Birthday wishes

Oh, another birthday is rounding third and about to steal home. I am thrilled and feel what the religious folks called "blessed" that I have no material or emotional desire that has not already been met. What luck and joy that I can honestly say that a giftless birthday would not leave me lacking in any way.

As true as that statement is, I'd be mad not to ask the universe for a few small things. One of my good fortunes is that some people in my inner circle might want to buy me something. It would be downright selfish of me not to make a list of birthday wants, I tell ya!

This is all I can think of for now. I used to own the two movies below, but I was foolish enough to lend them to a stupid, blackhearted dog who never returned them. Live and learn.

Amazon.com: Thomas Bickle: my stuff

Movie: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Movie: Shallow Hal

Blue Devil Action Figure

That's all I can think of for now.

Appended 5/22/10:

Religulous (2008)

Hitch 22: A Memoir

Bobbing in the surf

Holy crap.

The tempo of my day job has gone from Hank Williams to Metallica. Chores at home lay incomplete. Comedy and other interests have taken a back seat to... to what? Nothing, apparently.

Life has got me by the tail, and I struggle to catch up, keep up. Keeping a minimum of commitments is the most I can do right now. I am the master of nothing. I feel like a sock trapped at the bottom of a load of laundry, jostled and sloshed about.

I expect that balance, strength and confidence will return eventually, but for now, I am treading water.

Rejuvenated

I just wrapped up a luxurious stint of 5 days off work in a row. I admit that I am a somewhat happy with myself for finding the right attitude towards this time off, and spending it wisely. It was rejuvenating, as it should be.

How could someone screw up days off work? Me, that's who. Usually I get so tensed up at the opportunity to embrace the gift of unrestrained time I get set on this frenzied autopilot and do nothing but housework until a better idea comes along. Inevitably I end up at the end of a stretch of time and look back at a trail of domestic breadcrumbs that the birds are nearly finished eating already. Laundry and dishes are a noble-enough goal, but there's got to be more to life.

And so there was.

• I took my family to a trout internment camp in Sonora with my wife & son and "caught" some of the easiest fish on the planet.
  
• I ate like a king (but not like a hog), including genuine French red wine and Brie cheese. Also including some fresh trout.
  
• I picked up that damned electric guitar and dumbly plowed forward with attempts to look less like a chimp with a slippery handgun. Minor progress made, but progress!
  
• I picked up a book on 3D animation that I've had for months and ignored with heroically stupid stoicism.
  
• I got some exercise, which is always a good, if intermittent thing.
• I performed comedy at a place two hours away for no money; kicked a fair bit of ass at it, too.
  

...and some other stuff, but that's the lion's share of it. I am facing a stunted work week without much regret at all, and that is a very good thing. There's a lot of good in my life, but chances to stop and breathe and reflect are too few. I'm very glad I had my head on straight for it, rather than screwing myself out of it with a the wrong attitude.

I bore myself, sometimes

Ach. I'm sick of my own navel-gazing. Looking back over my blog, it's not (quite) as full of self-interested, how-do-I-feel-about-me narcissism as I recalled, but it's still too much. Even this post is all about it, even as I reject it.

I've tried to let it flow, write it out of my system and look towards the day when I have something external and interesting to blog about. You've got to give yourself creative space to deal with the things that bother you, and work it out.

I suspect part of it is that I've increased the "action" side of the ledger, which has always been disproportionately small compared to the "ruminate" column. I've spent most of my life up in my frontal lobe, gnashing my teeth about all the things I could do. Now that I'm doing a little more about all these Big Ideas, I think there is less friction, less heat and less light generated there. Less goes in the blog, but more is going into real life, and that's not a bad thing. Unless you're a blog reader. Sorry about that!

But, enough is enough. One reason I haven't blogged more lately is that I can't think of anything to write that I or others would want to read. I've reached the end of the creative cycle, the well is dry and I've got nothing new to rant or lament. Until I kick start that process, I'm just gonna be quiet.

Something will come around. If it doesn't, I know how to prime the pump. Failing that, I'll just wait some more.

Talk soon!

Let's get the obligatory, "I haven't blogged in a while" B.S. out of the way:

Holy shit, has it been more than two weeks since I blogged? Gee.

There, that's better. For a little more thought on that:

As I've mentioned before, I have a problem with focus. When I can arrange my thoughts and efforts toward a specific goal or topic, my ability to remain creative with that goal vanishes. It is a maddening blind spot on my mind's eye. The flip side of that is that when I am forced to labor for another's ends, as most of us are for much of our adult lives, the peripheral items that catch my eye seem to stir up much more useful grist.

In other words, when I'm stuck at work mining for cubicle lint, I am much more likely to dream up and obsess about things that strike my fancy. Things about which I might blog someday. Which brings me to my point:

Whilst I do still toil under the master's yoke, I have been engaging more and more in activities and experiments that, rather than insult and spurn my creativity and such-as-it-is intellect, they yank them in, grind and twist them in their ruthless clockwork and spit them out dirty, tattered and exhausted.

I have more to do and less to bitch about, which makes for a spindly blog entry, especially when you're accustomed to belly-aching about things outside your control.

This turn of events should make for an entirely different and no less interesting blog - one that describes the acquisition of hilltops and slaying of dragons. But it involves a switching of gears that I have hardly pondered until now, much less undertaken. I'm not used to acknowledging solutions and goals attained and describing successes; I find that it puts me back a bit!

In any event, I have been doing more 'doing,' and less postulating and navel-gazing. Therefore, the skimpier blog. This is a good thing. Once I can rework the machinery of my self-expression, it's entirely possible I have much to say.

We'll see!

Tired

Yesterday was just about perfect.

I woke up early, felt pretty good, and started the day by lifting some weights. I've been making another in a string of countless attempts to exercise with regular frequency, and over the last two weeks I've made a good run at it.

After that, it was housework for several hours straight. My brother-in-law John is coming for a visit this week, and if we don't make a big push over the weekend, there's no chance the place won't look like Hell when he arrives mid-week. We should have company every week; maybe then the place won't look like we rent it out to slaughterhouses and fraternities on the weekends.

Weather was perfect, and the afternoon and evening saw me building a nice little campfire in the firepit, and farting around with it (and a few Red Tail Ales) until after the sun went down. I played with my son throughout the evening, and generally had a great time.

One drawback of note: spring is here, and on the very day we set the clocks forward, I started a familiar routine of waking up sneezing. Here we go again.

Creative myopia

I am blessed and cursed with a powerful combination of cognitive short-circuits.

I am blessed in that I find many topics wildly fascinating at the outset. This is a blessing in that I can summon great amounts of interest and energy, sufficient to support an initial onslaught of research and genuine engrossment, some of which actually survives the rigors of time and occasional intoxication.

I am cursed in that this interest and energy necessarily abate over the medium term, at best. Always! No matter what the subject - computers, guitar, comedy and others - my fascination and ability wane after the first blush, and I am frustratingly unable to generate the wondrous blossoming of creativity (that sounds admittedly flowery, but it really is wondrous to me) that originally characterized my introduction or re-introduction.

Take comedy for example: for the longest time, questions abounded. "How do you start an open mike comedy night?" "What's the best way to light a comedy show?" "How much do comedians command for a given performance?" (If you've searched your way to this blog entry for answers to these types of questions, by all means, go to my comedy-related website, www.HumorMeComedy.com, for answers to questions like these, and more!) As I've progressed, I'm proud of the fact that I've answered many of these questions to my own satisfaction, and moved on to new ones. However, the levels of wonder and fascination have waned.

It's not that I don't still love comedy (for example); I certainly do. But I am no longer on the outside looking in. I am still near the outside of course, but have passed the most daunting palace gates. The waves of lust have broken against the honeymoon period regarding a topic, and at the end of it I find the reservoir of "I must know" drawn low. I feel like a honeybee or hummingbird flitting maniacally from flower to flower, sucking up nectar but rarely finding a reserve that lasts.

Currently, I maintain the will to see through the content-building necessitated to continue an endeavor like my comedy website - it's a potentially huge draw to create content of any kind for public consumption; the only constant requirement is to produce more - only because I remember, with active (though minimal) effort how much joy it has brought to me. The camaraderie of others with a similar love of the art, the creative challenge of putting a few minutes' material together, the joy when its success brings laughter from others, and the technical challenge of coordinating a real, live, no-shit comedy show like those I've attended myself and thought "I must be involved with that, too."

Even with that happiness firmly in recent memory, I can feel the intoxicating romance of firsts dim. Although it's never quite drudgery, my legs become heavy as I trudge around in my mind, trying to arouse again the springtime of wonder I felt before. I am not discouraged, because I find that I still can rouse it readily enough, but it does cause me to wonder if it's like this for everyone. It also causes me to suspect that genius may simply the ability to maintain a grip on this mental inertia, this wonder, allowing it to ford the obstructions of weariness, ignorance and other difficulties that keep us from excellence and success.

I'm glad I don't ultimately tire of writing/blogging, though. Although I tend to repeatedly (maybe tediously) revisit and dissect topics like this over periods of time, it still feels good and useful to me.

Sometimes you eat the gator, sometimes it eats you

I went to our local meat market, minutes from closing time. As I scanned the displays, the clerk behind the counter asked if he could help me find anything. I said: "Yeah, ya got anything weird? Snake, alligator, anything unusual like that?"

And by golly, he had a deep-frozen plastic pouch packed with alligator portions. My dubious wife sauteed the meat for me and my son, using her patented, secret spice recipe. By the time she was done, well, I can say that was the best damned alligator I've ever had.

My wife thought that it (the one whole bite of "it" she had) tasted like chicken. I disagree: it tasted like alligator. I'm beginning to think that that oft-noted chicken reference is the product of a limited frame of reference, both of vocabulary and culinary comparison. I'll take my own whack at it:

It had a mild flavor, similar to pork. I didn't know that alligator meat had light and dark portions (you know, like chicken! and other meats). Although I've read it has a low fat content, the dark meat had the luxurious, gelatino-fatty texture I would compare to catfish or pork. The white meat was a leaner, stiffer version of the same, but I've always been partial to dark meat.

I guess it should be no surprise that a land-and-water creature should have comparisons to land and water creatures, but I was pleasantly surprised that the comparisons are so favorable. I look forward to having alligator again, although its expense ($20 for two, hand-sized gobs of meat) will relegate it to "special treat" status.

I knew it

No political issues stick in my craw like those associated with "The Nanny State." The government putting its nose in your business and its hand up your shirt, telling you what to drink, smoke, eat, wear, do - it drives me absolutely mad. "Sin taxes" are among the worst, with elected officials (and don't forget, they're just a bunch of clumsy dicks like you and me, only less intelligent on average) deciding it's appropriate to discourage you from doing things that it thinks are naughty (though not naughty enough to be illegal) through exorbitant taxation - and by the way, if it fills their coffers quite a bit faster, so much the better, yes?

That's why I'm glad to see this study: Cell phone bans don't reduce accidents - CNN.com. I shudder to think of the slicing and chiseling of personal freedoms in pursuit of the illusion of a little more safety, while it's been determined that another of the measures that crowd your personal rights don't have any beneficial effect (except to extract funds for government accounts, of course).

Bah!

What if...

Given the amount of unnecessary anxiety and negativity that I for some reason inject into my every waking thought (I do, and it only sounds unnatural when I say it externally like this), it occurred to me to wonder the other day: what if I were to replace all that tension with joy?

Odd, introspective and to me, bizarrely revolutionary, but a useful proposition nonetheless. What if I just unclenched my butt cheeks, trusted that the universe is one of plenty, and just let it go? What if I replaced the sniveling, risk-averse functions of my thought process with those that have a measure of hope, trust and (if I must say it) faith in them?

Other people do it; live without making every decision like there is a Murphy's-law boogeyman, gunning for them around every corner. It seems to me that it serves them really well for the most part.

With that, I also realize that choosing joy is a tricky maneuver on several levels. For one thing, I imagine that doing or not doing it is largely a matter of psychology and/or chemistry, and unless I devoted the next two lifetimes to developing the physiological control of a Tibetan monk until I can choose to sweat out of only every other pore, I'll not likely achieve such a degree of control over this flabby vessel of mine. Indeed, it would be something of a miracle if I could simply lose 30 pounds.

Back on the other hand, negativity and fear are a choice, and changing my mind to think more positively is the type of incremental, ongoing task that I think suits me.

I get these minor epiphanies, and not only do I wonder how such a departure would manifest itself, I wonder what my wife would think of me embracing such a core change, to make a true break with the reservations I've known much longer than I've known her. There are a number of weird-ass things I might have done by now, if not for her to keep me grounded. Some good, some potentially not-so-much. She said something to me recently, something she'd never said before: "I just want you to be happy." I nearly collapsed!

Now, I know she loves me and it's no surprise to hear it said out loud, but I know she feels the same worries and responsibilities as I do, at least as keenly. Maybe I'm not explaining it sufficiently, but to hear my stoic darling say such a thing out loud, it was overwhelming. Maybe it's because I've been pondering these things on the sputtering back-burner of my consciousness. Maybe it's because my woman, as my delicate, late, saintly mother used to say: "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful."

In any event, such a change, like all change, involves fear and uncertainty, which is the subject at hand, isn't it? Dragging others into such trepidating exploration sounds selfish to me. On the other hand (Daddy has a lot of hands), maybe it's just one more excuse not to make a hard decision, to stay on the same, dumb, apparently-safe path I'm on.

Don't be a pussy, Tom.

Plug in

There has been a thread that has run through my life, and it always will; that of turning away, flinching, retreating from things that sound difficult, tedious, un-fun. That of avoiding a person whom I have failed, ignoring an unpleasant circumstance, pretending that something bad will get better with abject, single-minded neglect.

This condition is not a thorough one. Certainly, I have embraced difficulties, met challenges and steamed through tough spots with courage, confidence and certainty. I don't run from every spooky corner, but I've tiptoed away from enough to recognize a pattern.

As with most of my areas of progress, recognizing and correcting this trend has been glacially slow, but I'm glad to say that it's persistent. I'm getting engaged in areas that were always walled off in my mind, stenciled garishly: "Not My Problem." I'm opening up to more, accepting more, embracing more readily than before. I feel like a cable box that's been upgraded to the Premium Package: "Holy shit, there's a lot going on out there."

It's not always easy, but it's always the right thing to do. I'm growing from it and I recognize the old traits in people around me who keep their narrow blinders clamped on tight. I feel better this way.

Nothing

I have nothing to say. I don't like it, but there it is.

Middle Age

I was talking to a friend last week about middle age. He is older than I am, and told me not to worry about that, because it's still a few years out yet. I looked at him quizzically (which isn't easy because I haven't perfected that expression), and it brought up the meaning of middle age. I always took it to mean the forties, or roughly half your reasonable life expectancy. At the rate I'm going, I would consider myself fortunate to be at the halfway point now, and I'd less surprised if the sun didn't come up tomorrow than if my true, chronological midway point was still ahead of me. The only useful observation I have on the subject is that I've recognized one warning sign of maturity: you become the one who sends holiday greeting cards, as much as or more than you were the one who sits around waiting for them.

In any event, it raised the question of middle age, including an ever-popular subject inside my head, the midlife crisis.

I have always been the first to admit that I am an odd duck. If I were a cow among the mooing herd, I have no doubt that I would stand around all day going: "Mehhhhh..." in an innate, irrepressible expression of individuality, and giggling when I fart, with a conspicuous distance between me and the other, rightly-nervous cows. If midlife crisis is a time in a person's life where he is hit with a jangling, unavoidable reflection of his life and its direction, then I've been in such a crisis since my preteens. I've been trapped in a pulsating, recurring loop of myopic introspection, complete with gaping blind spots, for years. I've always been had this sensation of rudderless self-doubt, and I suspect I always will. My friend Joe would likely decide that I have a lesson to learn about certainty, or confidence or some shit. It's as good an explanation as any I have thus far.

The good news is that my wife and employer can expect that I won't thrash about in a sudden, flailing attempt to right my leaky, wandering vessel and change its heading on the ocean of my life, especially by taking up abruptly with some skank or buying a Corvette (not that my credit would allow it anyway). It's just not in me.

The bad news is that I certainly will thrash about, reliably and often, with moderate, less-frightening but still-moderately-bizarre decisions like doing stand up comedy when I have the chance (and enthusiastically seeking out more of those chances), and keep a vigilant vigil for a lifetime pursuit that feels right and true and rewarding. That is most definitely within me. Lots of people can happily watch television for years on end and not feel like they're missing anything. Although I have a lot in common with those folks, I can't quite escape the nagging feeling that something truly fantastic is whistling quietly by, and that if I don't snap out of it I'll wake up at the end of a very steady, boring ride to discover that I've slept through the best parts. It's a very petulant, fearful feeling, but that's usually the only thing that will motivate me, so I guess it's as good as anything.

The above paragraph is a fair description of midlife crisis as I understand it, but it's always been there. The only difference today from when I was twelve is that I'm not getting any taller or thinner, and the bottom of my hourglass is getting noticeably fuller and it makes me sweaty thinking about it. Maybe this is just splitting hairs so that I can still feel set apart from the other cattle, but it's a distinct enough distinction that I feel it's worth noting.

Nike should strike endorsement deal with Herzog

CNN features an article about film director Werner Herzog, where he offers advice to film directors:

"Rejection is not something you should be afraid of," Herzog advises filmmakers just starting out. "It happens to all of us, in particular when you are beginning. You have to have the courage to move on anyway."

He goes on to advise, and I'm paraphrasing: "just do it," highlighting the value of experiencing things, especially in relation to learning things in academic settings. The story offers nuggets, saying: "the world reveals itself "to people who travel on foot. Period.""

For good measure, he throws in the value of the threat of bodily harm to an impossibly difficult cast member:

On the set of "Aquirre: The Wrath of God," in 1972, Herzog admitted he threatened to shoot Kinski if the actor made good on his threat to walk off the set.

"I told him it was impermissible for him to walk away," Herzog said. "I explained to him calmly that he would not survive if he tried. I had a rifle ... and I told him I would shoot him. He screamed for the police. The nearest police station was 40 kilometers away."

I think I like this guy.

Empty

Just feeling empty this week. Desolate, running on "E." I don't feel strong, and I don't like it. Maybe I need more Jesus in my life.

Hah! That felt good; I needed a laugh.

I've been lower than this, often and recently, so I know it could be worse and that gives me some strength. Still, I feel spent and I get the sense that a remarkable change is necessary to alter this course; half measures won't cut it. If I knew what to do, I'd do it. I guess that's the fun of free will and the human condition: we're all just scrambling around in the dark, hoping to stumble into something that smells like joy.

If I bump into you, try to smell like joy, will you? It's not really that much to ask. I'd do it for you.

Snow, man

Sunday morning (yesterday) woke up to an unusually snowy condition, in Valley Springs and elsewhere in the state. Newsworthy, even.

We wrapped up my boy and sent him out to frolic in the flakes, his gear including a boy-sized pair of house-slippers. Hey, we never said we were good at this.

We even managed to put together a pretty fair snowman. One departure from the norm: we didn't have any carrots, so the part of his nose was played by a dill pickle. I had to discourage a boy who'd skipped breakfast for flurrying fun not to eat the snowman's proboscis.

Overdose

My wife made a stop on the way back from an out-of-town trip this weekend, and picked up a treat for the two of us: sushi! As requested, she also picked up extra Wasabi, which is a spicy spice that I prefer over those found in Mexican cuisine, because it typically only burns once.

Skilled sushi-snarfers will attest that mixing soy sauce and Wasabi (is "Wasabi" capitalized?) make for a most excellent paste that tastes fantastic and is easier to apply to your food. Therefore, I mixed up a lean batch of Wasoybi (trademark, Liberated Pachyderm Productions) and enjoyed it.

The trouble came when I, rather than dipping a fat morsel into my soylent green concoction, I lost control of it and splopped the entire gob into a small, homemade vat of Japan's revenge for Nagasaki. Dumb as I am, I thought: "No matter - if I enjoy a dollop of this culinary battery acid, think how much I'll enjoy an entire fistful of octopus and rice that's been dumped, turned over and fished out of such a potent potash!" Into my stupid maw it went.

At first, I tried to tough it out. "No need to panic; we've been here before... I've taken borderline-regrettable hits of Wasabi before, and survived; I'll be fine." It only took a moment to realize that I was in over my head. First, the pain. The great thing about the Wasabi experience is its purity on multiple levels. If used correctly, you don't just taste the sting; it wafts through your sinuses and slaps your stupid brain for allowing the body to consume such a wonderful abomination, and then continues to scald its way out your nose. In small doses, a pleasurable extreme. In larger doses...?

In the blink of a watery eye, I couldn't breathe, couldn't chew, and was concerned that swallowing would lead to hideous some combination of barfing, snorting and shitting my pants, none of which had any future (although there are those upon whom I could call, had I needed the voice of experience).

As I wondered idly about the number for the Poison Control Center, I made the decision to cut bait (unfortunate fish reference noted). Eyes watering freely now and with my wife by my side (surely feigning concern while she stifle inward torrents of laughter), I nodded at her questions about whether I was about to die and leave her with two mortgages and a five year-old psychopath who's just learning to spell, and I expelled the entire unholy mess back into the styrofoam tray where the painful nightmare had begun.

Having rejected the malignant mass, I coughed and choked entirely without dignity until my eyes pointed in the same direction again, at which point I assumed the stance of a cat who'd just clambered drunkenly off a bookshelf and careened into an aquarium, strutting away as if to say: "Yes I meant to do that, and what's more, I stuck the landing. I can teach you that, you know."

Can't wait to see what's for dinner.

Stunted, convoluted

I am chagrined at my lack of blog postings. I lean on the fact that the busier I am, the less time I have to ponder and pontificate on the subject of my own life. Sometimes I'm just jerking around, but lately, I've been making changes, learning, growing. These events will make worthwhile blog posts, but they'll have to wait for retrospect. I'm a little caught up in the moment lately.

In other news, the November 21st Comedy Night at La Contenta in Valley Springs is selling tickets hand-over-fist; if you haven't scored your ticket yet, it's getting late. They're over 85% sold.

In related news, this show keeps asking more and more of me, beyond the initial arrangement. I am bending, reaching and growing to fit the shape that is required of me.

Onward!

Happy Anniversary

My wife and I took yesterday to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. We spent it in true middle class fashion, driving into a real town with movie theaters, shopping centers and other civilized services, and spending money.

We held hands the whole drive.

We spent money in amounts that would embarrass the poor by their extravagance, and the rich by their paltriness. For us though: just right.

I shopped for books, she shopped for candy, and we were both happy. We talked about tattoos, music and how silly conditions at work are. We ate like denim royalty and at the end, we were full.

My brother's the shit

My brother is the only guy I know who can choke on a taco and turn it into a regional event. Way to go, Bickle.

After a brief but harrowing incident that led him to the brink of death, he is rebounding nicely under a physician's care. He's been brave and relatively good natured (depending on whom you ask) through most of his troubles over the last few years, and I'm proud of the gutsy little troll. I say that with the utmost of familial warmth and respect.

I have not lied a bit in this brief and cryptic account, but I admit that I have wantonly misrepresented a few details in the hopes that my bro will hurry home and counter-blog to defend his good name. I'm not good at manipulation, but I'm learning, and that's what counts.

Passion II

Following some good advice, I took another look at what I love to do, rather than the things I must do. I departed from the comfortable norm, and drove two and a half hours to downtown Manteca last night, performing a four-minute set at a two-hour comedy show for a good crowd.

The upside: I got a respectable amount of laughs. I stolidly acknowledge that I didn't bring down the house and that there were many funnier, more experienced comics in attendance. No posing here.

That said, I must also say that it was thoroughly exhilarating to have done some time and not only not embarrassed myself, but to have acquitted myself reasonably among local peers. As wordy and mild as that last sentence is, the buzz of the experience carried me home and kept me awake for hours last night. Opiates have nothing on the joy I felt last night.

Passion, and lack thereof

While I had a few days off, I never really got much done, other than housework and minor fiddling around. I can't seem to muster enough passion about any one subject or endeavor to really dig into it. This must be what ADHD feels like: a broad-but-not-deep fascination pool, and the inability to focus on anything for long.

When I do try to burrow into something that attracts my interest, I find the interest flagging after not too long. The only good news is that it always comes around again, like some great merry-go-round. Trouble is, progress is disjointed, scattered, and many things must be re-learned, sometimes several times.

This is no way to run a psyche...

Know what I mean? Or are you just saying that?

You ever get the feeling that there's almost no one you can relate to? And even fewer that you can trust? I've got that feeling right now. Cold. Alone. Not lonely, just... isolated. Hell, maybe it is loneliness, by another name. I dunno. I've got that right now.

...

I waited a while to post the above, and it's a good thing. It gave me time to reflect, and realize that there a few - a precious few - that have got my back, and wouldn't hurt me for anything. That is a comfort, and I'll lean on it.

Still, it's discouraging what people do to each other, and unnecessarily. Out of fear. Out of greed. Out of malice. With a few notable exceptions, people really just bum me out.

Problem solver

If people are ever forced to carry around RFID-type chips in their bodies (I assume I'll be dead by then, or in jail from firebombing to protest lost civil liberties), one piece of information that is absolutely vital is one's résumé, in editable form. Carry around your driver's license, your medical history, passport. Sure, carry all that, but for god's sake, don't forget your résumé.

Because when I return to work after two scheduled days off and find a note from you that says: "we're out of hand towels in the bathroom," I want to be able to (again, I realize I'll be dead - fair enough) bring up your vocational credentials and on the bloody spot irrevocably delete the portion that says you're a "top-notch problem solver," and replace it with "useless, barking moron."

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.