Squirrel! Part two

I finally offloaded the pix of my squirrel hunt, and I even got a few useful ones. More than I expected, really.

A last, evil laugh

You remember that scene in the first "The Lord of the Rings," where the group struggles through some dark, stinky crevices underground, running from a fiery, angry demon, and although Gandalf makes a portentious stand, ruining not the ugly demon but the ground upon which he stood, sending him to the anonymous darkness never to be seen again? And then the evil demon, hurtling towards its ignominious demise lost in a forgotten hole lashes out with one final, desperate and unlikely bid to save himself and ensnares Gandalf by the ankle, dragging him down with himself? It was like that.

In other, unrelated news, she quit recently, but staged a spirited comeback attempt by appealing to an uninformed and apparent democratic majority when her chief critic was out of town.

I only mention the two because, you know, it's faster than making two separate posts.

Front page, baby

A few days ago, I happened upon a water line break along the road. Any geyser is visually interesting, but this one was directly behind a CCWD (Calaveras County Water District) sign promoting water conservation as hundreds of gallons of water pissed futilely into the sky. I'm all for conservation, but I giggled as I caught this visual irony on "film."

I submitted it for publication into the Valley Springs News, and they used it in today's edition! I have to admit, it's pretty exciting to be a part of the giant behemoth that is the mainstream media. I hope to do more of this type of thing as soon and as often as I can.

I've got a black and white sample here because I'm not at a place where I can get a color scan. You get the idea, eh?

Squirrel!

I bought this new camera recently, and I've been making an effort to use it and get to know its features. It's my first dSLR, a pro-sumer camera with a lot more under the hood than my years-old Kodak point-n-shoot.

One of the things I've looked forward to photographing is wildlife. I'm lucky that my rural area is rife with critters, as is my workplace. Every morning as I drive to work, sans camera, I note hawks perched on power lines or winging their way to nearby treetops. At work, where squirrels are already braver than your average rodent due to routine human exposure, squirrels chitter and chase each other over ground, up trees and across limbs, just feet away.

On my days off, when I have time and bring my camera, the route I normally take to work is practically a desert in times of winged wildlife. Even the crows hide from me. Escorting my 300D on a lunchtime stroll, the roads and trails are silent. It is maddening that these clowns of the forest, normally all but climbing into my shirt pocket and juggling acorns, have now vanished. I walk my normal route, and back to the office where I work without spying a single one of these bloody Sierra Nevada rats.

I was just about to give up when I found one. He even did me the favor of posing - in the afternoon heat, heat sprawled on his belly along a split-rail fence. Unfortunately, the sight of a pudgy amateur photographer clumsily stalking him with a small, gray device clutched to his chest was too disturbing for the little guy to remain in his vulnerable position long enough to snap his photo. I got some other shots, and I wish I could post a sample or two here. But, I haven't had time in my busy life to get them onto a computer screen for review. Maybe later... Still, I'm glad I found one, anyway.

Sort of stupid

As if my fellow humans didn't do enough things to irritate me, here's one more: the superfluous adding of "sort of" or "kind of" to their sentences. It wouldn't be so annoying if people didn't reach for it so quickly and lazily, and adopt so easily it as a posing habit. I noticed people adding these qualifiers recently, as if they just couldn't hit on a sufficiently accurate descriptor, often during a self-indulgent traipse down memory lane:

"I don't know, I guess the experience just sort of opened new doors for me as a person..."

Did it? Did it sort of open new doors for you, or did it just open new doors for you? Oh yes, that's right, your story and its slippery little point are simply too complex and elusive to be captured by mere and common turns of phrase; but you, ever the bon vivant and irrepressible storyteller will just have to make do with the paltry language that human civilization has patched together over the past few thousand years. Do struggle on, won't you, and sort of patch together your high-minded repartee, in a kind of grandiose pastiche of sloppy metaphors and unnecessary, trendy figures of speech? Oh, won't you, do?

I admit, I am easily annoyed.

Meta Blog

Nearly another week gone by and I've written darn little of personal import. I used to love writing in this thing, and now it's becoming an effort. I feel that I'm losing a grip on something important, and I don't know if it's so that I can have a hand free for what's next, or if something's just slipping away.

Sometimes I feel like I'm turning into one of them - one of the norms, the everyday zombies who lack introspection, irony and the sense of being just out of sync enough to remind themselves that life is weird and once you're comfortable, you're probably dead. "It's warm and welcoming, here in the herd. Give in to our embrace..." It sounds tempting, inviting and creepily like a suspense thriller film, and I know it's not right.

Tumult

My boss quit a few days ago, and the workplace is in relative chaos. As much as livelihood issues square dance around my panic button, I find it very instructive to watch how individuals and groups react to the stress, strife, threats and opportunities that upsetting an apple cart provides. It's pedagogical to see who grabs for apples, and who tries to right the cart.

Even more so, it gives me an opportunity to read people and their reactions, which become transparent when there isn't sufficient time to cloak skulduggery in the sleight-of-hand that usually accompanies ulterior motives. With haste, these feints and grabs become naked, and even those like me who find human nature fairly impenetrable can perceive them easily. Instructive, but I find every lesson disgusting and repugnant.

Rut

My personal life is great in a lot of ways. Most ways, even. However, there is a rut that I've fallen into, only in my own head, and I don't like it. I am working to break out of the status quo persona, but it's tough.

On other other hand, it's a great (worst) problem to have. Generally speaking, I need to work out the kinks in how I spend my free time. I feel like enlightenment and progress are right around the corner. It's a great time to be alive.

Rut

My personal life is great in a lot of ways. However, there is a rut that I've fallen into, only in my own head, and I don't like it. I am working to break out of the status quo persona, but it's tough.

On other other hand, it's a great (worst) problem to have. Generally speaking, I need to work out the kinks in how I spend my free time. I feel like enlightenment and progress are right around the corner. It's a great time to be alive.

What's new?

New, new, what's new...

• I've just posted a new blog entry at HumorMeComedy.com about Open Mike Night experiences.
• My brother is ailing, has taken a recent turn for the worse. I hope he's back in the pink soon. He's a good guy who had enough trouble before crippling pain and disability threw gravel under his skateboard. Things like this are the reason that if there was an omnipotent God and I could meet him on the street, I'd kick him in the nuts.
• My son has started soccer practice, with his first game next week.
• I'm considering replacing my digital camera, which is several years old.

Long weekend

I had a good weekend.

I busted out housework like it was going out of style. I'm usually pretty good about that, but I went above and beyond this weekend.

I feel bad for my poor wife. She's had a nasty two weeks, pushing herself through a terrible cold and crippling backache. A new schedule and maybe too strenuous a pace could be forcing her to take it easy for a change. I tried to help out so she could slip into a lower gear, but she's still burning some oil. I hope she feels better soon.

I do wish I'd spent more time with my son. I flipped between two modes: busy as hell and fairly exhausted. Neither really made for excellent parenting modes. The boy was happy enough doing his own thing, but I can do a better job.

Big Day

I woke up this morning with the realization that today is my son's first day of kindergarten. It was no surprise and the anticipation hasn't really affected me in the preceding days, other than logistical concerns involving who drives where and when.

Still, as I opened my eyes I had the distinct sensation of a roller coaster car reaching the final, clanking, uphill procession, and that of a passenger looking down at an unstoppable, exponentially speedy trip down a nearly incomprehensible and frightening series of twists, loops, volcanic leaps and stomach-torquing drops.

Here we go. Too late to get off now. And breakfast isn't sitting so well at the moment.

Head cold

I have a cold, which is turning out to be a real family heirloom. My son gave it to his momma, who gave it to me. My wife is suffering from it much more than I, sadly. I have a low-impact job indoors, and have been careful to take lots of water, and lay off the sauce. My woman, on the other hand, appears unable or unwilling to take it easy, and suffers from headaches, backache, chest and head congestion and general malaise. Sucks!

The first Open Mike I've run

Last week I ran an Open Mike Night at "The 19th Hole" in Avery, CA, the first time I've done so. I've performed at them several times now, but this was my first time being responsible for the whole thing - the equipment, the tone, the promotion. And it was a total blast.

I rushed over directly from work, set up my equipment and got started. I introduced myself and the concept open mikes in general. I did about 5 minutes of my material and it was very well received. It's true that several people in the audience were friends and acquaintances of mine, and I know that buddy-laughs are different than stranger-laughs. Still, laughs are laughs, and they sounded genuine to me. An even stronger confirmation of their legitimacy was the fact that some gags fell a bit flat - not a night of bombs by any means, but the crowd provided enough variation in response that I knew the laughter wasn't simply Pavlovian, "that's my buddy up there" giggles, generated to save my feelings.

Beyond the reception of my own material, the night started off a bit slowly. It appears that open mikes and down-to-earth performance art in general are pretty novel here, and I could sense the crowd's uncertainty as to what this production was going to look like. That's part of the reason I explained (and will continue to explain) what open mikes are about. I think it helps to get the uninitiated up to speed. But the evening rolled along, and I was proud of myself: I trod a careful line between cajoling the hesitant attendees and acknowledging the awkwardness that is natural to approaching a microphone.

Unfortunately, there are precious few (maybe none at all) aspiring comedians in this area, and no musicians saw fit to attend, either. So, talent was a little on the lean side, and our only hope for entertainment, aside from me, was to get the crowd involved. If there was one angel of mercy in this regard, it was an elderly woman named Liena. After my repeated prodding of the crowd to take a whack at it, she finally took the mike - she utterly mangled a street joke that began: "Okay, there's this eye-talian guy..."

Although it didn't end up being an ethnic slur, it sure started out like one, and this bold start from a frail old granny was ideal for breaking the ice! After her, there was a steady stream of participants; it not only provided a quantity and diversity of material, I could feel the audience become invested in the show, as their friends bought into it and supported their cohorts.

By the end of the show, everyone was loose and there was a definite buzz in the air. Even the shyest person in attendance had shuffled up to the mike to share a funnier-than-expected story about his near-death experience, falling out of a fishing boat in full gear. All my trepidation at this new experience had morphed into exhilaration as the evening was as much a success as I could have asked for. Three nights from now I get to do it all over again, and I can't wait.

I've gotta write some new material!

An evening of foxes and fires

With the windows open during summer's muggy stifle, my wife and I heard the chickens muttering unusually loudly and nervously outside. For the second time in a week, I crept my chubby frame onto the creaking deck and caught sight of a fox making his skulking retreat into the back 40. For the second time in a week, I wished I'd had my rifle handy for procuring a new pelt.

Minutes later, my wife and I posted a leisurely watch overlooking the sloping back yard. While I sipped refreshing adult beverages and adopted an appropriately reverent and blissful state of mind, I caught the distinct aroma of smoke on the wind, and remarked that someone was burning wood out there. Not long after, smoke billowed from just beyond the adjacent hillside, and several CDF aircraft swung circle after circle over the point of what was enough of a blaze to close the nearby road and prompt my wife and I to calculate how long it would take to load horses and dogs and make a getaway.

In the end, the fire was snuffed out without further event. All's well that ends well.

... ten minutes ago, I faced down a rattlesnake. He got away.

Another quiet night in the country...

HumorMeComedy.com

I've been applying my efforts for several weeks now, building a labor of love website devoted to stand up comedy in my region: HumorMeComedy.com. I've been irretrievably snagged on the decision of where to blog about its progress. Do I blog events and thoughts here, in my personal blog? Create a new blogspot blog? Create a blog at the website itself?

Blogging at the website itself is reasonable in the sense that blog entries refer to behind the scenes viewpoints about the site and regional comedy. Unfortunately, it would amount to content about the site, not about comedy, and therefore wouldn't belong on the site, in my estimation.

Second, I've got enough unloved blogspot blogs already - one more littering the place would only embarass me as more evidence that I start and don't finish things.

Blogging here is imperfect as well, as the topic just seems more rightly placed elsewhere. Hmph.

As is my nature, I dithered and did nothing. That's never good. Certainly here is better than nowhere, so I'll start here.

Goodbye Michael Jackson. Close the door on your way out, willya?

Michael Jackson died this week, and in my sphere of awareness there were yawns all around. Was this guy relevant anymore? Was he ever? The answer is yes, but not in my world. Not at all.

And what of some of my favorite (some former) comedians? Nothing from their collective websites. How will I know what to think, if they don't tell me? The answer: see previous paragraph.

I've heard a few overwrought tributes about how people will listen to his music forever, and that his effect on music will be nigh-eternal. There's a whisper in my ear that a guilt-ridden public are over-eulogizing a very creative artist that they cheered, and cheered for different reasons even as his fame rose like a wave to wash him farther and farther from normalcy and the human experience. Now that he's gone, they realize he'll never regain his former glory, and they'll never be able to apologize for the sickening tabloid muck pit that they herded him into.

Yeah - maybe saying nice things now that he's dead will level the scales of inequity regarding the rise and fall of public figures. That way, we can hurry on to the next celebrity flame-out with what passes for a clear conscience.

Four A.M., really?

What the Hell is it with waking up at 4am lately? What am I, in the Army, I gotta wake up at four? Shit. Have I got crops in the field that need tending, is that it?

I slowed down on the beer so I could get some decent sleep, and now I'm surfacing from the depths of slumber at four in the goddamned morning. I'm with Marc Maron on this one: "What the fuck?? This is bullshit!!"

"Sucks to your ass-mar!"

I just finished reading "Lord of the Flies" by William Golding. The title of this blog is Ralph's mispronounced and reflexive rebuke of Piggy's asthma, an excuse for not being more involved in physical endeavors of survival on the island. It cracks me up, and I immediately adopted it into my own lexicon as a general reproof.

I like that the book has so many allegories and ironies in such a short book. Some are approachable and easily picked out, some not. I can see why it is popular as required reading.

I am... Superman

I just realized something about myself, and it's taken some getting used to. I'm Superman.

I know; I didn't believe it either at first, but I've proven it. For example: I'm looking for my shoes this morning, and I look where they belong, right next to the bed. Nothing. I go to look in the living room, fail, come back, and there they are, right next to the bed! Another example: the sugar bowl is running low, and I know we have a bag in the refrigerator, from which I can fill it. I looked on every shelf of the fridge three times, moved things around, and fully explored the 18 cubic feet of this unit, top to bottom. I ask my wife, she tells me where it is, and >poof< there it is.

Clearly, I have X-ray vision. In the space of two days, I have looked completely through two solid objects! Now, if I can just control it, I'll really have something.

Look! Up in the sky! It's a dork! It's a dipshit! No, it's Clueless Man!!

An excellent problem

Exactly a week from now, I am faced with the slightly embarassing luxury of an entire day devoted to my own enjoyment. After performing the minor miracle of arranging weekend days off for this major event in a minor life, I have before me the pleasant task of devising an itinerary, its only purpose to maximize my own gratification and the celebration of my birth.

My feeble imagination has only cranked out two desires so far: French food early, and stand up comedy late. The French food we've got covered, with A Taste of Brittany's website advertising an early opening for breakfasts and lunch, and yesterday's e-mail Newsletter, in an intriguing coincidence, advertising a new chef and menu starting on the very day I'll be there. It's like they knew, and are celebrating my birthday with me! Okay, maybe it's not, but life is more fun with your own, willing hallucinations. Ask the religious, they'll tell you.

Stand up comedy is providing its own challenge. There's an attractive show at Modesto's Fat Cat on Saturday, but Friday night is really the preferred night. Pepperbellys in Fairfield has a show, but distance and a cool regard for that night's show disqualify it from the running. Regular shows by Laugh Track Live at Stockton's The Matinee "are on summer vacation." Nothing going on at "The Grand" (not that night, nor damned little besides) in Tracy, which is troublingly distant and traffic-choked anyway, especially anticipating a Friday night. Nothing at the Aqua. Damn!

I don't imagine I'll have a birthday party, I am a little sad to say. I have yet to figure out the alchemy of a) distance of attendees, b) cost, c) effort, d) certainty of a good time and e) my own random mood. The essence of this decision is that I'll be much happier bird-dogging my own good time. I'm odd, and sometimes can't just sit without worrying that others aren't enjoying themselves. Very odd.

I am pessimistically searching for other options, both for comedy (comedy clubs in the area but not mentioned above would be great) and for fun-loving in general. Creative ideas for spending the day are eagerly solicited.

Beer is an inferior intoxicant

It's been too long since I've written anything. Pardon me while yank some malformed, misshapen thoughts out of my head:

I'm so bored with beer. It's just lost all its promise and mystery for me. To examine the reasons, I start with the mystery:

I must acknowledge the zero-sum game inherent in its intoxicating effects. Every evening (or early afternoon, as it happens) the decision to imbibe is necessarily accompanied in a mature person by another decision, that of sacrificing the following morning's sense of wellness for the revelry of today. While that has a certain fatalist, write-a-bad-check appeal to it, I am sick of the bargain. I am coming to realize that the sensation of waking up with internal organs that are well-rested and pumping out essential juices and chemicals in their appropriate amounts is a valuable thing indeed. I don't wanna get all "ABC After School Special" on you, but it's almost a "high" in itself. The loss of that near-euphoria is deceptively undetectable, like a slow erosion, but it's real. Maybe it's just my age and my historical affinity for the "research" on this subject that have taken their toll, but the more I comprehend that value, the more I am overcome with buyer's remorse.

On to the promise: that implication that I might have more fun with a few belts in me. Certainly, I'm a jolly ass for a while, but the loss of the senses and logical thought robs me of something whose use I miss more and more lately. Some people can drink and enjoy reading, playing music or other mentally proactive pursuits, but I don't find myself among them. Since I rarely get outright sloshed anymore, I find that there are few tasks I cannot perform after having my fill of lager, but do I enjoy those activities? I really don't.

Add to that the fact that I tend to get cranky and impatient between drying out and hitting the sack, and as you may imagine, the balance of the day is much less fun.

So, scratch fun, as well as my own experiences in the matter. I'm not swearing off beer altogether, but clearly, I've turned my own little corner. But is beer inferior?

A little objective thought will reveal that anything you can cook up in your bathtub or a prison toilet is suspect, whether it's gin, brandy or beer. In my mind, it compels comparisons to methamphetamine and other homemade drugs, and it's not a flattering comparison. Granted, Heineken and the Glenlivet warrant some form of exemption in this analysis, if only because they bring a lot more to the "enjoyment" side of the equation. They are quality products, and deserve to be set apart from the cheap shit with which I've been poisoning myself in for years. Unfortunately, the downside effects are equally deleterious, if not worse.

All this begs to lead to comparisons to other choices of intoxicants, alternative versions of mental bubble gum. Certainly, it's not an exercise to leapfrog past that and wonder why not just abstain, and leave your poor brain alone? Surely it has enough to contend with absent all these chemical disruptions and distractions.

That's a worthwhile question, too.

Monday morning

This morning is an albatross, wobbling and honking during a laughably ungainly takeoff.

I haven't had my usual, good night's sleep since last week, and it's very odd for me. I usually sleep like a baby on Ambien and whisky, and I have to wonder if I've stripped some sort of gear.

I'm trying a "Java Chip Frappucino" at Starbucks, in order to prime the chemical pump. So far, it's cold enough to hurt that one tooth that always gives me trouble (the chink in my dental armor), and the little chocolate chips are an annoyance, like oral debris, making the whole drink feel dirty, and not in a good way.

Shit.

Gift ideas

Comedy CD - Final Engagement, Marc Maron $14

I only feel a little crappy today

What I thought was a hangover turned out to be something worse. With my hypochondria, I was convinced I shut down vital organs (I picture liver, kidney failure) due to Heineken overdose.

In any event, my body aches, fever, sweats and lethargic malaise have largely subsided, leaving me only with the sore throat, swelling in glands in my neck like an irradiated bullfrog, and the same aches I normally get from lifting weights in my own useless, sporadic fashion.

My energy level is starting to come back, and it's about damned time. I get impatient when I don't feel well. I don't know how my brother manages.

Must... stop... the pain!

I went and lifted some weights yesterday, and then I've somehow contracted the Brown Bottle Flu. It's not as bad as swine flu in that it's more fun to catch, but I imagine it no less painful.

Both have left me moaning and torpid this morning, and I want very little so much as I want a good night's sleep. That's one argument for legalizing marijuana you don't hear often enough: hangovers are less-severe or even non-existent. So I've heard, anyway, being clean and all.

Ow.

Gift ideas 2 - Celtic theme

Continuing with affordably-priced gift ideas for those who are in the market for such things (God love ya):

Cullan's Hounds - Year of the Dog - $13


Flogging Molly - Float CD - $13

Glenlivet Scotch - $24

Gift ideas 1 - Circus theme

My birthday is now less than a month away, I can't think of jack to ask for. Two months ago - full of ideas. Now - blank. My wife would like to know, so she can get me a little somethin'. Part of the problem is that I'm very fortunate to have plenty of good things in my life, tangible and intangible. Great problem to have. But if I had to try:

Throwing knives
Anything under $5 is fine. I love cheap shit.
Arm Bandits Throwing Knives SD9015
3-pc. Teardrop Point Throwing Knives

Juggling pins
Juggling pins? What's wrong with me?? I wrote this out, then thought about taking it down. Screw that, I want what I want. Judge me if you must.
Duncan Juggling Pins at Target $25

Avenir Deluxe Unicycle (20-Inch Wheel) - $60

New project, busy day

I am starting a new project using technology I got fairly deep with months ago. I am remembering how much I've forgotten. It'll come back to me...

I'm looking forward to about 3pm today, when the bulk and pressure of the day will be behind me, and I plan to unclench certain muscles and breathe a sigh of relief. I may use the time to further the above goals, or I may just noodle about. I'll decide then.

Until then, I'll struggle on and try to look like a responsible adult. It's not my strong suit.

Value

Let's talk about value for a minute.

In all exchanges, social, romantic and financial included, there is at least an implied transaction. You get something you want, and I get something I want. You pay your taxes, maybe we'll come when you dial 911. You rub my feet, I'll scratch your back. You pay your bill, the phone will work when you need it to call 911.

Transaction.

So when I sign up for an online newsletter for a television personality or musician, it's because I aniticipate value in the mailing. Tour dates, television appearance schedules, maybe some sort of "club member" discount, you get the idea.

All I get from any of these dinks is pure commercial advertising. "Buy my latest CD," "buy my clothing line," "spend money now!" Do I get a note when you've updated your much-neglected blog, which I do value? Do I get advance notice, discounted pricing, behind-the-scenes content or interviews that other pedestrian jerks who aren't on your spamletter list don't get? No? Then you're doing it wrong.

Look, I know you've gotta make a buck; hell, so do I. The difference is, when I make a buck, somebody gets something out of it. I earn it. And I also know that signing up for your fan club or newsletter mailing isn't heavy lifting; I don't expect a medal. But it does hold value for you. If I know when you'll be in town, or when you're on the tube next, I'll natter to my friends about it. Hell, I might even go out of my way to see you. That's what you get out of it, but you've got to come across. Don't just flood me with your blatant, commercial propaganda. Remember when big shots pretended to care about their fans, the little people? Make it worth my while and throw me a bone every now and then. Until then, I'm out.

It's the least you can do.

Christopher Hitchens is a genius

... and also, this just in: water is wet.

Christopher Hitchens writes an excellent argument against Turkey joining the European Union. It's no surprise, as Mr. Hitchens has done nothing but make good sense for years.

For the record, my intellectual infatuation turned into a throbbing, rock-hard man-crush the day he flagged the bird not once but twice at the slavering, Pavlovian, "Real Time" audience when he dared to disagree with their collective, knee-jerk, leftist mob mentality. He rocks.

"X-Men Origins: Wolverine" review - Roger Ebert's review is a willfully clueless pile of elitist dung

If you're going to read movie reviews, there is a technique to it: you find a movie reviewer you can live with, and follow him. The reasoning: no one can tell you with certainty whether you'll like a movie; it's a subjective finding unique to the viewer. Therefore, you find an opinion source and get to know it. If you and your reviewer share some appreciations, you can get an idea of where they diverge, and make allowances to determine whether what they enjoy will mean you will enjoy it too.

I find parallels with Roger Ebert, although I haven't really investigated others, and maybe I should. His recent review of "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" was so far off the mark, I have to wonder if he's heavily medicated, the first man to have a menstrual cycle, or he has found a snarky, bitchy ghost-writer. I read his review and had real concerns about seeing the thing. He gives the movie two stars, and launches a more-fervent attack than a good movie can warrant, picking at failures of goals that the movie was never intended to achieve.

Example:

"Their story starts in "1840 -- the Northwest Territories of Canada," a neat trick, since Canada was formed in 1867, and its Northwest Territories in 1870."

Well, shit, Rog, what should they have printed in the subtitle: longitude and latitude? Coordinates aren't visually digestible in an action flick, ya dumb dick!

Further example:

"It is Hugh Jackman's misfortune that when they were handing out superheroes, he got Wolverine, who is for my money low on the charisma list. He never says anything witty, insightful or very intelligent; his utterances are limited to the vocalization of primitive forces: anger, hurt, vengeance, love, hate, determination. There isn't a speck of ambiguity. That Wolverine has been voted the No. 1 comic hero of all time must be the result of a stuffed ballot box."

In other words:
"Lots of people like Wolverine, but I don't, so I'm gonna take my own flimsy, milquetoast claws and slap at this movie like an anemic six-year-old girl."

For readers of the comic book, Wolverine has charisma and backstory by the metric ton. He puts the "bad" in badass, and the character's popularity has spawned storylines more proliferate than a hydra's tie rack. For those who hadn't found the character in comic books, they'll just have to get by on the the raging charisma of Hugh Jackman, a chief (X-)factor that drove the ascendant, runaway success of the preceding three X-Men movies. Yeah, what a spindly, meager example of charisma, hey, Ebert?

"There is little dialogue, except for the snarling of threats, vows and laments, and the recitation of essential plot points. Nothing here about human nature. No personalities beyond those hauled in via typecasting. No lessons to learn. No joy to be experienced. Just mayhem, noise and pretty pictures."

It's an action film, you clueless fruit! The Wolverine character is about rage, a superhero who can be battered but not broken, who has the capacity to be stunned but never stopped. He is a relentless, tireless agent of revenge. This is not "The English Patient," and I thought Ebert would understand that. Complaining that Wolverine doesn't learn lessons is like saying that Braveheart didn't have enough car chases! It completely misses the point.

Ebert finally, petulantly admits: "Oh, the film is well-made," then immediately complains and wonders that its "gifted director" makes an effort to diversify his works by making this a film that dabbles in another genre. Yes, how could a director want to achieve Hollywood success by making a film people will pay to see?! What a narrow, ignorant view.

It is a telling tribute to a very good action film that Roger Ebert sets out to eviscerate it, and this limp-wristed pseudo-savaging is the worst he can do. It's the photo negative of damning with faint praise: commendation by faint condemnation.

Go see this movie, getcha some popcorn, and try not to learn any lessons. It's a great ride.

Stupid Thing of the Week

Last Sunday I got ambitious and threw myself into some yard work. I'd thought we had some white, cotton masks so I didn't grab any at the hardware store. I returned home to find that I was mistaken. "I'll just tough it out," I thought to myself.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I had mowed and weedwhacked my way through quite a bit of fire safety and beautification chores, and settled in for the evening. I had also inhaled my own body weight in powdered grasses and weeds, and my histamine levels quietly climbed through the roof.

That night my sinuses locked up tighter than a frog's butthole, my sample of Nasonex ran out (that shit's magic) and I didn't sleep worth a damn. The next day I realized that not only were my sinuses doomed, but that my upper respiratory didn't like the idea of me snorting a fat line of ragweed, either.

I've spent the last week metabolizing mother nature's insidious fluff, and coughing long, dry and hoarse, like a dog trying to hack up a block of wood. It sounds worse than it is, but it's still pretty f*%&ed up. I'm looking forward to sitting in a movie theater today and gagging and hacking and snorting. In between fits I plan to wheeze and squeal piglike, to summon up unspoken references of swine flu amongst the captive moviegoers who share my air.

Feeling better, though.

Frame of reference

Parents say that they learn from their kids, and I'm experiencing that. An example:

My boy is four. As a four year-old, he is developing the swashbuckling habit of running in one direction, but giggling and looking in another. He's good enough at running that he takes it for granted, watching his feet pound the earth beneath him, or looking back at his pursuer for unadvisably extended periods of time. He'll learn soon enough that he'll be money ahead to monitor the immediate forward, but it's one of those things one doesn't appreciate until one experiences it for oneself.

So, he regularly crashes and burns. And when he does, he sometimes weeps like a murder victim clinging to life. As a father I hate to see him suffer, and I also recognize the human tendency to occasionally milk a mild injury beyond the pain it's likely to have caused without drawing blood.

It occurs to me that even minor spills test his known boundaries for pain. He's only been ambulatory for a couple of years now, and falling down is thankfully the major source of pain in his life. Therefore every time he eats it, as far as he's concerned it could be the worst pain he's ever felt. On his threshold of pain, skinning his knee tops the charts, tripping and smacking his head against drywall is as close to death as his frame of reference allows.

My point is that when I comfort him, I assure him that the pain will pass, and soon. It further occurs to me that it's fair advice for me as well.

I have spent hours, days, (months if you can believe it) dreading a sting that I fear will come. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't. Will my wife reject me? Will my boss fire me? Will I fail to make the rent/mortgage? The time spent in a slow-motion flinch, a tensing, squinting worry that was far worse than the actual, eventual pain. A pain which, I'm happy to say, went away. Broken ankle, broken heart, broken social compact, they suck, but not nearly as bad as I thought they would, and often not as long. The pain will pass, and sooner than you think.

Once you've been kicked in the teeth a time or two, you tend to gain a steadiness from it. It's what I imagine allows boxers to do what they do. You ever been punched in the fucking face? That shit hurts, but these guys make a living getting drilled dozens of times on and about the face by somebody who's good at it. And they manage. Once you've been there and survived it, surmounted it, it still hurts, but you come away realizing it didn't kill you. You can face further blows and realize: "I've been hit harder than this."

I only recently came to understand this resilience, and I think it's a primary reason that happy people appear as buoyant as they do. They've been knocked down, but they realize that it's not likely to be the end of the world. Nobody ever gets more than one death blow, and it makes damned little sense to spend your whole life leaning away from it, especially when it's even money whether you'll see it coming anyway.

Bill Maher is downright hilarious

I'm catching Bill Maher's "Be More Cynical," and it's just one of the funniest, smartest, most insightful pieces of funny business I've seen.

Wow.

Sibling revelry

I got to see my brother yesterday. He's far enough away that we don't visit a lot. I was pleasantly surprised that he's looking better, feeling better. He's lost some of the weight his medication put on him, and was mobile and clear-headed. I worry about him, and it was a happy relief to see some improvement. Good on 'im, as the Australians say.

Also, his kids were impressive in appearance and demeanor. Growing up good-looking and well-behaved. Good on them, too.

If I should (nearly) die...

"Morbid fascination with death" is a term often attributed to people who spend an inordinate amount of time thinking or researching the subject. One who doesn't look close enough might make the mistake of painting me with such a brush. They'd be wrong, but not as far off as you might think.

I was listening to NPR's Fresh Air again today, and an E.R. doctor was on, talking about the many decisions and circumstances involved with impending death. It not only brought to the surface the struggles during my own mother's last days (and years), but considerations about my own. That makes two fantastic, provocative interviews in a row - nice going F.A.!

A degree of intrinsic comfort is afforded to me whenever it comes to thoughts of my own demise. Maybe it's because I'm fat and happy and live a comfortable life, that the specter of Death appears distant, that the idea is not discomforting or threatening. Perhaps it is because the idea of The End represents in part a laying down of life's burdens. I don't welcome it, but for some reason I take a measure of pleasure in recreationally considering its aspects. I've cheerfully blogged about the topic before, focusing on the practical matter of disposing of my bloated, smelly carcass. Today I'll muse on my medical concerns, assuming we get the chance to see death coming, rather than an abrupt end where practical medical arrangements are not a factor.

The consideration of all of the desires, possibilities and circumstances involved in a person's foreseen-but-unavoidable death are more than another mortal should be saddled with. If the slightest care is taken to consider the wants of the decedent-to-be, there are no wrong answers. Do the best you can, more or less - that's plenty.

I certainly have my own worries and desires should something awful happen to my corpus ridiculi, but they wax and wane and slosh around in my head, and what I want now at a chubby and spry 37 may not pan out if I am stricken with a disease or simply the effects of old age. With that in mind, it borders on the narcissistic to demand from family, doctors and/or lawyers that this or that be done to the point of lawsuits and squabbling. *I* don't even know for sure what I want. I'm not comfortable at all with feeding tubes or respirators or transfusions, but since I'm not burdened with an organized faith to tell my how to live (and die), thank god those religious points are moot. Plus, I'm not currently prepared to anticipate the labyrinthine possibilities before they (probably won't) happen, much less write them all out. Call me lazy, but I'm taking the cheap and easy way out; call it my legacy.

My desires are more about practicality than pride, although pride can factor into it. My concerns aren't much different than many people's, including those I heard of my parents' when such discussions were necessary: comfort versus pain, and care versus cost. If I'm in pain, numb me. If I'm drooling, moaning or unresponsive, do what you can stand. Unfortunately, with the state of modern care, the cost of hospital stays dwarf the same stays in luxury hotels, so long term care is just out. I'll be goddamned if my hanging on for another month is worth the cost of a home or massive, crushing debt.

Bullet.

Even if home care is an option, it's not a likely candidate, especially if I'm unable to think, communicate or care for myself in basic ways. I don't doubt that my family loves me enough to wipe my ass and feed me a few times a week, but I've seen households that live that way and it is repulsive to me on the same level as torture. Not only does it trouble me (maybe this is where pride comes in, I don't know), but in that event I would consider my caretakers/loved ones the tortured more than myself.

This whole discussion changes direction on a dime - what if there's hope of a cure or other uptick? What if there's question about who owns the legal right to decide? God save me from being a Terry Schiavo. These are the excruciating twists that madden good people, and I don't want any part of it.

Again: bullet.

Smother me with a pillow, pull my plug or trip over my oxygen hose before I or anyone I care about suffers from any unanswerable questions, impossible ethical knots or horrendous financial responsibility owing to the our collective, hideous inability to assemble a fair method of funding and managing a medical care system.

On the other hand, if I'm rich as a lord or my insurance is top-notch at the time, hey, let's talk about this for a minute. Fluff my pillow, and swab my aft deck, and be quick about it. But otherwise leave me out of it, and let my loved ones lose not a moment of sleep about it.

Fight Night - iss awn!

The UFC is revving up and letting loose tonight with a new Fight Night, free on Spike! After that, it's the season premiere of "The Ultimate Fighter," the only reality show I know of where the players don't just threaten to beat each other up, it's part of the format!

Hoo, I'm gonna enjoy it... Grab me a beer, willya?

John Cougar Melancholy

I was fortunate to catch an interview with John Mellencamp on NPR this morning. I'm still a fan of his, having begun listening to his music in the early 80's or so. I enjoyed his songs about loneliness and areas of society (both the corners and the wide-open spaces) brimming with inequity, as well as lighter, more hopeful fare.

I've heard him on the "Bob and Tom Show" syndicated radio program and found him to be surprisingly funny. The NPR interview and his writing on his website revealed him to be surprisingly articulate as well. With all this surprise, you'd think I expected him to be some dull, grunting moron; certainly not. His sense humor was just so well-developed, his written observations and concerns very deep and clearly-expressed. Maybe it's the format of his music that scrambled my expectations: a three-minute song is a very different from an hour-long interview.

Anyway... I digress, but then, that's what this damned blog is for, isn't it?

The point I'm trying to thrash towards is that I haven't bought a Mellencamp album in years, maybe decades. I want to, and it may be largely because of the history and nostalgia I share with an artist whose music I started enjoying during my adolescence. Maybe that's enough.

However, I stopped buying albums because they stopped being any fun for me. For several albums up to that point, the songs had become drearier and sadder, and fewer of them on each album even tried to have hope or humor. The number for the Suicide Hotline should have been printed on each album cover. Specifically, the last music of his that I bought was a CD single of "Key West Intermezzo/I Saw You First." It was a longing work about a girl he saw but didn't approach, or something - it's been years. So, for one thing, I don't know what the fuck an "intermezzo" is, and for me the song was another masochistic wallow in depression.

I also saw what I thought was a strange rise in a techno-pop beat which really threw me. It just wasn't what I thought of when I thought of John Mellencamp. On the other hand, he's always had a rebellious and independent streak, and so I figured: "If this is what he's putting out, it must be what he wants to do," as opposed to something a corporate goon had forced him to do. I figured the artist was moving and growing away from me as a fan, and so I let it go at that.

Has it gotten any different? Is he still banging out despondent tunes with synthesized percussion that alienates me as a listener? I don't know. Judging a book by its cover, I see that his discography since has been largely black-and-white works of a down-looking John M. The NPR interview proclaims: "...Mellencamp is in the midst of a folksy, pessimistic streak on his new album." It doesn't give me a lot of hope.

Has he forgotten the hopeful half of "It's A Lonely Ol' Night?" where a black hole of desperate loneliness is balanced with the prospect of sharing that lonely ol' night with another forlorn soul in the cold emptiness? What about the tragic pointlessness of "Rumble Seat," and how it turns around and declares:

"Tomorrow is a new day
Gonna make these dreams come true
I'm gonna believe in myself
I'll tell you what Im gonna do
I'm gonna stop puttin myself down
I'm gonna turn my life around"

I haven't heard the kind of gritty optimism and insouciant rebellion John had sung in a helluva long while. I miss it a lot. I'll check out some samples on his website, and see if our tastes have adopted closer parallels. I hope so.

Self-conscious

I have yet to answer that question they asked me in grade school: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Although I find the question frustrating because of my inability to answer it, I have found a useful website for those solving the same puzzle: the assessment test at Career Zone California.

The result of the form wasn't all that enlightening, but whilst filling it out, it occurred to me: one personality trait I've identified is that I'm "all about being all about it." I am fascinated by New Things. I learn about them quickly and I can summon an uncommon amount of enthusiasm for them. My life and home are littered with evidence of studies about French, stand-up comedy, the outdoors, art, blah blah blah bluh-blah. Some interests persist, but mostly it's like speed dating at a job faire. "Time's up everybody, move on to the next vocational table!"

Unfortunately, I eventually fall out of love with what has now become Old Thing, and am ready to be dazzled by the new New Thing. There is stuff that I will do for free for a New Thing that I wouldn't do for love or money for an Old Thing.

I wish it were different. I've tried to change it, I've tried to adjust it, but I can't help it. Apparently ADHD guides and defines everything in my life, and all I can do at this point is to try to find a vocation or lifestyle that would make a positive out of this bewildering, quasi-amnesiac inability to focus.

I am open to suggestions. Something in the entertainment industry would be nice...

"I've just gotta be me" or "This explains a lot"

I have long noted inwardly the clash of two very different forces in my approach to life. On one hand, there is the outward compulsion to conform, to be 'normal.' It doesn't sound like much to ask.

On the other, there is the inner impulse to be myself. In movies, in school and in conversation, there is always the noble and near-holy moral of a story to "just be yourself." "To thine own self be true." To put it diplomatically, I have always been an individual. I learned French in a state that is flooded with Spanish-speakers. I taught myself to juggle for no reason at all. I not only made balloon animals at my kid's preschool last week, but I taught two of his teachers to do the same. Why? I don't know, other than it is irresistible. To say that I am possesed by the imp is like declaring that water is wet; it is accurate without being sufficiently comprehensive to the subject at hand. I just must be different.

But opportunities to blow my own cover constantly abound, and it is in my very physical nature to take said opportunity and do something memorably unusual with it. I wouldn't say that it's necessarily cost me jobs in the past, but I am certain in my inner depths that it has had such a contributory effect.

To say that I struggle with the two conflicting forces is inaccurate because it assumes that I spend a lot of time dealing with awkward situations in advance of their occurrence, which is not true. I do consider, worry over and deeply regret these instances, but only ever in the wake of their occurrence. I never consider consequences "at the moment," but every break from the herd that draws attention to itself leaves a little psychological scar; many positive events in my life are lost to the dustbin of mental history, but for some reason the wincing, second-glance inducing departures from the norm stick with me for years, maybe forever. The time I sang Karaoke so forcefully badly in the shitbag bar that the DJ all but shut down the vocal channel in his equipment, as my wife and her friend looked on, torn between feigning support for the dare they ushered me into and running away in proper shame. The time early in my technical career when I told an ex-Navy friend of my Dad's in front of several colleagues that the automated web design software DreamWeaver was "for queers." Nearly immediately and for years afterwards I wonder to myself: "Christ, what was I thinking?" I am still uncomfortable thus reminiscing even today, and yet I can't help but chuckle to myself in recalling them to write them down here. Something within me is truly off-center (I firmly resist to say "wrong"), and yet it is within me.

Looking up at the family tree, I see that it is very likely genetic, on my father's side, where there are fruits and nuts hanging clearly from every branch in view. Both my Uncle and Dad buck the system in their own odd (and admirable) way. My Dad, for example, takes great joy in the occasional opportunity to ambitiously fuck with any sort of door-to-door salesperson, be they commercial or spiritual in nature. Woe be unto any vacuum cleaner salesman, Jehovah's Witness or pest control entrepreneur who commits the tragic sin of darkening his doorstep. The man is fairly known for it; maybe it's his years in law enforcement that helped him to craft the proper balance of malevolence vs.liability, to loosen the bowel of a weary ware-hawker with wordless threat of impending harm without being actionably illegal, I don't know. All I know is that anyone within earshot of the exchange is immediately filled with sympathy for the pathetic zombie that trudges defeatedly away from the mean old jutting-jawed man in the doorway. Kids in Africa should get this kind of soul-eyed compassion.

Why does he do it? Why am I the way I am? Even writing this blog; who puts down this viscerally private shit, too personal for friends to read but just fine for people I don't know? These are philosophical questions, asked of a natural event, akin to asking why tornados favor trailer parks. There are no scientific answers, only conjecture, which at best might soothe a trouble soul, yearning for reason in an unreasonable world.

I'm told the Chinese have a proverb, roughly stated thus: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in." I sense the harm that "being myself" does in my everyday life. I am certain that I would be higher in the vocational food chain if I were more like the slick-talking, fast-walking schmoozers I've run up against over and over in the world.

But an indignant part of me rails against that course of thinking as soon as I've thunk it, stomping and griping and rebelling against the thought of living someone else's preferred view of my conduct, no matter how convenient and streamlined my life might be (which must be a powerful innate force, as otherwise lazy as I know myself to be).

I do struggle with such questions, even if only after the fact. It is a troubling question to me, whether to toe the line and live everyone's expectation, or to follow my gut, and throw curveballs when presented with the chance. Both sides of the argument have their temptations, but I know one thing:

As my son grows older, I will teach him juggling, and some French.

I can't miss you unless you leave

My wife took my son for a few days' trip to her sister's in SoCal. This morning's last-minute preparations were longer and more intense than I expected, and by the time she left I was profoundly grateful that she had done so. Personalities clashed and pressure pressed as the fear of leaving behind something crucial caused the quiet friction that is as close to discord as we ever get. We do pretty well even under the worst of circumstances, for which I'm both proud and grateful.

Rockin' the boat

Waters are choppy here in the U.S.S. Jobsite. Makes Daddy jumpy. Will attempt to ride it out.

I feel good again

I have felt such a funk for most of the week. Just a wet blanket of negativity and frustration draped heavily across my shoulders, and I couldn't shake it. Couldn't find the positive.

Last night I arrived home from work, and my wife spent the next 13 hours making life right again. If ever a soul was given first aid, it was then. A simple meal, simple pleasures like our calm tradition of catching a regular television show together.

I had a night of the best, deepest, sleep I've had in recent memory. I spent the extra half-hour afforded to me by a late-starting work schedule enjoying French toast and coffee, and watching a talk show with very mellow discussion of theater, acting and poetry with the great John Lithgow.

The simplicity of these acts minimized not a whit the balm effect on my psychic second-degree burns. This morning I once again possess a calm feeling of wellness, so desperately missed of late that I could now weep upon its return. Such rejuvenation. Such bliss.

I thanked my angel for being the good thing in my life.

Splat

What a dork I am. It's nearly unforgivable.

My son wanted to see Momma before she left this morning; my son, wearing only socks yet this day; Momma, who was four seconds from backing her truck out of the driveway to start her workday. I quickly gathered him up in my arms to protect his feet from getting dirty. His feet were two of the few things not about to get screwed.

Moving briskly out the garage door, my feet tangled up in a rug and both son and World's Biggest Dork went flying, both landing on opposing elbows. I tried my best to hold my "Brian side" off the ground, with pitifully meager results. Once he stopped bawling and I calmed down enough not to punch myself in the face for such foolishness, he was able to wiggle his fingers, one good sign. I distracted him with talk of toys later, and got him to highfive me with the offended appendage, so went continued on to preschool instead of the emergency room.

What a lousy start to the day. I'll try to stay upright for its remainder, but obviously such promises are only marginally subject to my control.

It's no Secret

"The Secret" is based on a spiritual theory that espouses visualizing and asking the universe for what you want. I just can't get there, but this week was as good an argument for it as any.

I've been inwardly and fervently longing for a more organized and energized feel from my grassroots political organization, "The Calaveras County Ron Paul 2008 Meetup Group." I submitted several suggestions for improvement and change to the group's leader and the membership in general. Assent was quick and unanimous. The timing must have been ripe.

Also, I have been more and more interested in entry-level entertainment skills and issues. Comedy, theater and the like. Two days ago I got a call from a local do-gooder who is active in this area, and she solicited my interest in a project to be named later, including stand-up comedy and emcee opportunities. I leapt upon it, at least in theory, and I hope it turns into something I can sink my teeth into.

The future is a little more exciting. I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out.

Sierra Rec

I have revisited my hobby website project, "Sierra Recreation." I am rediscovering the wisdom in doing an imperfect something over nothing at all.

I implemented a nice template, but it is not displaying entirely correctly, and its finer features are lost until the right tweaking is done. Needless to say, I don't know how to apply those tweaks, and it has frustrated me to the point of inaction.

Today, I added some menu items (on a menu I was able to tweak into displaying correctly). These little steps rebuild my confidence not only in myself but in the entire idea of trying at all. Adding the odd, incremental bit of content, and the thing will start to look worthwhile again.

Little steps get you there, or at least move you forward. Often, that is enough for now.

Bookkeeping

I had been trying to get into an online bookkeeping class, but I was too late and the class was too popular. I scrambled onto the waiting list, but didn't make the final cut.

Honestly, I'm not that motivated about it. Numbers have always been a difficult subject for me, and flatly disinteresting. However, I acknowledge that it's a limitation that closes off very real potential for me as well. So, I decided to look into alternative forms of education.

I robbed the subjects listed in the textbook I would have bought (none too cheaply, I might add), and Googled some of them. A hop, click and a jump led me to Intuit's recently-released "QuickBooks Simple Start Free Edition 2009 ." I compared it to a favorably-reviewed free offering from Microsoft, and chose the Intuit version for the following reasons:

• I have experience with and access to Intuit's legit Quickbooks
• The MS version is not reallyreally free, as you apparently must have MS Office installed before it will work

Both options are huge (320+ Megs) to download, but I've got mine up & running. I hope to teach myself something new, and if nothing else organize my own meager money matters as well.

Make mine a double

Jeezis, what a shit morning today. My son was all butt-hurt about something, and life got hectic for just a few minutes there. I ended up skipping breakfast, and the drive to work was a long one.

I decided I needed some comfort food for breakfast. I stopped by Angels Camp Burger King and ordered a double sausage-and-cheese Croissanwich. After this artery-clogging luxury, I felt much better.

Best four bucks I'll spend today, and it's second-best for the week, where first is that I bought new, $4 earbuds for my MP4 player. One earbud of my current pair failed and I had tolerated it, but I drew the line when my one remaining speakerbud started buzzing and crapping out. I found some cheap ones (different brand than the ones that just failed me) on eBay and free shipping sealed the deal.

I think everybody with the means should find an under-$10 web purchase and invest in a minor splurge of retail therapy as often as possible. Cheap books are a good option. Dr. Tom's prescription calls for at least two per month, or as needed.

Smell my finger

I did one useful thing yesterday, and that was to send my brother the Rosemary he was hassling me about. It grows in abundance at my house, and ever since I told him I would, I've done nothing to actually package and mail it. I lag.

The stuff smells great, and I took my fragrant package to the Post Office, where the clerk jammed the package in her face and inhaled deeply. That makes me laugh.

Feelin' frisky

I feel good today. Energetic, looking to make a certain brand of trouble. This feeling usually leads to the innocent, well-meaning provocation of those around me, but I like it anyway.

Such is the pattern of my life, in a nutshell. Feel good, do something whimsical, immediately regret it.

A handful of history

Yeesh - life comes at you from some unexpected, innocuous directions.

I've been cleaning up my 'office,' the third bedroom of this domicile, because it's an unruly dump and I can find fewer and fewer legitimate reasons to blame it on someone else. During my housekeeping, I came to address the dreaded Accordion File.

This file has been with me since Utah (making the sign of the cross as I write - not bad for an Atheist), and it contains some of the oldest artifacts of my life, on paper and otherwise. It's been a catch-all for many of my file-able relics. I figured I'd shake out all the old shit and move all the keepables to a more-modern vessel. Hoo, was I mistaken.

Starting from the front, the very first gaggle of items I pull strike at me like the coiled ghost of a snake. They are the invoices from a washer/dryer I got on credit with an ex. I am as unsentimental about that relationship as any I've ever had - it was nearly as doomed as the one in Utah, but didn't produce children, making it markedly less traumatic. And yet I am hesitant to discard its remnants, largely because of the way my brain works.

I am completely unable to track things in a temporal fashion. I don't track the years well at all, and my memory is not linear. What memories survive the beer are filed in podlike pockets and in no particular order. If something makes the cut, it floats buoyantly in a meaningless mental mucus (ick, I know, how do you think I feel?), without regard for nor identification of time.

Once I started blogging, this was no big deal. However, everything before that seriously risks being completely detached from my mental timeline and I'll avail myself of any system that allows me the means to sort out who did what when. This stuff comes in handy now & then and it's troubling when you can't pin things down.

Back to the point of my already-dull blog post: stabbed not in the heart but in the forehead by documents from days gone by, I tucked them back into their dusty, carboard tomb and shrank back to whatever busywork I busied myself with before. I'm not sure I'm ready to discard these breadcrumbs just yet, and they may be filed as well as they need to be as is.

Ideas

Can I just make a quick point, to acknowledge one simple point of view I've come to learn? And for those who might be wondering, this is not in consideration of any particular person or conversation with which I've been involved. Just something on the tip of my brain's tongue. Or something.

Ideas, like talk, are cheap.

Writers with a block will disagree, searching with desperation in a barren mental wasteland. People who have taken good ideas and seen them through with effort and discipline will also be quick with valid examples disproving my point. To all of you, I say: "You're right, that's great, now shut up, because I'm not talking about you."

I'm talking about people who only have ideas; those who have small, flickering Christmas tree light bulbs go off above their heads about departments, processes and topics about which they have little or no knowledge nor regular participation. In short, people who have no business contributing their stupid, poorly-considered ideas to people who have legitimate abilities to act upon it. People who storm in filled with pride in their pseudo-creation, drop it on the floor like a cat with a mangled, still-kicking bird, and then flitter away as if they've got to get back to Heaven following delivery of their generous gift from the Gods, only to sulk and return after a period of time to wonder indignantly why someone didn't pick up their crusty little contribution and make something out of it, or if someone did, why it was managed so badly.

By the way, I'm dead certain that I've been this person, but I'm sufficiently horrified at my own conduct, and I'm still learning. Perhaps I'm speaking to myself in the recent past, as much as anything else.

Back to my main point: ideas are the easy part. They are a miracle in the same way birth is a miracle - yeah, the process is really exciting, but the product of said miracle had very little to do with its own creation, and was largely due to the efforts of others. The distinction is that it's the shepherding of an idea from its inception through the process by which it is made truly useful is the hard, fascinating part that is really laudable.

I've been lucky enough to benefit from not only the brilliance of others' ambitious ideas, but also the affection of their owners that brought them to share with me. Again, this post is not a rebuke of them.

I'm just saying that if you are a person blessed with an idea and you inflict it upon someone unbidden, if you did nothing to help further that idea, and further that if you feel a pissy contempt for those who did not embrace your idea and take it to the heights of success you envisioned, you've gone seriously wrong somewhere.

I, uh, I guess that's all I had to say about that.

The Expert Swimmer

My wife is a very smart woman, and she made an observation recently that struck me.

I have now amassed at least half a dozen books devoted to outdoor survival and backwoods living because it fascinates me. I've read almost all of them cover-to-cover. My wife noted offhandishly to a telephone chatter what I was reading about, but: "...he doesn't really do all this survival stuff - he just reads about it."

I know she meant absolutely nothing negative by it, although I think I did wince when I overheard it. It did cleave neatly the reality of what I do from the fuzzy, rose-colored jumble that dominates my frontal lobe, and how I use that wonderful rosy jumble to lie to myself. The books make it easy - since I've tried to buy quality resources, most of them have very well-written explanations and clear diagrams, and those help me fool myself into thinking that simply reading them is quite enough. Yes, that's totally sufficient, now crack a beer and turn on "Survivorman," and turn up the heat, for god's sake.

I read all these books about how things work, and they're very procedural. They're about things that someone must do before they can be appreciated, or really even be fully taught. It's like reading about swimming without getting in the water. I read and read and imagine myself doing these things - building a shelter or a figure-four deadfall trap, or even simply camping - but I so-rarely do them.

In my defense, they are things that require a commitment of time and preparation. Maybe you can slip into your backyard and put together a survival shelter from nothing in an hour, but it takes me longer. Me, I haven't got that worked out yet. Although sometimes I'll take a folding knife and build the occasional campfire in the fire pit off the side of my house (which I'm still thrilled to have), it usually doesn't go beyond that.

What I really need to do is spend about five or six hours working out some of the procedures and techniques in these things. I've practiced some of them (camp cooking, deadfall traps), and they really are a lot of fun. It just takes a departure from the norm, a bump out of the comfort zone, and god knows I'm a creature of habit.

Anyway, I guess the point of this post is that I should get off my ass, actively pursue more of the things I want to pursue, and break out of my comfortable routine. And continue to listen to my wife, who is brilliant.

Obama-thon

It's near the end of a workday whose radioplay has been thoroughly dominated by the inauguration of Barack Obama. A black man is president, and it's truly historical. I should be thinking big thoughts, swept away with a national sense of self-congratulation like everyone else.

Instead, I can relate these very human reflections: First, I honestly didn't think that the American people had it in them to vote in a black president (nor did I think a woman had a beggar's chance, either). It doesn't trouble me to tell you that I told my brother during the Democratic primary that the because the Dems were saddled with either a minority or a woman that the Republicans were a shoo-in, even if they had to prop up John McCain's lifeless corpse and operate his acceptance speech through a complicated clockwork of fishing line and pulleys. I just didn't believe the country was there yet. So, it turns out I am pleasantly surprised that my dark cynicism was proven wrong. Good for us.

Unfortunately, although there are reasons to like and vote for Obama, I think the country is settling for a cosmetic (skin-deep, if you will) revolution over the pragmatic resolution it really needs. It sounds like only a narrow portion of Ron Paul's arm-waving, near-frantic advice against striding the globe as a lone superpower will be implemented in the Obama administration,. I am glad we'll be changing course, but it doesn't take a genius or a revolutionary to realize that we were screwing the pooch in Iraq; our recent success with the "surge" only indicates we're screwing it in finer form, not that it's any better a goal. But I am heartened and confident that Obama's will be closer to a correct path than either Bush has or McCain would have provided. As far as Paul's similar admonitions against writing checks on accounts you don't have, it looks like we'll be blowing past ever-increasing limits with the stimulus and job creation being promised.

What do I know? Maybe pouring oceans of money after the problem will make things all right. It does me no good to look over the shoulders of wizards working with alchemies I don't understand. The best I can hope for is to be a well-meaning heckler.

Regarding self-congratulation, one minor note: how can you slap yourself on the back with such gusto, as if you were with him from his very birth, when your airy mind wasn't made up until a mere several days before election day? It's fair-weather fan syndrome, carried to the extreme. Sorry - just thinking of one person I know; I digress.

Much less significantly, anytime something is over-hyped I am overcome with an irresistible desire to flinch away, and it is no different with Archangel Obama, whose wings will surely tatter and fray soon enough, and who will be found to be human just like the rest of us. I'd just as soon have the marching bands vanish, and my radio shows back where they belong.

Paris is burning - a hole in my empty pocket

Expedia reports that I can take wife and son from Frisco to Paris in early February for 8 days for a $791 per person, or $2,371 total.

12 days in February go for $2,582.
...

<sigh>

Angels Camp World Mercantile Open Mike

There's a cafe/art gallery in Angels Camp that hosts a weekly open mike night. I'm thrilled about it - so much so, I'll be shooting a video exposition on it this weekend. I hope to make it the first in a recurring, local-oriented video series, but we'll see how life goes.

I've chosen a title for it, and based on that have almost finished a brief 3-D animation for its opening. I'll post it once it's complete, but where? MySpace, YouTube, Facebook, this blog? If anybody has advice on how they prioritize their blog, video or other postings across various web presences, please leave me a Comment here, or an e-mail. I could use the advice!

"Survive!" book review

I just finished reading Les Stroud's recent book: "Survive!" I am impressed with it, and I'll tell you why:

First, it is humble. Les Stroud makes every effort to reveal that he was not magically born with this knowledge, and often refers to the teachers, experts and others who have contributed to his current level of expertise. Not only does he give ample credit where it's due, he occasionally hands over the reins entirely when a subject appears that can be better explained by a true expert. For example, he defers to a physician when it comes to hypothermia. This sort of self-deprecation isn't just appealingly modest during an age of "Look at me, I invented outdoor adventure" ego. It also gives the reader a confidence that multiple resources have been consulted, resulting in more reliable advice.

Second, it is organized. While it's not unusual for bushcraft and survival books to separate fire-making from shelter-building, but Les shows his priorities when he puts preparation and mindset literally before fires, food and water. Somewhere in the book-making process, it must be tempting to put the fun, active stuff first, but placing these later gives a clear signal of the importance he assigns them.

Finally, while it is complete, it is not a "kitchen sink" approach. There are several points in the book where to deliberately eschews elaborate bushcraft skills that are particularly time-consuming or complex, simply because their knowledge don't really lend themselves to survival, but more to woodsmanship, a long-term approach to outdoors pursuits. Good for him.

I recommend this book!

Checking in

Yeah, I'm still here. I had something useful to say, but it has degraded in the darkness inside my head, and is not worthy of you in its current form. Soon, maybe.

Bone Annie Verse Air

I gave up making New Year's resolutions some time ago, for the same reasons many people give it up: it's cliché and nobody follows through with them anyway. The main problem is that they're a declaration, an absolute vow of action, and we all know that absolutes are brutally difficult things to bargain with. I would twitch nervously if I had to vow that the sun will come up tomorrow.

Rather, this year I will state the changes I would like to witness and the goals I would like to accomplish. Human as I am, I won't be chagrined if these don't come to pass.

• Lose 30 pounds, I look like shit
• Learn me some guitar
• Produce more blog posts, video projects and anything else that keeps me learning and creating
• Manage and embrace the bizarre and mercurial calculus of work/fun/money/happiness

New Year's resolutions are silly because of the reasons above, but it is certainly not silly to ponder one's location on his own map. I should complete such a list once a month, rather than once a year.

This list is too short - I compiled it almost reflexively because I didn't want the calendar to turn without noting something about my perception of the new year and my life's odometer as it quietly whirs. The list is certainly not exhaustive. And yet...

Constantly self-assessing, I can't help but notice what's not on the list. Nothing grand, nothing momentous. Just some humble self-improvement. Does that make me selfish, small-minded, complacent? Realistic? Does it speak to what I already have that I don't feel the need to climb certain mountains? Does it indicate that there are certain internal details that need sorted out? Do I question petty, self-absorbed ideas way too much?

I'd be very surprised if the answers to all these questions wasn't "yes."

Happy New Year to everyone who reads this, whose name I'd know on sight. The rest of you? Um, I dunno - I can't be bothered, work it out amongst yourselves, will you?

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.