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.

Take that, you sonofabitch

Some guy came in today and commenced to cussing me out, wholly unreasonably. It took about two and a half seconds, as the breeze from his ignorant maw fluttered my short-cropped hair, to realize he was off base and full of shit, so gave as good as I got, gave him his shit right back, and a little extra.

I'm sick of taking shit from jerks. Fuck 'em!

Let me take a minute...

Can I just say, my life is really, really friggin' great right now?!

First and foremost, I'm getting along with my wife to a degree that takes some effort to communicate just how happy we are together. I am so thrilled with her, and I have such enthusiasm for being with her. We get along almost without a scintilla of friction. I've tried the alternative, and believe me, tolerating a real bitch isn't any more fun than it sounds.

My son and I do well, and our relationship improves consistently. I'm still learning what makes him tick, and he couldn't give a shit less. I like that about him. Kids are pure, I'll give 'em that.

I hate to brag, but I feel that after the months, years of suffering with unhappiness, now that things are getting on a much better track, I have to acknowledge that. Things are rolling, and show many signs of getting better in the future.

I'd give thanks, but it would be gratitude owed to the same shiteating universal entity that was responsible for the slog through pain and despair I just referred to. So if there is an ultimate being out there calling the shots, let's just call it even, and leave it at that, huh?

My brother is ailin'.

My brother reports that his symptoms are worsening, which leads one to imagine frightening things. I really feel bad for his suffering, and dread the grimmer thoughts that knock a little louder at the door today.

He's been very brave about such a sobering health concern, and I'm proud of him. I didn't doubt his fortitude necessarily, but I am gently surprised at the stuff he's made of.

He's been described by others in our unusual clan as "stoic," a description I can't disagree with. It's not a word I would have chosen though, as it implies an aloofness or avoidance of the gravity involved, and my brother hasn't been blind to the stakes. He's been straightforward.

I admire his courage.

"Shooter" shot

My wife and I saw the feature-film "Shooter," or at least most of it, in the theater soon after it was released. We had managed our time badly that day, and realized that we'd have to skip the final third of the movie if we were to pick up our son from the child-minder by the promised deadline. Anyone with kids knows that a babysitter's bond is something you don't fool with, ever.

Anyhoo, we enjoyed the movie for the portion we saw, and it took me until last month to rent the DVD and finish it off. I was better off leaving the final act to my imagination.

We left the theater before the movie's script completely gave up on its efforts to make sense. Plus, the run and gun portions of the movie didn't require much from Mark Wahlberg that I hadn't seen before. I really want to like him, but I didn't get him in this role. His performance seemed two-dimensional to me, lacking depth. I wished he could have made more of his scenes and lines, including his quirky justification for wreaking havoc and vengeance upon the evil-doers: "I don't think you understand - they killed my dog." I really wanted to like and enjoy that line, but I didn't buy it. Bummer.

I was very puzzled to apparently be the only person in the world not to have enjoyed his work in this movie. Every single review fawned over his fine performance, the action parts of which I enjoyed, but the quieter moments I found coldly unconvincing. One reviewer even compared Wahlberg's performance to Matt Damon's in The Bourne Identity, and tore acutely away from my own account, considering as I do Damon's job on that series and something akin to miraculously fitting.

I'm still keeping a hopeful eye out for more or Mark W.'s work in the future, but I didn't love this film for much more than its slam-bang appeal. Which ain't all bad, certainly.

The Muse

I've come by some worthwhile ideas, and I carry them around. It's like carrying water in your hands. I keep most of it, but if I don't dump them in a more reliable vessel soon, I unavoidably lose a little to spillage. Ideas are the most mercurial of things - innumerable are the times when I've had a valuable inkling, only to lose it to a distraction or derailed train of thought. Wise is the man who jots down ideas at every opportunity. Pretentious is the writer who unnecessarily writes complex subject constructions.

I am fortunate, as throughout my life I am afloat in a sea of notions and perspectives. The muse, a source of an artist's inspiration, is constantly whispering in my ear, or at least sending me mental junk mail, for which I am grateful. If I were to make something tangible of one-fifth of the ideas that occur to me, I would be something to see indeed. Paradoxically, with my blessing I am also cursed with pessimism and low self-esteem, traits that quickly and brutally quash creation. So if I can squeeze out any product at all from the lightning that strikes my brain, I feel exceptionally lucky.

All this navel-gazing serves to substantiate this: I fantasize that the muse really exists, and that if I don't act in some way to create or commemorate the messages she sends me, she will punish me with a paucity of ideas in the future.

The above paragraph sounds laughable and ludicrous to the skeptical pessimism within me. Fanciful to the point of ridicule. Muses, spirits and gods that I've made up in my head. The very idea!

Did I mention that the skeptical pessimist is proving a less and less valuable companion on this journey I'm on? He truly is...

Getting something done

Every year since we moved in, I take in the view of my home and property, increasingly disappointed at its appearance, powerless to act on it. I don't know where or how to start. I've got all the hardware I need, but damned little of the skills. I don't know anything about landscaping, planting, pruning or irrigation, and I'm as likely as not to do more harm than good. I've never been what you call "handy."

I'm not excessively vain, but I feel pangs of embarrassment when having guests over, due to the place's rough, sloppy presentation. This cannot stand.

This year, I'm working on it. I know that each area looks like Hell. Although I still don't know what to do or where to begin, I'm not sitting on my hump and moping about it impotently.

To my wife's great concern, I've pruned our fruit trees, beating back many months of neglect. I've done away with piles of of disembodied tree limbs, stacking them neatly away to dry into excellent kindling. I've weedeated many a flapping shrub to a more fire-safe condition.

I'd really like to get the place looking sharp. We're not there yet, but it's a lot neater today than yesterday, and I'll take even simple improvements over none at all, any day.

Every long, painful and ridiculous journey starts with a single, tentative step. Here's hoping it leads somewhere good.

Coming up on a year here

Yesterday, I took a look at my blog posts from last year. It seems like it's been more than a year since I moved these writings to Blogspot, but there you go. That's one of the reasons I blog, to keep minutiae like this straight.

Another thing that struck me was my stated desire to blog once per day, even if it wasn't terribly interesting. Obivously I haven't done that; honestly, I forgot about that oath almost as soon as I wrote it. Still, it sounds like a good idea. You get more "on paper" than you might think, even just posting seemingly random stuff.

Like this, for instance.

New daycare for my little buddy

My son started his new daycare/preschool this week, and it's going pretty well. They're a little strict, but only a little, and it's not a bad thing. They're a little out of my way for drop-offs, and way out of Michelle's way for pickups, but overall, a real improvement.

Dumbass detector

It's been a long, interesting thirty-six years on this planet. Although I don't know a lot, I've learned this: One earmark of a real tool is that they pronounce "salsa" with a "z" sound.

"Sahl-zuh."

I've known a comparative few who say it that way, and let's just say they have certain personality traits in common. It's not necessarily a sure-fire indicator that you're a water-headed jerk, but it's certainly a red flag.

Might wanna watch that; it ain't right, it ain't natural, and I'm onto you.

Buy Danish

Muslims are boycotting Danish products in the wake of another round of printed cartoons featuring Muhammad wearing a bomb-shaped turban.

I'd like to apply my efforts to an anti-boycott, and recommend the fervent buying of Danish products, in response. Fortunately, there's a website devoted to this cause, BuyDanish.dk. How convenient!

Who knew playing with Lego was a political statement?

Stupid people piss me off

I regularly come into contact with people with whom I must get along, but who have an ignorance about them that obstructs not only their life, but also the lives of people around them.

Regularly tripping over, and picking up after, the same potato-headed goofball again and again wears a guy down. It really grates on me to have to smile and nod and suffer the same noodle-head ad infinitum.

I had to get that out - thanks for listening.

John Bizarre makes a helluva point

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution is under attack, and John Bizarre is raising the alarm. Aside from his paranoia and martyr complex, he makes some fine points, worthy of reckoning and attention. It's not the last word on the subject, but it makes for some damn fine food for thought.

I don't think it's quite worth abandoning the country for, but it's certainly worth consideration.

One thing I'd point out - if John's trying to put together a coalition (he raves about being the only one fighting the fight - I'd advise him to go a little lighter on the sole survivor angle), he's not trying very hard. I don't even know how to contact him, were I to pledge my pen and sword in allegiance. Which I'm ready to do, by the way.

John, if you're out there, contact me - at least you'll have someone to water your stallion before you charge off at the windmills.

That's not meant to sound as gay as it does...

Even I thought this was funny

Les Stroud has advised me and thousands of others on the safest way to break a piece of wood. I watched, listened and understood, logically, the reasons for the technique. It involves levering a branch between two fixed points and bending it until it breaks. It's wiser and safer than other methods for various reasons. Not the least of those reasons is the surprising amount of energy built up just before the branch breaks. When you're bending the branch in your hands, applying force just with your arms and wrists, the release of that force can be unpredictable.

Like I said, I understood, intellectually, the wisdom of this advice. At work yesterday, I came to understand it in a more pragmatic way.

Twisting and bending a thumb-thick branch in my hands (for reasons uninteresting for the purposes of this blog), I brought the stick to its breaking point, and simultaneously pictured Les Stroud in my mind, cracking a limb between two trees. The next moment, the stick snapped, releasing its collected force at its outer ends. One of those ends was unwittingly and unerringly aimed with brutal mathematical precision at the head of my innocent, unsuspecting dick.

With an audible thwack, I learned with a deeper, pragmatic and intensely memorable
appreciation the lesson which I had already been aware. The sensation of pain was sharp and immediate, and still, I laughed out loud. God thinks I'm hilarious.

I won't soon forget this learning experience. I share it with you now as Les shared it with me, and I hope you don't have to learn the hard way.

Things I don't understand #3

Why is it that the local grocery mart hasn't carried a single French wine in the entirety of the handful of years we've lived here? Amazing! They carry mostly Californian wines, which is understandable, but also some Australian wines and other importeds.

But not to carry even one French product? That's like carrying fine watches, but nothing from Switzerland. Like stocking Tequila, but nothing from Mexico. Like copping meth, but nothing from the Central Valley.

I finally got off my ass and out of my car, and approached one of the muckety-mucks at the store. I recommended a lower-cost vin francais that I had enjoyed in my most-recent burg. Weeks later, I got the call, and my favorite wine of old was on the shelf. Hurray! They managed to bump up the price a few bucks, but it's still cheaper than shipping from BevMo.

I feel good

Today was idyllic - warm, beautiful, clear, calm. Blue skies, fluffy clouds, calm, pleasant air. Even in the elevationally-challenged valley, the views and overall outdoors ambiance was intoxicatingly picturesque. The stuff oil paintings are made of, soothing much more than the eye, I assure you of that.

I had an unexpected free day today, and I spent it with my wife. She continues to illuminate and improve my life, and is awesome in general. We saw the movie: "Fool's Gold," which was better than the reviews made it out to be (although I doubt you'll see any Oscar nods from this particular film). My wife picked it, and it was fun.

Take that, Ebert!

Cliff has a tumor

My brother Cliff has a tumor in his brain stem. It's a little fella, but appears to be the source of all the pain and odd sensations in his extremities lately.

He's in San Francisco now for testing, and while his pain spikes when they don't keep on top of his meds, he seems satisfied with the current schedule and types of medications they've got him on; pain management without utter, drooling disconnect from reality.

Some reports indicate grim possibilities, others hint at "dodged-a-bullet" near misses. I don't know how worried to be right now. We had a cousin that died just last year, younger than either of us, from brain cancer. Nobody knows yet if this is the same thing or wildly different. He may or may not get a biopsy early next week, and know more.

His direct line at the hospital is: 415-514-5159. His cell works too, but isn't as reliable, at 209-271-4364. Give him a ring.

Gorgeous Days

Yesterday and today were just beautiful days. Sunny, clear, warm - a welcome departure from the preceding month of gray drizzle and cold winds.

I went for a jog yesterday and today, enjoying the warmth and sun (and, disgustingly, blasting the crud from my lungs, which are still recovering from last week's cold). I feel stronger for it.

It's not all sunshine and warmth in my life and especially for those around me, but as awkward as it can be, it reminds me all the more to appreciate the good.

White stuff on your tongue

One thing (among many) that pornography has ruined for me: catching snowflakes on your tongue. Amid a particularly productive snowstorm last week, I decided to enjoin the classically innocent pastime of catching snowflakes on my tongue.

Standing with my head back, eyes closed and tongue out as far as it would go, I couldn't help feeling... well, creepy and awkward. Some things you can't "un-know." Such is life, so be it.

Web links, gift ideas

A few web items catch my eye this week:

• Valley Springs has a new Martial Arts center: Lohsen Martial Arts. They feature Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, just like my heroes on "thuh teevee," at the UFC. What a great sport. Maybe I can get a few lessons for my birthday...
  
  That preceding paragraph was a hint, in case you're wondering...
  
  They could also benefit from a new website design, about which I've already made first contact. Hmm - perhaps a trade is in order...!
  
• Also, I found a neat website to get ornamental, outdoor, tree-humping jewelry. I'm partial to the "Cairn Opener Sandblasted," myself, but I'm only just beginning my window shopping.

Conversation: a symbiotic relationship

The world is full of know-it-alls, dime-store connoisseurs who have never done what you're thinking of doing, but they know more about it than you. They know because they've seen something on T.V., read it in a magazine, or had a friend who had an Uncle who worked at a company that did that type of thing. "...I think he was the janitor, but hey, he worked there, man..."

Adding to the tedium is their unwillingness to entertain other points of view, even for the sporting aspect of it. Even if they're unconvinceable, it would be good manners and good fun to consider an alternative viewpoint.

But oh, no - their third-hand pseudo-knowledge is much more valuable, potent and important than your conjecture and the anecdotes you may have collected, carried and offered to share. So shut up, breathe deeply and listen politely until you can make up an excuse to escape the vortex of hot air.

You didn't have anything to contribute anyway, did you?

Gym report

I was feeling really good last week about going to the gym. I hadn't gone in weeks, but I had some excellent excuses. Almost as good as achievement, is justification.

I feel yucky

My son brought home a gift for me last week: bacteria! The gift that keeps on giving!

I felt a twinge last night in my chest - odd, as this type of thing usually starts in my sinus. Anyway, I now feel increased sensitivity to temperature extremes in my extremities, and coughing is my new hobby.

Then again, there are those out there who have it much worse, so my despair is definitely in perspective.

More of the same

Every time I bring up my blog page, I feel a pang of self-disappointment in that I don't write often enough. Then I begin writing, and the stuff I write just sucks. That's when I realize (one of the reasons) why I don't blog as much as I used to; it's because I don't blog as well as I used to. Sometimes, it just doesn't flow. Is there any paler feeling than when you go to the well that has served you so well for so long, and it's dry? Bleah!

I suspect it's largely because I don't do many exciting things lately, and -- worst of all -- I've temporarily lost the ability to find the humor, wonder and conflict in everyday events. The same weird shit is out there; I've just got to tune into it.

Also, taking up more-exciting/fulfilling endeavors would help a lot. As it is, I work, watch TV, take care of the house and family. Those are great for starters, but there's an element missing.

I gotta get off my ass. Soon, soon.

Finally, it doesn't help that I'm out of practice. Perhaps some blog-based throat-clearing is in order. Brace yourself as I jot some mildly-interesting-even-to-me junk just to get my fingers and frontal lobe flexible again...

Joe Rogan: occasional genius

When I sat down to write my last post, I nearly continued the winey-drama of the previous one, about how I need more time to myself, and can't conecntrate. I couldn't face blogging more bitching and angst, so I wrote some shit about how I need a new car instead.

I went on about my business, and not much later I came across Joe Rogan's blog archive, containing these sage words, summing up the contents of my head much better than I could:

Remember back when you were a kid, and you thought there were actually people that knew what this thing we call "life" was really all about? Remember when you thought there really were "grown ups?"

Then, all of a sudden one day you become a "grown up" yourself and the terrifying revelation occurs to you that there really are no "grown ups," just kids that got old and had kids of their own, and no one really knows what the fuck is going on.

Well said.

Snow on the mountains means trouble in paradise

I am seriously considering (if weakly pursuing) trading my two-wheel drive babe-magnet in for a more rugged, two-fisted, 4x4, snow-crunching mountain machine. Unfortunately, I don't need the babes my car magnetizes, and the last five miles of my drive to work is often blanketed in snow, rendering it nearly useless. Getting me 95% of the way to work isn't nearly as successful as it sounds.

I can borrow my wife's truck, but this puts her out, and for some reason I let that make me feel bad. Plus, swapping vehicles back and forth is a pain, and maximizes the possibility that one of us will forget something vital (like keys or a wallet) in the swapped carriage.

Although the weatherman no longer dictates my wife's workweek, he is severely impacting mine. The jerk. It's getting so that every snowstorm causes tension in my life, like an old fart who can feel the impending rain in his bones.

So, I'm considering a different vehicle. We're looking hard at some used Jeeps, with good reputations for reliability that won't put us further in debt. Other vehicles may make the short list, but Jeeps have good buzz. My boss thinks I should get a Subaru. I'm not one for vanity, but a Subaru just sounds like a geekmobile, and not in a good way. This from a guy who's proudly driven a Honda!

No, I think we'll get something in which I can hold my head (and my ass) up high, and that will haul me over the occasional rough terrain come summer. I invite you to share your reviews of rugged vehicles you've owned, if you have any such reviews.