unfortunate, as I am very much a creature of habit. It is similar but distinctly different from what I'd call an addictive personality. I get in my ruts and I stick with them, generally. But as I've gone along, I've looked for reasons to enjoy loosening up with a small gaggle of beers, and that's fine by itself. Now I find that I must reacquaint myself with the reasons for not drinking. I find it useful to list them here:

• The morning after - even when hangover is not a concern, I find that his milder, sneaky little brother (shall I call him "Hangunder?") is a regular, unwelcome guest the next morning, after as little as two glasses of wine. When I don't drink, I can greet the next morning with energy, optimism and mirth that delights others and myself. I am often that obnoxiously happy jerk that people love to hate. How can I give that up?
• The crash - after the period of euphoria and well-being pass, and they always do, I find myself tired, irritable and generally wrung-out. I justify it to myself by noting inwardly that I would usually be spent by this time of night anyway, so I'm really not missing out. There is truth in this marketing message from my indulgent self, but it is not absolute. Yes, I get tired at the end of the day even without beer, but it is not such a wearing and cranky fatigue as sets in after a few Heinekens.
• Constipation. 'nuff said.

So, although contemplating the benefits of "not drinking" seems at first a meditation of the blandest sort, it turns out to be a worthwhile endeavor. It reveals benefits that are subtle but run deep. They're worth exploring.

It's in all the papers - I love my wife.

I made this for my wife's MySpace Comments area:

An old enemy comes creeping back

What's my problem?

At my last job, as I've written before, I allowed an unhealthy frame of mind to dictate the structure of my work, allowed a cranky, negative voice to rent space in my head.

It's not all just my weak-mindedness, although that does play its part. It's a condition brought on by too much to do, the unwillingness to say 'no' to more projects when asked, and an inability to compartmentalize and maintain perspective under stress.

There, I said it. Typing it out makes it feel like a dirty secret, but I don't think there's anything to be embarrassed about. It's precisely that compulsion to deny a problem that exacerbates it. Follow that line, and before you know it, you get a repeat of two or three years that were among the shittiest in my life, culminating in the monstrosity that was early 'o7. Let's not do that again, shall we?

It causes me to lose what is probably the best asset of my personality: my sense of humor. I lose that, I might as well shoot myself. It's the only thing that balances out my cynicism, my negativity. I can easily imagine every good person in my life dropping me like a hot turd in that event.

What to do? Luckily, solutions are available.

Do more. One thing I have found to be as reliably true as anything else in this life is that if you want more, give more. Do more. Be more. Working to do less and less, avoiding work and responsibility creates an internal culture of fear and withdrawal, making it impossible to grow and break new ground. However, working to maintain a positive, even aggressive attitude, saying to the world: "I shall stop fearing the world; rather, let them fear what I may do" is hugely more useful and productive. It projects my focus outward, leaving less attention for navel gazing and fixation on the self, especially the negative aspects thereof.

I find that if I abandon the opportunity to goof off at work, to eschew procrastination, I can get through intimidating tasks more easily than expected. Putting my head down and actually doing what I'm paid to do allows me to reach a point where secondary, even leisure activities can be addressed without shame or unfavorable consequences. Sloughing off tasks is a seductive but poor habit to get into.

This is not the last word in pulling my head out of my ass. There must be additional answers and techniques involved with improving my workplace happiness and attitude. But, this is likely a cornerstone of a comprehensive solution. Good for me.

One more gift

I am very fortunate to have received the triathelete of birthday gift lists this year: lean and muscular, no fat, no waste. I've truly and sincerely valued everything I've gotten, from the small to the grand, and goodies continue to trickle in. One last thing I'd like though, is something I will give to myself: the gift of organization.

When I was younger, leaner, handsomer (really, it is possible), I was more organized. And a millionaire, I was very rich. Hey, it's my nostalgic moment, get your own if you don't like it!

One thing that was true though, was that I was organized. I knew where things were, or at least where they ought to be, should I need them. Back then, for a brief time, I was single.

As much as I'd like to pretend that I was some alphabetizing dynamo, it was more to the point to say that a) I had less stuff to spread out and lose, and b) I was the only one to move things around. I might (might?) get drunk and hide things from myself, but I was the only one to worry about.

It is only coincidentally true that I am now married and sloppy. Now, I am a disorganized slob, my home a disheveled wreck at a crisis point that I'd be embarrassed to show to a crackhead. I have lots of stuff (note to self: material wealth not the key to happiness), but as often as not I can't find a lot of it. This is just not the me I want to be.

In my defense, I am not totally shiftless. It is a busy life. I get lots of things done, things that matter. I just don't have this one thing that is an important piece of my psyche. I have an innate need to be able to find things that I know I have, and to use them without an inordinate amount of difficulty. I must accommodate this need, at least somewhat, if I am to be happy.

I have the tools of organization, I just haven't employed them. So, this year I've decided to work towards a life containing bare tabletops, indexed files and possessions that are grouped and arranged to the point where one doesn't have to move two of them to access a third. I hope to walk through a bucolic nirvana where stumbling over items is something does in inebriation, not with claustrophobic regularity. I hope to climb a mountain of dear belongings and outright junk and discriminate between the two!

I hope to become: more organized.

Creative cramp

Every workday (every good day anyway, and that's most of them), I sit in my car, going to and/or from work, and I wish... I wish I had a little more time to do the things that present themselves to my mind on such days. Draw. Videotape. Practice guitar/French/whatever. The trouble is, even when this free time wanders over and sits in my lap, I procrastinate.

Sometimes I procrastinate actively - I find "better" things to do. My favorite is housework. I'll do loads of dishes and laundry, pick up the clutter and maybe pick up a less pro-forma task or two. Often though, dishes are set, laundry is at a non-critical stage, and I will still sit and stare idly at the guitar, the French textbook, the camcorder and the whatever.

Sometimes, I procrastinate passively. Watch TV, browse the web or noodle around with something that has no possible redemptive value.

Every now and then though, something in my inherently self-defeating mind will fail, and I'll actually commence to creating something. I like those times. They're usually preceded by the unusual combination of a) a good idea, and b) the organization of said idea into a thumbnail, or some other structured planning. If I carry that structure long enough to sneak it past my own mildly destructive qualities, it's a fair bet that something (I consider to be) useful will come of it.

Those are good times. I should concentrate on improving that rough formula into a work ethic; right now though, UFC fighting is on, and I've been meaning to catch up on John Bizarre's website. He's very funny.

New 'top

I am currently blogging from and building the foundation of my new laptop.

Dell hurt my feelings last time (by sneakily denying me a Windows XP CD and not warning me that their Inspirons suffer from a design flaw that will surely and unexpectedly booty-hump them), so I excluded them from my search for a new portable lap-lover.

I ended up getting a new HP from Best-Buy, finding the right mix of features vs. cost. It so far is quite acceptable, and although I do not yet love Windows Vista Home Premium, I am still open to it. Time will tell the tale.

So, I soldier on through the somewhat tedious, yet still enviable, task of setting up a brand-spanking-new machine.

New bells, new whistles. What fun.

Perfect birthday

I had the best birthday ever yesterday.

I got to spend a lot of time with my wife. We had a couple of local friends over, but nothing big or difficult to prepare for.

The weather was picture perfect: it promised to be hot, but in the afternoon a delightful band of clouds rolled between us and the sun, doing things not only to the temperature but to the view that was better than I could have hoped for. When the sun went down, the stars came out and we bullshitted in the front yard.

I've got toys yet left to play with.

The food, the drink, the company, the weather... just incredible. My thanks to all who came, who called and who wished me a good one. Your wishes paid off.

My brother's birthday may be cooler than mine

My birthday coincides with those of many other notable figures. The one of which I'm proudest is Moe Howard, of the Three Stooges.

My brother's astrological pedigree may be more enviable, however. His includes former French president Georges Pompidou, and P.T. Barnum. That's pretty cool.

...And Bill Watterson, author of Calvin & Hobbes! I wonder if he knows that? He'll be thrilled!

Eight more shopping days til my birthday

My birthday is on the horizon, getting close. Someone asked the other day what i'd like, were somebody looking to buy me a little somethin'. If it's useful, here's my reply:

• Gift certificate from Starbucks
• Gift certificate from Amazon.com or any bookstore in Stockton or closer to Valley Springs
• Field & Stream magazine
• Heineken, Harps or Hefeweizen beer
• The Glenlivet Scotch
• Any red wine you've enjoyed

Or, just an e-mail or a phone call. Just as acceptable.

Inspiron 100 - relinquished the spirit...?

Oh, dear... I am coming to grips with the fact that my Inspiron 1000 (apparently geekspeak for "cheap bastard") laptop has given up the ghost.

It's spontaneously powered down on me once or twice, and I fear that today's was the last gasp. I gots no lights, not even a twinkle, not even on the AC power light. Oh, I am afraid this one's not coming back.

I've been watching the pile of silicon and dog shit degrade for a while. It hasn't done much that indicated a real meltdown, just gotten apparently slower, and the CD/DVD drive hasn't been right in over a year. The hard drive crashed a while back, and that was enough of an ordeal, and now this. Poop.

When the hard drive failed, I learned a few things:

• Dell didn't give me the OS CD's that should have come with it - they waited for me to find out on my own in my darkest computing hour. Shit, they could have e-mailed me at any time, confirmed my address, and shipped them. That would've been the thing to do for a company that valued its customers.
• Dell's Inspiron laptops aren't all that sturdy
• A helpful guy named Rick (working at Dell? I think so, but cannot now remember; nor can I read the e-mail dfrom that time which is on the hard drive of my laptop) read my blogged wail and did contact me, effectively talking me off the ledge. I'd like to buy him some beer.

I don't know that other manufacturers are any better, but I'm certainly going to give them a look, going forward. After all this fun, I'm certainly not happy enough to beeline my dumb, lemming ass back to Dell without comparison shopping.

I would like to be able to recover the data. I know better than to not make frequent backups. Once again, my laziness has caught up with me. Ah, well... C'est la vie.

Factor that

I used to watch "The O'Reilly Factor" regular, if not religiously. I now haven't watched it in many months, and I don't miss it.

One thing that always put me off was the e-mail segment, where some approaches in presenting viewers' e-mails bordered on the dishonest. Most annoyingly, two nutbags with foaming, diametrically opposed complaints ("Bill, you're a card-carrying leftie!" vs. "Bill, you're a conservative kook!") about the show would be presented side-by-side, and then Bill would profess a mystified, head-shaking hopelessness about how both viewers "watched the same show," implying that people who wrote to complain were rabidly ignorant. He'd then dreamily conclude that hapless ol' Bill was just a regular, middle-of-the-road Joe who couldn't catch a fair break. This smarmy feint became quickly tired to everyone but Bill and his producers.

I wonder if they still do that. Not bad enough to start watching again, but I do wonder...

Open mike comedy pleas - posted

In a rare display of follow-through, I have posted several ads on local websites calling for amateur talent to contact me. The purpose: putting together an open mike comedy/spoken word event.

I've posted to craigslist.org, ourvalleysprings.com and MySpace in a cattle call for anyone (preferably stand-ups) who want the chance to perform in front of real live human beings.

There's a lot I don't have worked out, but I'm excited to take a fat swipe at it. Onward!

It's about damned time

Finally, a little shift in momentum. GM announced this week that they'll ease back on gas-guzzling trucks and SUV's, and try to crank out something that doesn't cost a fortune in fuel to drive for a fucking change.

I really had lost hope that anything at all would turn America's sloppy, unintelligent lust for oil away from its course. I knew as well as everyone else that it would take a real kick in the nuts before industrial and political will would start to turn that ship around. In the faceoff between the status quo and good sense, it appears that GM finally blinked, and thank your god for that. I honestly thought it would never happen.

I know it's not everything - it may not even be much. But I allow myself to believe that this is a first step in a process that is too long in starting; that of switching from the endless reliance on fossil fuels, and a move to more sensible, sustainable and contemporary fuel sources.

Customer service sucks

Having worked for years and years in support positions of one variety or another, I can safely say that spending your life in the direct service of others sucks the life right out of you.

Like any other job, its difficulty is magnified exponentially by the degree in which you try to excel. Nurses, technical support jockeys, retail clerks - all these jobs are pretty easy if you're the type to just coast along and make a concerted effort not to give a fuck about the quality of your work and the people it affects. Take it seriously though, and the job's demands will tap your soul like a vampire with a tapeworm.

Working to accommodate the needs of others takes skill, talent, planning and devotion. It's like being the cartilage in a knee, or the squishy rubber of a mountain bike tire, absorbing the impact and jolts and whiplash from every bump in the road, so as not to pass it on to the next guy.

Need something impossible, due to someone else's failure to plan their own life? No problem. Need something done in 5 minutes that usually takes 20? Hey, we'll give it a shot. Need a solution to a problem that isn't even in my field, much less my direct resposibility? You got it, champ. It takes a lot of guts to plant both your feet and shout with determination: "Sir, I am your squishy rubber!"

Not to say that other gigs aren't tough, but they're tough in a different way, I think. Overall, we're all in the business of helping or accommodating someone else, but those who deal face-to-face with those whom they serve know just how exhausting it is, compared to simply appeasing one, pointy-headed boss.

There should be a separate spa for those in the support industry. An oasis just for those who need it most. Hotel clerks, 911 operators, paramedics, teachers, but only the ones who demonstrate a willingness to do a decent job of it. A sanctuary, stocked with lots of booze and pot and hookers, no clocks and no phones but those that dial out. But most of all, they should all have comfortably-appointed soapboxes, constantly manned, where any visitor can plop down and bitch to their hearts content about the people and the predicaments they faced that week, and what geniuses they are for having braved the storm and found a solution to a problem they didn't cause. Because that's what those in the service industry need most: someone to unload on.

And the people on the other side of the soapbox, listening to all the haranguing of these special spa clients...? Heroin. All they want.

Simple gastronomical pleasures

Last night I stopped by the grocery store and picked up:

• Alouette Spinach and Artichoke spread
• Gorgonzola cheese, forget which brand
• Mar-Val's deli's French bread with sea salt sprinkled over top

I took that all home to a bottle of Gnarly Head wine and some crumbly crackers, both of which my wife had bought, and some leftover Gouda cheese.

Man, that was good.

The Alouette makes a spread that is suspiciously packaged as a Brie-like "spread," which is a misnomer bordering on dishonesty, but this spinach/artichoke stuff was very good. I could have eaten it all night; those who know me know that that's not an empty promise...

Drip, drop

Today is trudging by in exhaustingly slow, 10-minute intervals. Bleah.

Bro-man

I went and saw my brother today. It's been too long.

He's hanging tough under ridiculously difficult circumstances, and I'm at some loss for words to describe it all. I feel awful for what he's going through. I hope for the best on his behalf.

Me so happy

I am having a good day. Little bits and pieces of good things are floating downstream and into my fishy little pool, like injured, flailing insects to a fattened catfish. I am only too cheerful to snap them up.

I got my new toy. Although I have spent scarcely little time with it, it's here when I'm ready, and that is comforting.

I sold a very-modestly valuable item that I am pleased to be rid of, and I did it for an amount that both buyer and seller were instantly happy with. It will be gone tomorrow, and there's some paperwork to sort out. I expect it won't be a problem, but the twitchy, paranoid imp that lives in my head won't rest easy until it's all put to bed. Fuck him anyway, it'll be fine.

I cleaned up the house a bit, and I am happy to contribute to the good of the hive. I even completed a honey-do that has lingered overlong, and I suspect that my wife will be pleased, too.

I took a moment out of my busy day to take up a small, independent journalistic project. I collected vital data for a local news story. I am grateful for the opportunity to practice a little structured creativity, and will link to its result when it's done.

All of the above have a few things in common: they are good, positive occurrences that lead in a positive direction; they are all parts of an incomplete whole; they are all things which I am happy to have incomplete, but in-progress. It allows me to work on a continuing failing of mine: the lack of follow-through. As I was heard earlier today to exclaim: "When we struggle, that's when we grow."

I see you out there, Joe Silva! I know you're there. Tell your Mom I said "Hi," and I miss her.

How entitled?

I have a Computer Science degree. Does that make me a scientist?

I like to draw, write and shoot video, and I'm getting better at it by the same imperceptibly small and slow increments at which I practice at it. Can you call me an artist?

I've told jokes and gotten laughs on stage. Can I call myself a comedian?

I've given of myself to non-profit organizations. Am I a philanthropist?

I've hiked and fished and generally lain about the wilderness. I'm lousy at it, but I'm enthusiastic and improving. Am I fairly termed an outdoorsman?

I work independently for people who find that work valuable. Does that make me a businessman?

What's in a name? Surely, any communication carries with it a promise. "Your word is your bond." "A rose by any other name..." Should I promote myself with any or all of these titles, all technically true, some a paler shade of the truth than others? "Fake it 'til you make it?" If I do, am I a phony? Should I feel ashamed? Would others feel deceived, were they to know how much a title chafes against my own self-esteem, factual accuracy or no?

I ask because I see some people wear masks that don't quite fit, don't quite cover the smirks and winks that go along with them. For example, Bear Grylls's program, "Man vs. Wild" occasionally strains against the letter and intent of the truth. There are frequent and intense debates about just what manner of SAS soldier he was. I don't know the difference myself, but from reading the arguments, one type of SAS is on par with special forces/commandos, and the other is a less intimidating version, drawing comparisons to National Guardsmen or weekend warriors. Grylls himself never met a superlative he didn't like, exclaiming on every show that something was the fastest/meanest/favoritest/nastiest thing he'd ever done/seen/heard of. It gives the impression that everything he does is bigger, better, faster, badder than the thing before. It defies reality that that could be the case, but there you have it.

Is it even necessary? It may well take that kind of over the top, wild-eyed exclamation point-wielding to get a show off the drawing board, green-lit and on the air, but I can honestly say that I would watch the show even if he were a crossing guard who actually HAD tasted something worse than bloodworm grubs or whatever. It's just a good show featuring interesting outdoors techniques and spectacular views, and that's quite enough for me.

But I do wonder - since there are people who aren't interested in honesty, humility (not referring to Grylls now, although I expect he'd "never been more insulted" if I were) - do they deserve to be quasi-lied to in this fashion? If you can't be persuaded to get off your ass and pay attention to someone unless they've skydived naked and blindfolded behind enemy lines during a hurricane, do you deserve to be lied to? If that's the only way to get you motor running, should you really expect that everyone you meet or see on TV to be the most ultimate, extreme, balls-out, in-your-facest version of whatever they're doing? How exhausting. Can't I just be a fairly unassuming human being who's good at a few worthwhile things but still learning about others, and still be worth your time? Do I have to claim all things under the sun and suck all the oxygen out of a room before I'm taken seriously? It seems directly opposite of common sense.

I guess I'm not comfortable promising the moon. But doesn't that promise come with an implied wink anymore anyway?

In response to my own questions:

• Does that make me a scientist? I'll use the title, but only with generous humor.
• Can you call me an artist? Yes - I think the title of artist can be proudly claimed by anyone who seeks to create.
• Can I call myself a comedian? Shit, no. It takes more work than I've put into it, but I think I have gifts and skills that could have taken me somewhere with it, in another life.
• Am I a philanthropist? No, nothing so grand, but I wouldn't mind a title that says I've helped out now and then.
• Am I fairly termed an outdoorsman? Yes, but it's a close call. By next year I hope to be much more seasoned, wise and deserving.
• Does that make me a businessman? Yes, but only in a blue-collar, grounded sense of the word.

No more slimmin'

I invited my son to head to the pool with me. I mimicked his childlike mispronunciation of the word when I said: "Hey, wanna go slimmin' with me?" He exhuberantly replied: "Swimming? Yeah!"

Kinda bummed me out. Pretty soon, he won't describe pine tree leavings as "pine noodles," either.

Gollum lives

I've been ogling and coveting a new gizmo for a while now. Normally I quietly hug my knees and whisper: "my preciousssss..." under my breath until the feeling passes.

Not this time. I earned the money it costs. I went further and earned some extra cash and put it towards the household (which sorely needs it). I went even further still and performed tireless research to ensure I got the right product with the features I wanted (not easy), at the best price I could find (surprisingly easy). This ensures bang-for-the-buck confidence and minimizes disappointment. Buyer's remorse makes fools of us all, even with the best of intentions.

Soon, my precious will come to me, and I shall dance a little jig and revel in the euphoria that retail therapy brings.

Things I don't understand #4

Why does cooking have to be so complicated?

I get the itch to work with food now and then, and nine-tenths of the time, I don't even bother, because recipes are so complicated and loaded down with obscure, little-used ingredients. Who wants to buy a bottle of paprika, use it once, and never touch it again until the contents are as fresh as a mummy's linen? I can't in good conscience waste expensive resources, so I'd end up using it inappropriately, just to get rid of it: "Hey, put some paprika on those muffins! Have some paprika with that ice cream. You know what goes good with beer? Paprika! Paprika, paprika, paprika!!"

You know what I can make? Mashed potatoes. Perfectly enjoyable, "fresh-from-scratch" mashed potatoes. Four ingredients, and one o' them is water, fer chrissakes. Go ahead, search for that on foodnetwork.net. You'll find bay leaves, kosher salt, nutmeg... Doesn't anybody understand that food should be, or at least start out, simple; maybe then build into some more sophisticated recipes?! Hm?

Oh, wait. Emeril's recipe does. Maybe I'll see what he's got over there... What's this: "white pepper? Heavy cream?" Ech. How about black pepper and milk?

A Thief's Quest

He arrives at the forbidding metal doors early, and creeps furtively inside. Patience is as important as skill as he sneaks warily from one point to another, and he keeps his mind focused and his reflexes sharp. More thief than hero, his latent fear is kept in check only because a business-like demeanor is key to his success.

A fly on the wall keeps watch, and thinks to itself: "Hey, he's pretty nimble, for a fat guy."

He climbs tenaciously to the terrace where his prize awaits and braces for a final, catlike snatch at victory, only to be shoved down again, unexpectedly. A setback. Disappointing, but not surprising. He has lurked these labyrinthine halls before, stricken dumb with wonder and awe at the number and severity of the pitfalls that await the uninitiated. Set back but undaunted, he climbs again, to face the soulless, animated carcass dully guarding his prize with an empty, dead gaze.

To say her limbs move perfunctorily would be a generous description, but her hollow mind and plodding movements are still more than enough to stymie his acquisition of the ultimate prize. With a soothing tone and meaningless, empty words, he coaxes the zombie queen into mechanically releasing his coveted scroll, containing mystic jargon and the magical seal necessary for the start of his true quest.

Thrilled at his triumph, he makes his hasty exit with the brisk efficiency of one who has plucked a dragon's egg while the beast slept, senses on full alert for the evil squeal that raises the alarm and dooms his heavy errand, so close to its zenith.

With a silent breath of relief, he gently settles the forbidding metal door closed behind him, much less intimidating now that it was at his back. His quasi-covert mission completed, his climbed aboard his wagon and stole away without a backward glance.

...

In other news, my trip to the DMV was good, overall.

I blog, and the whole world blogs with me

My brother has joined the ranks of digital scribes, and has his own blog. I am proud of him for taking the first steps towards Internet immortality. I know he's got some good posts in him. Just like me, sometimes he just needs to get out of his own way.

Plus, I can nag him about how long and how frequent his postings are. Everybody wins!

Volunteer video gig

I had the spare time and good fortune to donate my time and effort once again to the local Public Access Television Studio last Thursday night. I was a cameraman for a local human interest/interview show, called Kathy's Window on Calaveras. It was energizing and a little challenging.

It was energizing to perform a function in a new field that is valuable to someone. Honestly, the job was pretty easy for any sober Joe, but it needed done, and they appreciated me taking the time to do it. A very positive environment, I guess that's the point.

It was challenging just because it was new, and I did a good job.

I was also fortunate to speak with local television personality and political candidate, Kathy Mazzaferro. I have helped tape a few of her shows now (including an interview with this guy), and I am always impressed with her presence on-screen. With no apparent pre-show preparation, she takes the show's intro, exit and interviews smoothly from start to finish. I interviewed her myself after the final taping, and she shared with me her background and some information on how she is able to carry on the show, virtually wrinkle-free. I was surprised to learn that it involved very few juicy secrets and behind-the-scenes witchcraft - it mostly involved decades of voracious consumption of all events under the sun, and a genuine interest in any topic. As I asked her: "Well, how am I supposed to fake that??" At least I got her to laugh...

Personal space

Overheard at my house last night:

"Tell Daddy what you did at pre-school today."

"I poked da teacher..."

"...and where did you poke her?"

"In da boobie..."

At this point, things got dark, as my torso convulsed, I turned away and I covered my face with my hands to disguise the laughter that was ably muffled, but not entirely tamed. I am told that my son was instructed in no uncertain terms regarding personal space.

He is my son, that much is certain. And I love him very much.

Don't make me hurt you

Not off to a very good start today. I am coming off an imperfect weekend, and things are not exactly smooth this morning. I am working through it, but if pushed, I may resort to physical and psychological violence.

This is what I imagine PMS to feel like. I'd cutcha as soon as look atcha.

Dodged a bullet?

I was really worried that today would be a nail-biting, misanthropic adventure through Hell. It's actually working out to be fairly relaxed and pleasant. Nice!

Gift idea - digital camcorder

Another gadget I can live without but don't want to:

Samsung SC-D372 MiniDV Camcorder

Only $179 at Circuit City. Temptingly low price. I am very tempted to buy it myself, but I haven't done the requisite research yet. It's just so darn cheap, it makes me wanna buy it.

[Note after the fact: I bought this darn thing, too! I doubt anyone was preparing to get it for me, but if you were, don't! I've already got a very similar item.]

Gift idea - handheld GPS unit

My birthday is a few ragged months away. For those of you looking for gift ideas, here's one:

Lowrance iFinder GO2 Handheld GPS Unit

I compared it to an eTrex unit (I avoid linking to it to avoid potential confusion) for a few dollars more, and this slightly cheaper unit is vastly superior, with more memory, higher display resolution, more routes and waypoints, bigger display and immensely better battery life. Just a better-looking unit.

This is something I'll buy for myself eventually, but is just spendy enough that I hesitate.

---

[Note after the fact: I bought this for myself after finding it for two-thirds the price linked above. I look forward to doodling with it!]

Social self reflection and the UFC

Oh, goody goody - my UFC fights are on tonight! But it does raise an issue. Allow me to share in the most long-winded manner I can manage. It is my way...

I grew up in a manner that was certainly some form of anti-social. I don't hate people (necessarily), but it was a long time before I learned what a good friend was. I thought I knew at the time, but I was tragically mistaken. Therefore, I kept company that was neither truly fun to be around, nor had my best interests at heart.

This background has resulted in a system of socializing and a view of relationships that could generously be called "quirky." I developed a stunted and odd view of how friendships work, and to this day it confuses me and those around me.

For one thing, I largely equate friendships and social events with drinking. This seems an obvious result of the fact that during my teen years, my acquaintances and I would rarely get together without getting some form of good and loaded, and when we did, the event was considered a failure without exception. Therefore, getting together nowadays without a drink in my hand seems unnatural. What the Hell do people do with themselves? Psh - talk?! You must be kidding. It's awkward, and makes my slightly nervous. It's like smoking after a meal, or peanut butter with jelly - one without the other is all right and everything, but certainly not ideal. I don't necessarily enjoy this condition, I just recognize it.

Another unusual trait is that I don't get lonely, at least in what I understand to be a traditional sense. I've never understood why solitary confinement is such a feared punishment in prison movies and other tales of hardship. I think that Tom Hanks in "Cast Away" was just as well off with his artificial friend Wilson as with just about everyone else in that film. By and large, Sartre had it right - Hell is other people.

Only in recent years has this stoic psychological dam begun to show signs of cracking. Having made what I still consider the right decision to move away from my hometown and acquaintances (as well as most of my wife's friends and family as well), it becomes more practically apparent how isolated we are, geographically as well as socially. My wife isn't as bizarre and fundamentally insane as I am, and I worry that she should be happier with more friends in her life, too.

In any event, this is brought to the fore by the fact that I would really like to invite a buddy over tonight to watch pairs of top-conditioned men beat the Hell out of each other, but the list of potential co-viewers is damned slim. Michelle and I have taken a sloppy slap or two at putting down roots and making friends in our new hometown, but the roots are few and shallow in the soil.

In any event, it's likely too late to invite anyone over, and the festivities are on a weeknight, confusing most peoples' schedules (nice going, UFC President Dana White!). Still, I could make a couple of phone calls, take a shot at it. The fact that I let a few logistical wrinkles stop me from trying just leads me to consider the above personality traits regarding my views on friendship.

What an odd life. Not bad, but odd.

UFC Fight Night comin' up

The UFC is premiering its latest season of The Ultimate Fighter with a bang. Tomorrow night, they're kicking off with a three-hour butt-kicking Fight Night extravaganza, followed by the reality show's premiere episode. It's gonna be several solid hours of butt-kickitude, punctuated only with the cracking of cold beers and a few commercials. Best of all, it's free on Spike TV. Nice!

When I was younger, I learned that a big part of being happy is simply having something to look forward to. I'm looking forward to this.

Time Magazine's Ron Paul article

Time Magazine published a great article about Ron Paul's candidacy and both his contrast to and effect upon the Republican Party.

My wife is awesome

My wife had a big challenge a few days ago. She was nervous, but she showed up with her game face on, and won the day.

I am very proud of her.