Chicken Paco

I felt a little cheesy

2007-12-02T17:38:00.000-07:00

This morning I had one of the best meals for breakfast. Last night my wife and I went Christmas shopping with her sister and husband. We were looking for some kind of delicious dessert and stopped by this pretty good bakery right near our house. There was, unfortunately, only one poor fellow working and a huge line. So we went next door to this place that sells fancy cheeses and wine. Well, we were in luck because that night they were having a wine and cheese tasting extravaganza. As we learned, there was a few cheese reps. doing their "stuff" (I didn't even know there were such careers, but it makes sense).

I don't drink wine, so I went straight for the cheese sampling. There was a Spanish bleu cheese, a parmesan and a asiago at one table. These were all fairly strong and delicioso. I seem to like the stinkier cheeses. At the next table there was a camembert, a three cream brie, and a "breakfast cheese". These were all fairly mild, but very creamy. The texture was very nice, but again, I crave the stinky ones. They also had these dessert cheese things. It looked like cream cheese with stuff on and in them. One was a orange cranberry and the rep served it on a thin ginger cookie. Another was a Mediterranean served on a cracker. It had those salty Kalamata olives in the topping and some other stuff. It tasted really rich and good. The next table has a brie with bleu added to it. It was good, but I was drawn back to the first table.

After having some more I decided on the Spanish bleu cheese. I found a blog that talks about this very same cheese that I bought:

http://corksandcurds.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html

Apparently it's made with cow, sheep and goat milk. It's also wrapped in maple leaves, which I think is kind of cool. It was very strong, but not too strong. I bought some French roquefort once that was so strong it made my tongue tingle. While I was talking to the rep about the Spanish bleu, I mentioned how much I liked the parmesan and that people don't usually eat it in chunks, but that it's quite good. It was then that I made a great cheese comment and was complimented in return, so that I felt very hoity toity. I mentioned an Irish cheese that I like called "Dubliner" and that I thought it tastes like a soft parmesan . She said she was a rep for that cheese company also, and that they do indeed use a parmesan starter culture for the "Dubliner". She then said "You have a very discerning palette." Well, I never had someone comment on my "palette" before, but I felt very sexy as a result.

The point of this story is that I bought the Spanish bleu and this morning had it for breakfast. I only had some white bread in the house to eat with it (though it is a good quality). What I did diferent this morning came from my brother in law who has lived in France and told me in France they put butter on the bread first, then the cheese. I tried it and it's exceptional. So if you like cheese, try a very strong bleu on bread with butter. It was fantastic.

What's milky, white and skinny

2007-11-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

Recently I had a friend tell a joke about "What's white and skinny?" The punch line is coming.

Today I went with my business partner to a somewhat nice Italian restaurant. We went there to check out the food for catering of a Christmas party were are having in a few weeks. So I get a call from my wife and she wants to come along (because, let's face it, she's the one doing the planning and we just wanted to go some place good for lunch). So we get there early, sit down and order appetizers. The place is filled with business lunchers and rich women. The kind of people that hate real life because real life tells them they are not all that important. When my wife arrives, I forget that she also has my four year old son with her, but I am always happy to see my boy.

So we sit down and are having a pretty good conversation. Needless to say, the four year old gets bored with this kind of conversation and starts acting out a little. The posh and wannabe posh in the restaurant are getting annoyed so we ask my boy questions in an effort to entertain until the food comes. At one point he informs us that he is all done seeing Daddy.

Well, finally we turn to jokes. We ask him what his favorite joke is and he repeats it verbatim and we are feeling terrific because he is so very charming for my business partner. We should have stopped there. I don't know how many times I have said that in my life, but I seem to keep saying it. "I should have stopped there". So we ask him to say another joke.

The joke, as referenced above, is "What's white and skinny?" The punch line is "skin". We didn't make this up, but he loves the joke it is quite cute when it is executed properly. The important term is "properly". We should have seen the signs. We should have known nothing good was going to come of it. We tested our luck. Our fate, if you will. But we proceeded. "What is your other favorite joke?"

His response was "What's milky, white and skinny?" With a big smile on his face, my business partner asks "What?" It was then that my son hops down from his chair, walks over to my wife and states "These here" while stroking his two hands over my wife's breasts.

We all about lost our lunch from laughing, the wannabes were offended, and my son now thinks he's the funniest kid on earth. Which, for a moment, he probably was.

The Steve Miller Band is TRUE

2007-11-13T17:27:00.000-07:00

This will most likely be the last entry about the Chicago trip. It was great fun and full of memories, but I can’t to share everything, so why continue, right? But what I do want to do is bear my testimony about how The Steve Miller Band saved my vacation.

As my wife and I were leaving to go to the airport to catch the big old jet airliner to Chicago, we were waiting at a light to turn left onto a very busy street. The light turned green and I began to pull out, but as I was doing so I paused to turn on my Steve Miller Band CD in the car stereo. I turned on the CD player and out of nowhere a guy in his SUV (talking on his cell phone) goes barreling through the intersection, running the red light.

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, with every fiber of my being, with all my heart, might, mind, and strength that The Steve Miller Band saved my life. Had I not tenderly supplicated The Steve Miller Band at that moment, by turning on stereo and playing Take the Money and Run, I would surely have been hit, and maybe even killed. The guy was going like 38 MPH!

The rest of the trip was blessed by The Steve Miller Band. For example, we had no idea how to get from O’Hare to the hotel. There was a shuttle bus, but we didn’t have the phone number and it wasn’t listed on the board where they list hotels. Then, out of the blue, the very shuttle bus we needed pulled up. I felt so great. As if I could fly like an eagle, . . .to the sea.

Many other things went our way. Someone called me Maurice on the trains for example. Another person called me a space cowboy, but I don’t really know why. In any event, my trip could have been ruined, and I could have been seriously injured or killed. At the very least I would have missed the flight.

I know that The Steve Miller Band can bring you blessings too. You just need to believe. I invite you to listen to The Steve Miller Band for yourself. At least the greatest hits CD. It WILL bring you happiness. If it doesn’t, then there must be something wrong with you. Or you didn’t try hard enough.

I always lose my keys

2007-11-08T22:28:00.000-07:00

I always lose my keys. I also lose my wallet. I literally lose these items, and others, on a daily basis. For example, right this instant I have no idea where my keys are. I also have no idea where my wallet is.

Actually, that's not true. I have an idea. But that is only because I have properly trained my future self for these very issues. I have trained my future self to put my keys and wallet in a predictable spot. I believe in my past self, that this was actually done. My way, way past self has gone through years and many, many incidents where the keys could not be found, or the wallet was concluded to be lost. When in reality, the past self was, well, quite selfish and threw the keys and/or wallet down just anywhere. Or, as happened to me just the other day, hid the wallet under the driver's seat in the car to protect against robbers.

Well, as you can expect, this is sometime expedient (because robbers are often where you least expect them). However, it does pose a great dilemma for the future self. If the past self hides the wallet and/or keys somewhere (to keep them safe from robbers, for example) the future self will have forgotten all about the robbers (now that the crisis is over) and search in a vain attempt to find them.

Since I have begun training my future self for these very instances, when my present self is looking for the keys and/or wallet, he will only look in the obvious places. My present self will look in the obvious places, over and over again. And I will become more and more insane with every look. I will begin to cure my past self for his short sightedness and selfish behaviour. I will begin to consider obtaining outside help. I will even accuse my wife of hiding them (which is usually when I am about to crumble on the floor in frustration).

So my future self needs to be reminded that when he arrives in the present, to consider all the wonders and great things that can happen in the present. Including consideration for the future self that will be looking for treasure, but is too absent minded to remember where he buried it.

Wicked

2007-11-04T20:57:00.000-07:00

To preserve history and my own memory, I really need to write about the play Wicked. This was the pretense of going to Chicago, even though it was really to get away and meet up with old friends (which by the way, was the best part of the play).

We went to the Ford Oriental Theater in Chicago on Randolph Street. We took the train into the city and talked the whole way. When we came out of the subway onto the street there was a homeless dude (in my youth they were called bums) dressed entirely in a silver robot costume. I started to run across the street to give him some money for his efforts, and to get some great video, but there was too much traffic and he was gone before I could get to him.

The theater was grand. That’s the best word for it, grand. We were up in the balcony and had a pretty good view. The whole theater was so ornate with carvings literally everywhere. I don’t know how long it has been around, but I can imagine there have been thousands of plays seen there. There have been a thousand trillion friends get together and laugh and joke. It was a very grand theater.

The play was so good. The thing that struck me most was what a totally professional production it was. Everything was so well done. The first thing that struck me was the set. I had read the book and I knew what was involved, but I wasn’t so sure how they would pull it off with just one stage. The set production was amazing. They allowed the witch to fly, went to college, the Emerald City, etc. The other great thing was the performance. The acting, and particularly the singing, was perfect. The first act ended with the song “Defying Gravity”. It ended with this very powerful song and a very intense moment in the play and then it ended suddenly with the whole theater black. Wow. It was incredible. I also like the part where Fyerro and Elphaba hook up. It was sweet; however, as I mentioned to my friend next to me, quite a bit different than the book. The whole experience of the play was thrilling, but just being with our friends was the best. I know, bla bla bla about your friends again. But you don’t know my friends. They are way cooler than your friends. Unless, of course, it is my friends that are reading this, and in that case, your special. Like a snow flake.

In the Desert by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

2007-11-03T20:31:00.000-07:00

This is a great poem that seems to summarize how I feel when I'm melancoly.

IN THE DESERT

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in this hands,
And ate it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

John Hancock

2007-11-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

Another exciting tidbit of Chicago was the Hancock Center (1127 feet). This was something I really wanted to do after going to the top of the Bank of America building in Seattle (937 feet) two years ago. So we decided to go to the lounge instead of the observation deck because buying a desert at the lounge actually cost about the same as the observation deck, and it was four stories higher. And delicious.

I didn't quite know what I was in for. When we got off the very fast elevator I was a little dizzy. We walked over to the lounge area and found a table in the corner right up against the glass and that is when I started to feel sick. The lack of any thing in the space around us was what did it. Like there was nothing by which I could position myself on the earth. I sat down and tried to look out the window, but the sickness seemed to increase. My palms started to sweat and I could, for a while, only look at the floor. There is also this certain twinge I get in my groin when I have height issues to deal with.

I have always been one to dream of falling. So heights are something I like to challenge myself with, but only so far. I would never bungee jump. Never ever sky dive. Ever. Well, as I was overcoming my height issues at 1000 feet above the earth, my friend starts to talk about 9/11 and the World Trade Centers. At this point, I plugged my ears, crossed my legs and bent over looking at the floor. I also started humming to myself. I was scared I was going to panic and run out. I was pretty close to letting everyone know they could meet me down at the bottom.

There was also a spider on the outside of the building. We talked about how he was the great, great, great, great, great grandson of the first spider that started climbing up the building several years earlier. Seeing that spider on the outside, and even thinking about it now, makes me twinge.

In the long run I overcame my fear (due in part to the dessert I ordered) and made it out alive. I looked down a few times and marveled that I was staring down at skyscrapers. Overall, I came back with an enormous respect for engineers and architect. The skyscrapers in Chicago are a true wonder and amazing testimonies as to the power of mankind.

Many Workmen

Many workmen

Built a huge ball of masonry

Upon a mountaintop.

Then they went to the valley below,

And turned to behold their work.

"It is grand," they said;

They loved the thing.

Of a sudden, it moved:

It came upon them swiftly;

It crushed them all to blood.

But some had opportunity to squeal.

Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

I really want more Sushi

2007-10-31T21:00:00.000-07:00

I recently went to Chicago. There were many great events, which I am sure I will write about more in the days to come. I'd like to make a blog record of everything. Overall, it was the best vacation ever.

The one thing I have been thinking about tonight is sushi. After seeing Wicked (which was itself a very thrilling experience) we all went to a great Japanese restaurant. It was there that I had some fantastic sushi. It was so good, I have been craving it. Like a drug. Sometimes it is all I can think about. I need to check into rehab. Or, as my brother would say, "Get a room!"

For you non-sushi eaters, let me explain. Sushi seems to encompass everything good food should be. There are so many flavors happening at once. The art is in the creation of all these flavors in what can be (if done right) the perfect combination. At least while your eating it, it feels like a perfect combination of flavor. There are sweet elements, mixed with rich, deep tastes. You taste the whole length of the flavor spectrum together at once. If you pay attention, it's pretty mind blowing. It's exciting to find out where the sushi will take your taste buds.

The texture is also something that makes sushi so irresistible. We had one roll with tempura inside. This was exceptional. There is the soft rice, the squishy avocado, the crispy cucumber, the soft eel, and the crunchy tempura. The texture parade, along with the variety of flavors, made the perfect eating experience.

I'm no food critic, but I love the sushi I had in Chicago. I find myself wanting more. But I know it's in Chicago and I'm not and I can't have the Chicago sushi (or won't until next time I go to Chicago). Bad news for me. But I like to think (and write) about it. I'll write more about Chicago later.

Show Tunes Revisited

2007-10-17T19:39:00.001-07:00

Those show tunes that were so cutesy are now stuck in my head. I wake up and the first thing that comes into my mind is ". . . very, very popular, . . . LAR". I am going mad. I can't get away from it. It is a plague. A pestilence to my mind.

Show Tunes

2007-10-14T22:33:00.000-07:00

What is it about show tunes?

I recently bought the soundtrack to the play Wicked. The first time I listened to the CD I stopped it amid the first few songs. It was awful. I know there are a lot of people that love this CD, so I was a little disappointed. It wasn't that the music was bad, but the songs were so very much "show tunes". There is an added ingredient to show tunes beyond the catchy melody.The music itself is a little too cutesy, but I think it is because the songs are sung by actors and actresses. They are acting the songs and that's what makes show tunes so, er, I guess I can't describe it. It's that same feeling I got in high school around the drama students. It's a prima donna, self-absorbed sort of thing. It's that over confident attitude, when it shouldn't really be there. It make me want to run.

That said, I have continued listening to the soundtrack and I really like it now. The cutesy way of singing is somewhat endearing. I like singing to some of the songs. Yikes. What happened to me? Sometimes I thing if I met myself from 20 years ago I would hate myself. Both of us, actually. We would hate each other.

Time Travel

2007-10-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

I have this box in the garage that is full of cassette tapes. Mostly the tapes are of bands I listened to in the past (before CDs). Just for fun I took some of the tapes out the other night and started to listen. One of the first ones I put into the player was a tape I made when I was 17 and leaving home. I had decided to move a few states away from my home and I amazingly decided to make an audio record of the whole experience.

It turned out to be quite riveting. I mean, I know (better than anyone) how it turned out, but I was completely, totally enthralled. The tape continued into my new life throughout my 18th year. This was one of the most momentous years of my life. If I knew what was ahead of me I think I mayhave been a little less eager to move. Or a little more eager. I went through a number of changes that year and it was incredible to listen to my 17 year old voice just starting out on that adventure. If the truth were told, I would give quite a bit to live that year again.

This spurred me on to listen to other tapes. I found one with me playing bass guitar (and not very well) when I was about 16. I found one when I was 14 or 15, recording a phone prank I played on my girlfriend (something about my little brother Gary, who does not exist). On others I am talking about girls I was interested in, and I even have several recordings of those girls themselves, which, I admit, gives me a little thrill. But it does make me melancholy. I am now recording these tapes over to digital format so my posterity can laugh at me. I also started recording myself on this digital recorder I have. On the way home from work I have been keeping a journal of sorts. I basically just talk about everything that has been going on and anything on my mind. I wonder if I will listen to this "when I'm 64" and wish I could go back to today. I wonder if this is going to be an amazing year in my life. I kind of doubt it, but I guess I can make it anything I want. Right?

Overall I must say that I love time traveling.

Ringo was Right

2007-09-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

I really wish I was Ringo Star (but there is no way I want to be Richard Starkey). I was thinking today about the song, With a Little Help from My Friends. It's a great concept. No matter what happens, you can get through almost anything with your friends' help.

Last July I went to the funeral of my wife's cousin. I didn't know the guy and, frankly, I was a little grumpy because I had to take the day off work and there were a million inconsequential things I had to do. We went to this church way out in the country. The dead cousin was a farmer, having taken over the farm when his father died. I didn't really know anyone, so I just sort of observed the mourners and respect payers. There were several inarticulate fellow farmers that were going to speak and I didn't have high hopes. As each one stood up, they all basically talked about how this guy was such a great fellow and told a million stories about him. Some were quite funny and there were a lot about dodging bullets. But each one expressed a sincere gratitude for him and what a great friend he was. I then looked around and I first noticed that the church was packed.

I started to think about the fact that this fellow was only in his 50's. I started thinking about my own age and imagining my own funeral. Who would be there? Who would speak? I then was started to realize that, unlike this farmer, I didn't really have any lifelong friends. I had family that I would speak, but did I have any real friends. I have never been real good at long term relationships, except for family. (But then again, with family your really have no choice.) All of a sudden I started feeling really bad. Like there was something missing. I also felt bad for being so grumpy and realized that I didn't want to spend my life being cranky.

Luckily, my son and I had planned a trip to Colorado the first of August. Better yet, we were meeting up with a a couple and their kids. The stars aligned because this couple are really the only people I could consider as my life long friends. Not to say that others are not possible, but the older I get the harder it is to see this as a reality. That said, I had kind of let the friendship slip the last several years.

The husband of this couple I have know for 25 years. We grew up together, went through a million changes together and someone who speaks that language that only we speak because we invented it. He is the most able person in the world, as far as I'm concerned, and excels at literally everything he does. I believe that he is the smartest and most enlightened person I have ever met. I so value his friendship. The Colorado trip, right after the funeral, made me realize how much I wanted him and his wife in my life and how my life cannot be whole without maintaining my relationship with both of them.

I have known his wife for about 20 years. She is one of the most passionate creative persons I have ever met. Not like in a silly way, but in a real living sort of way. She is an artist and a great mom. She also played a pivotal role in my life when I had to make important decisions. I respect her as much as anyone on this planet. Along with her husband, I cannot think of a non-family member I feel as close to or have more respect for. I would do anything for them and do anything not to lose them.

So I went to Colorado wanting to re-establish what seemed to me to be a fundamental relationship with my friends. I found that they were everything I could ever want. I would love to associate with them more on a daily basis, except for the fact that they live half way across the country. But we are emailing and talking on the phone often. Also we meeting up in Chicago this October for fun and frolic. Of all the things I have done in life, I can believe I have let this major part slip the past years. I love my two friends greatly and want to have them a part of my life until I die. Maybe even after.

So I guess Ringo was right.

I miss my Father

2007-09-19T21:41:00.000-07:00

Today I took my little boy to the barber and we both got hair cuts. He's four and looked so cute sitting on the booster seat with this giant green cape covering him up. You could only see his little head and his big blue eyes. I felt so happy just looking at him, like my heart could swell up and burst. After he was done I was having my hair cut and the barber was making small talk. I wasn't really paying that much attention until she asked where my father lives. I didn't answer and so she asked again. I then slowly came to my senses and told her he was dead.

My father died when I was 11. Sometimes, like tonight, I miss him so much. I want to invite him over for dinner and let him come to my son's football games. I want to talk with him as an adult and tell him that I understand how he can feel restless because I do too. I want to watch TV with him. I want to hear stories of when he was young, when he was in the Navy and when he bought his first car. I want to arm wrestle. I want to argue about politics and hear his voice. I want to tell him that I am so sorry that I was rude to him that one night on the porch. I wish I had never said it. I have thought about that since the day of his funeral when I so badly wanted to write a note on the back of the program telling him how sorry I was. That I really didn't mean it but was trying to be funny and get attention, and that I loved him. I was going to slip the note into his casket at the funeral, but didn't get to write it because I didn't have a pen. I wish he could see all that I have become. I wish he could see his grandchildren and how one of them looks just like him.

But there is nothing I can do. I have no say, no choice in the matter. All this was taken from me when I was just 11. So I will again bury this pain and angst as I had to learn to do when I was just a little boy. And I'll remember to just lie to the barber next time. Goodnight.

I want to be bad

2007-09-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

I often feel too good. Not my mood, but my general state of righteousness. If I have been doing everything I should for a some time, keeping my high behavior standards up and what not, I end up with a feeling spiritual anxiety. And there is something in me that wants to act out and do something to end the winning streak. It's like I can stand the pressure of being good. I want to do something stupid, something naughty. In some ways I feel like being a good boy is not really me. That I am faking it. Then I get this sometimes irresistable longing inside to do something bad. Not like hurting anyone or ripping someone off or anything serious, just something a little naughty. On another level, I feel that if I have been good for a long time that the devil must be working really hard to get me to mess up. I am not looking forward to a substantive work over, so I simply want to preempt him by screwing up all by myself. That way he might leave me alone for a while. I know this isn't true, but it is a funny thought.

Medium Flavor Level Thoughts and what makes a woman beautiful

2007-09-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

I must first warn anyone that may read this that it is a long ramble of attempted expression of a feeling that is entirely expressionless. So read on if you must, but it may never quite say what I wanted it to say.

When I was young I had an idea in my head about what I would like to become. This is an idea I formed when I was about 17 years old. I thought that when I became a man I would live in some European village with a beautiful European lover (of course). We would live in a one room studio apartment that overlooked a small street. The room would have a bed, small kitchen and a little table with a candle in an old wine bottle all melted and drippy. I would probably write poetry or short stories all day while my lover worked in a delicious bakery. In the evenings we would go to a local cafe and meet friends. We would talk about literature, love and politics. We would stay out late and sleep in. I envisioned a life filled with friends, love and art.

Of course reality is different, but I think I still have that bohemian wonder lust inside. Recently I have felt a surge of that feeling, a feeling of life. One of the only ways I can describe it is a feeling that living is itself art. Thoreau may have meant this when he talked about how he "went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately". My 17 year old dream was just that, a desire to live deliberately, or experience the art in my living.

This feeling has been boiling up in me for about the last month. It is a feeling that I need to be living and soaking in all the beauty and wonders of life. It really came to a point last Friday when I dug out of my bookshelf a book of poetry that I have had for a least 20 years. Sitting out side in the evening of a golden autumn world I began reading again Frost, Dickinson and Crane. I fell in love again. I remembered what a pleasure poetry was to read. Poetry does not produce anything, did not put money in my bank account, and did not improve the mileage of my car. It was a pure indulgence of life. And as I read on, finding myself quite happy, I wondered if this was, in a way, living my life deliberately. I also noticed that I felt like I was partially living as that young 17 me would have wanted. I felt a revolution, rediscovery or rebirth in my soul.

I was so happy that I ended up memorizing a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay called "Love is not all- It is not meat nor drink". It felt so good to have these words of indulgence of life roll off my tongue. Later that night I recited it to my sweets. We kissed and I felt like I was 17. The biggest impression is that I have felt a great peace, I felt like I was somehow myself again. I also resolved to let go of negatives in my life, like pity, cynicism, coldness. I decided to try to notice all the great things all around me. All the beautiful wonders. And I also resolved to stop over analyzing my life and soak it in, instead.

My last comments for tonight are what makes a woman beautiful. It is all the things I described above. A young girl is beautiful, certainly, but not because of her young skin or her innocence and lack of experiences. What make a woman beautiful is the ability to be alive, to laugh and to smile. A woman who can possess the love of life and that poetic disposition is far more beautiful than the young girl. I suppose the same could be said for men, but I don't really know.

She was proably happy, once

2007-09-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

She was probably happy, once. I was at my son's football practice the other day when I first saw her. The two teams were having a practice game and I sat next to her. When I sat down in my lawn chair, she was sitting with her two children, a boy of about 5 and a girl about 3. The boy was crying about wanting her to play with him. Admittedly, he was being a little bratty, the way kids get when they need attention at all costs.

I think she must have been pretty, but her big black sunglasses covered most of her upper face. She was a little overweight, but not fat. I imagine when she was in high school she must have smiled more. This day there was only a scowl, with her pretty lips sticking out in frustration.

Her son cried and cried and she was getting very frustrated. She told him in very angry tones that he could not sit on her lap, he could not look at her cell phone, and that he had to just sit there. A few times he half-heartily slapped at his sister, who was allowed to sit on her mom's lap, and was severely reprimanded for this in very ugly way. The little sister had visual pleasure in her eyes. As the scene unfolded, it seemed that I could not look away.

At some point, the dad showed up, and then it got worse. The kids started to fight even more with dad and mom trying to ignore them. It was very obvious to me that they just wanted someone to talk to them and be kind. But who am I, but the guy sitting on the lawn chair next to them trying to pretend I wasn't watching from under my sunglasses. At one point, the boy rudely demanded to be taking to the bathroom, and the dad did so under insults and grunts. When they returned, the sister started to act up and that's when the mom lost it. Like I said, she must have been a happy person, once.

As the crying little girl tried over and over again to climb on mom's lap, she was physically pushed off with a very stern "No!". This woman became very ugly and continued to shove her crying child down on the ground. Then she started to tell the little girl, "Don't touch me." After repeating this a number of times, while shoving her to the ground, her face became more ugly. The dad (the great schmuck) did nothing at all. Of course, the little boy was now enjoying all the negative attention his sister was getting.

Eventually, the mom got up so the girl could sit on the chair. What she failed to realize was that the girl didn't want the chair at all, but wanted a mom to pay her some attention and maybe a little kindness. Mom was now standing and the girl continued to cry and approach mom. Mom ended up making statements like, "Listen to me. Listen to me. I am tired of you. Do not touch me. Do not even touch me. If you touch me one more time I am taking you to the car." A few minutes of this (and my stomach lurching), the girl was taken to the car. I could not watch my son playing in the gameat all, but turned around and followed them across the grass and around the corner. I was scared to death she was going to hit the girl. Again, the oaf dad did nothing at all, despite the public spectacle and the obvious need of his wife.

What kills me is that I knew I could help. I would have happily taken either child and held them, talked with them, listened to them. I kept thinking of how much I wanted to tell mom, "I think I have the patience right now. Can I please help. I think I know what they need. And we really don't need to do this "Don't touch me" thing. We don't need to hurt them." I ached, literally ached, because of this. But what could I have done, really. If I said what I wanted to say, I would have be called a pervert. But really I just ached for these little ones. Much like her mom, I imagined this little girl being happy, once.

It happened today, 2007

2007-09-06T22:16:00.000-07:00

It happened today. The was a shift in the world, in my perspective. It happens every year (see my post August 29, 2005) when the world shifts from Summer to Autumn. I can feel it. It is not just the weather turning a little colder, but it is something different I feel inside. And it happened today. The sky seems a little bluer, the green trees against the blue, blue sky, the sun warm but in a nostalgic, pensive sort of way. I felt the change today. However, for me it seemed more pronounced today than it has in the past. I am filled with hope, optimism and love. It is a blessing to feel that emotion of living so deeply. Life is so great!

2007-08-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

I guess John Courgar is a philosophical genius of our time. Who would have thought it? Tonight's topic, boys and girls, comes to us straight from my underwear. Yes, my underwear.

At about 9:37 PM this evening I felt a slight itching sensation in the area around my right hip bone. Not a mosquito bite type itch, but a little uncomfortable sensation, like unto an itch. I reached down indiscriminately to scratch the itch (have you ever noticed how some people say they itched a scratch?), and what do you know, my underwear was twisted. Not like really twisted, but the elastic band was folded over and irritating my sensitive hip meat. So naturally I came to the defense of my hip meat and ran my finger around the edge of the elastic band. Kind of like you so with the end of a jar of peanut butter and you have none left in the house. Well, it was at that moment when I not only thought, but also felt, the proverbial words of John Cougar, "It hurt so good".

Having "hurt so good" tonight, I began thinking of other times things have hurt so good, and then entire concept of hurting good. Some other examples include falling asleep in your clothes. When you wake up at 2 AM, take off your clothes and get in the sheets, that definitely hurts good. Also, when you have had to pee for a long time and finally get to let it all go, that hurt is almost, . . . well, I'm not going to say it, but I bet everyone has felt that way. Another good hurt is when you stretch and your sore back cracks spontaneously. Or getting a lodged raspberry seed out of your teeth. Please feel free to add your hurts to the list.

Thinking about this, I turned to other hurts. Like the nostalgic sickness I get when listening to U2's "Elvis Presley and America" or George Winston's "Autumn". Also, the melancholy pit in my stomach I get in the Autumn every year. Somehow, I enjoy this. I have heard women talk about having a "good cry". In short, I believe we sometimes enjoy the emotional hurt because it makes us feel alive. Feel real. After working in an office all day under florescent light bulbs I would often drive home in the summer heat without using the car's air conditioning because I needed to feel. Feel human, I guess. Sometimes I think back on past hurts, things that I regret or people I would have liked to treat differently. I think about emotional hurts that I've endured on purpose. And I swim in the memories and feelings. I think this might be sad, but sometimes I go weeks without feeling really anything at all. But I need to feel it, because I am happier when I hurt.

Small and Simple Things

2007-08-27T21:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a little boy I grew up in a single parent family. Well, I was subjected to a step dad when I was 11 (within weeks of the unexpected death of my Father), but that's another story. Because of the divorce of my parents, I had little contact with my Father's side of the family. I think I visited them a few times during the summer when I was real young, but otherwise I don't remeber much about them growing up. Also due to the divorce (and perhaps the lack of child support payments) my immidiate family was very poor. At first we lived in a very small house rented by an Armienian man that, from what I have been told, was somewhat rude and unsympithetic to our plight. I also remember powdered milk and other niceities of our situation. The point is, we were destitute.

In my mind, my Grandfather on my Father's side, was a millionarie. I knew only that he owned a jewery shop (where there were diamonds!) and he lived in a big house (compared, of course, to our little rented house). My Grandfather, however, had unknowingly given me a flying carpet. Sort of. Actually, before I was born he purchased a quilt at some fundraiser and given it to me as a baby presnet. The quilt had a pattern on it of comic clowns with green faces juggling balls, a friendly a tiger in a colorful cage, another clown walking the tightrope with an umbrella, etc. At some point my Mother told me that my Granfather had paid $50 for the quilt. I was speechless.

Later, after the divorce when we were so poor, I yearned to be a part of the millionare side of my heititage. We had basically lost contact with my Father's family since the divorce and I felt exiled from the kingdom. But was I still royalty? To reassure myself, I remember taking that quilt and laying it as flat and smooth as I could on the ground of our rented house and in my underoos lying down on its smooth fabric. Given the fact that it was a $50 quilt and my millionaire Grandpa had bought just for me, I was sure my blood was as blue as Hucklebery Hound.

The point is there was once this little boy in the 1970's in some rented house who was made to feel like royalty because of this otherwise crummy small quilt. The phrase about how, by small and simple means, great things can come to pass is true. I know it and I think my dear Grandfather must also have known it.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

2007-08-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

I have been making a batch of chocolate chip cookies on average of once every two weeks for the last 15 years. This is no exaggeration. I guess it is something that I enjoyed in the beginning. Testing different methods and altering the recipe was fun and helped me to perfect the cookies. I think I have it down pretty good, but the truth is I am bored with making chocolate chip cookies. I have made them so many times, and screwed around with it so many times, that there is really hold little enjoyment any more. They turn out great, and people love them (because they are quite good), but I'm bored. I tried to shift gears by making other things. I tried Creme Brulee and other delights. Right now I am in a rice pudding phase (which is great with a little raspberry jam on top), but I keep getting hauled back to chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes I feel like these cookies are the symbols of my life. I want to break out, to try new things, and I do try different things, but I keep getting pulled back to the cookies. Because I can make them and they taste good. Like me.

So here's the recipe: (Toll house derivative)

Smear one stick of cold butter and 1/2 cup of shortening with 3/4 cup sugar and 3/4 cup brown sugar.

Add 2 eggs and 2-3 teaspoons of vanilla and smear some more.

Add 2 1/2 - 3 cups flour, 1 teaspoon baking soda, and 1 1/2 teaspoon salt and mix it up.

Add 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips and mix some more.

Scoop with a cookie scooper that looks like a small ice cream scoop (for perfect shape)

Cook at 365 for 13 minutes (first batch) and 11 minutes every other batch.

They should be undercooked a little.

How to Make Scary things Funny

2007-08-22T20:51:00.000-07:00

In the past, my friends and I would speculate about how the toughest guy on earth, the most intimidating foe you could ever meet, could be reduced to a laughable, peaceful chump my simply putting something in his hands. I don't mean to imply any perversity, but by putting something lovable, happy, and/or childish in a hooligan's hand can take away all the evil posturing in the world.

Here's how it goes: Imagine the toughest, most scary biker dud you can imagine. He has his fists up and is saying, very loud, "Come on" He is standing in front of you and wishing to beat your brains out. Now, keep that same picture in your mind, but put a big bundle of balloons in his right hand. Bam! The tough guy has instantly lost all "tough guy" credibility. Now put a triple scoop ice cream cone (chocolate, strawberry and vanilla) in his hand. Poof! Totally likable. Now put a big bouquet of daisies in his hand. Zap! He becomes a daisy. The list can go on and on. A teddy bear, a banana, etc. Anything that eminates an undeniablly positive image. Think about it. It is completely true.

There is, however, one exception to this rule that I must mention. That is, what I call, the "Angry Clown" exception. No matter what you do, no matter what you place in his hand, an Angry Clown will ALWAYS be the scariest thing on this earth. Zap!

Making a clown out of myself

2007-08-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

My mouth simply cannot keep up anymore. I have experienced some very inarticulate moments as of late that have left me the sitting fool. At least I feel like I am. I have found myself in situations where I want to express something very important or personal or inchoate, and then when it gets to my mouth I sound like the piece of Tupperware that gets astray in the dishwasher. I haven't had this problem much in the past (at least I don't think I did). Truthfully, I don't have this problem at all when it is something that means nothing, or has nothing to do with me. It only happens when it is important to me, and then I bumble everything up. So what is the cure? Here's my take.

Life is too short to worry about these things. (But I do.)

I once heard a phrase that people like you for your strengths, but love you for your weaknesses. This is a very appealing phrase when you have just butchered something important to say, when you come off as expressive as a 13 year old. But I think it could be true. Taking it in stages, I see the first requisite to my idiotic, fractured ill-conceived attempts at meaningful expression is that it will only ever be directed to someone I care enough about to express my thoughts in the first place. I generally try to keep my fanciful, silly ideas to myself; but those whom I truly love I will let in (or at least peek in). So at stage one, I have to assume that when I open up and make a clown out of myself, at least it is with someone I care about. Second, the person I care about will most likely know me better than I give them credit and understand me better than I understand myself. Lastly, when I do say something ridiculous, scandalous and stupid, hopefully this person will ultimately love me for my weakness.

So whoever is reading this, to all those I have offended in my past and future, I hope you love me. Because I love you enough to once again try to express something here that is very important and personal, and I end up expressing yet another incoherent rambling to say sorry for the last incoherent rambling that has since embarrassed me and has now motivated me to essentially embarrass myself again. Thank you. Thank you Mucho!

George Lucas has turned me into a freak

2006-05-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

Now that I have thoroughly driven off anyone who may read my blog, I can begin again. I like to write my memories and junk philosophy. So here's another thought.

When I was about 11 years old I loved The Empire Strikes Back. I remember sitting in my room trying to use the force. I was all alone and I don't think anyone really knows that I did this. I literally sat in my bed, with my arm outstretched, trying to make a toy on my dresser rise. I knew I could do it if I tried hard enough. I would try so hard that my face would turn red and when I finally gave up I would gasp for air. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker (even though now I realize that Han Solo was way cooler). The crazy thing about it is that when I didn't lift the toy in the air, my conclusion was not "George Lucas has a great imagination and those special effects are far out!" My thoughts instead were something in line with "I guess I haven't prepared enough". In other words, the toy failing to rise was not because of the lack of "The Force", but it didn't rise because I did not have the benefit of adequate Tatooine training and simply wasn't prepared.

As an adult, my belief in the force is still, for better or for worse, with me. The force will, I believe, be with me ... always. This is why I also believe that George Lucas has turned me into a freak. Don't get me wrong, I will never attempt to style my hair like Lucas. Unfortunately, however, in the lack of much spiritual edification from my single mother, George became my own personal Mahatma at the age of 11. Consequently, as an adult practicing Christian, I believe in Lucas like mysticism and that things can and will happen. I truly believe that I am able to literally see God. In person. I have read about people who claim to have seen God in person and I guess I have always thought that if they can do it, then I could also. In my mind, the only question is whether I am prepared enough.

Now this may seem wonderful, but it is a curse. That is because every day that goes by that God does not appear to me, is another day where I feel inadequate. Joni Mitchell Sang about how certain things like the Bible are "only reminders that your just not good enough." In some ways my belief in God, coupled with George Lucas, (imagine that for a minute, honestly), is just that. A belief in God, for me, is a constant reminder that I haven't done enough; that I am missing something or I need to try harder. Otherwise, I would have seen Him by now. This became so discouraging that in 2004 I tried to be Han Solo, ("I've flown from one side of this galaxy to the other, I've seen a lot of strange stuff, but I've never seen anything to make me believe there's one all-powerful force controlling everything. There's no mystical energy field controls my destiny.") but I couldn't do it. So I am stuck being Luke, or Obiwan, or maybe even an Ewok, if the truth were told.

Yes indeed, I do believe that George Lucas has turned me into a actual, honest to goodness, freak.

Has it really been that long?

2005-12-07T19:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure, but I believe that it really HAS been THAT long since I posted a message. I understand in my absence that someone named Beniffer has concieved. I also understand that there are now insurgents in Iraq. In any event, I hope that I am back and can really commit to this thing. Actually, what has been going on is that I opened my own shop. Yes sir, I am now self-employed and under insured. Actually, I have no insurance. But life is grand working for myself. I am really enjoying life and what's funny is that I didn't know that I was missing it. It's like all of a sudden I figured out that I have not really been that happy, and now I am. I am spending more time with the kids, reading more, basically living like I want to live. So that's the real scoop. Of course if being a cultural dancer doesn't work out, my old boss said I still have a job if I want it. So I'm covered.

Longing, already, for spring

2005-11-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

It has turned colder here where I live. It is going now into late autum. Early autum was the glorious time of feasting and reflection. The proverbial end of the harvest. Now it is transitioning. I now have a feeling of foreboding. This is probably imbedded in my genetic code somewhere. Generations of my ancestors, probably as recent of my grandparents, feared the winter. They wondered whether they had enough food to last the cold and dark winter. They worried about the health of their small children. They worried about getting very cold. There was no social security or medicaid for them. Now Section 8 housing. No welfare stamps. If they didn't have food, the went without. If their coats were thin, or the roof leaked, there was no one else they could look to except themselves. So it is in me, I am certian. Part of me is begining to dread the winter. I long, already, for the spring time.

Tube Socks

2005-10-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

I once worked at a Little Caesar's Pizza. I worked like any other schlep, but then I landed a great position as morning prep boy. I would come in early in the morning and slice onions, mushrooms and other toppings. I would grate massive amounts of cheese. Open cans of sauce. No one was there and it was actually kind of nice for me. I would also get to go home earlier than anyone else. The morning was mine at Little Caesar's. Eventually, some other schlepper would come in before the place opened.

One morning, I came in a little late and was in a hurry. I went into the bathroom to change into my Little Caesar's uniform, which included a Little Caesar's hat. For some reason I would flip the visor up and I wrote "PACO" on the inside of the visor. So when I turned it up, it was readable. (Hence, the "Paco" in "Chicken Paco".)

So I am changing into my uniform, but I need to use the toilet. I am sitting on the can, half-way through my business, and BAM!, the second morning schlep bursts in on my, utterly unaware of what he was to about to see. There I am, sitting on the toilet with my PACO hat on, visor flipped up, and my tube socks on. Nothing else. Pretty much totally naked. I have never been more grateful for tube socks.

The stars have aligned only twice for me

2005-10-23T21:04:00.000-07:00

Twice in my life the stars have aligned and everything went exactly as I predicted. I mean exactly. Not only did things go exactly as I predicted, but the events were preceded by me being somewhat cavalier that things would go exactly as I predicted.

Incident No.1: Circa 1995. My wife and I were at a local park with two other couples. We were having a picnic. There were an over-abundance of Canadian Geese in the park harassing us otherwise innocent eating friends. (I think I heard one Canadian goose call me a Shatner-stealing Mexico toucher.) Well I got sick of it and I said something to the effect of "I'm sick of these geese. Watch this." Everyone was watching and without a blink I chucked a seedless red grape about 20 yards and hit a goose right in the head.

Incident No. 2: Circa 1994. I was playing Clue at my in-laws house with my wife, sister-in-law and her husband. For about 30 minutes before the game I started bragging (mostly for the fun of it) to everyone how I was going to win on my first turn. We sat down, got the game set up, and on my first turn I over confidently stated that it was Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the candlestick. BOOM, I won on my first guess. If anyone that was there reads this, please post a comment to confirm.

The bad part about Incident No. 1 is that only my wife remembers and I received a nasty letter from PETA (or I will).

The bad part of Incident No. 2 is that everyone thought I rigged the game (which I didn't) and no one has played Clue with me since.

Subdermal itch

2005-10-18T21:25:00.000-07:00

Do you ever get an itch in the middle of the bottom of your foot? It happens to me sometimes. I go into a panic as I race to take my shoes off. I know that once I get my shoe off, I can cheat and scratch the itch through my sock. That will give me that little relief so I can take the next step of sock removal. However, the sock scratch rarely is satisfying. That thin layer of fabric does something. Finally, when I rip my sock off in a fit of psychosis, I get to scratch the sole of my foot. Almost always it turns out to be below the skin. At that point I could seriously freak out. I scratch as hard as I want, and can't get to the itch. I have no idea why one would have an itch below the surface of the skin. Isn't itchy skin because it is dry. I don't know why I would be dry under the skin of the bottom of my foot, but alas it happens. It happened to Larry Mullen Jr. in Rattle and Hum while recording Angel of Harlem. So I know it is not just me. I wonder is Soren Kierkegaard's foot ever itched.

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards

2005-10-16T21:37:00.000-07:00

Recently I took a leap of faith. I call it a leap of faith because it defied logic. I also call it a leap of faith because I feel that it was what God wanted me to do. In our modern world and to the modern way of thinking, taking this step was a sign of pure stupidity and lunacy on my part. Without a logical basis for an action the modern person should not take the contemplated action. Right?

Well, I did it. I threw away a very high paying job working for someone else to take a literally zero paying job (at least in the short term) working for myself. In my career field, I am an idiot. But this is what God wanted me to do. Because it defies logic, I asked several times and I kept getting the same illogical answer. But an answer it undoubtedly was. It got to the point that I felt if I asked again that I would be offending.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard wrote about three stages of personal development with the last and most important stage being the religious stage. According to Kierkgaard, one can only reach the religious stage by a leap of faith. I have also heard this described as jumping through the darkened doorway. It is a leap of faith because there are not any rational reasons for justifying the proverbial leap. Another way of looking at it is that one cannot see what the future will hold and therefore, there is no certainty of consequences. (See my earlier post "Rescue Ointment of the Indecisive" to read my pre-leap thoughts.) As Kierkegaard also said, "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."

I heard someone recently say that the only thing we have to give God is our free will. Everything else comes from Him and is controlled by Him. Thus, God can and will give us everything we need (see Matthew Chapter 6). What he wants us to do is make the first move. To trust Him and His will. Prioritize His will first. Or in other words, have faith.

Well I have tried it. I have exercised faith in a higher being, jumped through the darkened doorway, and did so without any rational/logical backing. I have potentially put myself and my family into financial ruin. But I did it. I am finding out, slowly, that things seem to be working out. I am also rapidly learning how little I really know about God, faith and doorways.

Deliberate Mind Games With Oneself

2005-10-13T19:52:00.000-07:00

I may be strange, but when I was a young lad I would play deliberate mind games with myself in order to artificially create and recreate enjoyable experiences. Nothing freakish or perverse. Thinking of these games now makes me wonder if I should have received some form of counseling. Here are some examples:

I would deliberately sleep backwards in my bed. My feet would be at the head of the bed and my head would be at the foot of the bed. I did this so when I woke up from sleeping the first thing my mind would think would be, "Where the heck am I?" I would trip out for a few minutes until I remembered what I had done the night before. Kind of like waking up in a hotel room or a new apartment for the first time.

Another example is when you fall asleep in your clothes. When you wake up and take your clothes off, bed feels super comfortable. I really enjoyed that feeling so I would purposefully go to sleep in my clothes. I would wake up in the middle of the night and, aaaahhhhhhh, it would feel great. I'm not sure if I ever fell asleep in my clothes and backwards, but I am still somewhat willing to try.

Another classic example is every spring I would put a five dollar bill in my winter coat pocket. A month or so later into the early summer I would forget about it. The next winter, however, I would slip my hand in my pocket and, pow, there was five bucks! That's always a great feeling, even if it is artificially created. I still leave a piece of candy in my Christmas stocking every year when I put the Christmas decorations and other stuff away. And every December when I get my stocking out, I love to see what I left for myself. Of course year old star mints aren't the greatest.

What it boils down to is my past self is playing mind games on my future self. My past self also does my future self the favor of placing my car keys and wallet in a logical spot. If it wasn't for my past self being so considerate, my future self would be a mess. In return, my future self is very grateful for my past self's thoughfulness. I am also grateful for my past self's mind games because it is always great to trip yourselves out. Now I must go to bed, because otherwise my future self tomorrow morning will be grumpy.

I think it happened today

2005-08-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure it happened today. Every year there is that one day that changes my perspective. It is that very first day that autumn brings. Don't get me wrong, it is not actually autumn, it is just that day that Summer's reign begins to show cracks. Something changes in the air. The color of the sky. There is a hint in the breeze that suggests something is coming. I can feel it in an anticipatory way. Like realizing that Christmas is closer than I thought. I think the earlier evenings also have something to do with it. Am I alone is this feeling? Maybe it is something buried in my genetic code that tells me time has come to harvest, to hunt, to breed. I love autumn because it is the earth celebrating all of its accomplishments throughout the year. It has worked hard during the spring and summer. Now is the time for reflection. To eat and breathe. To nap and rest for one labors. To stretch and think of all that we have done. The sky is a melancholy blue. I seem to feel calmer in the Autumn. More self assured, somehow. Of course, it is not here yet. I just felt it today. I anticipate an Indian Summer, before the true solstice engages. I am sure I will write more about this next season, once it is here. But already I yearn for it. My old friend with whom I can grow pensive and nostalgic.

Super Sly Fly Guy Revisited

2005-08-24T20:07:00.000-07:00

For those who have read my first post, you may enjoy this. For those who didn't, this is a good time to look it up. It is the story of a super hero. Well written. Entertaining, yet nostalgic with a hint of melodrama.

Just in case you were thinking I made it up, here are the pictures. My good friend somehow found the picture.

The first is me climbing over the fence to get into the pool area. The second is another one of my friends jumping off the high dive. The third is my alter-ego: Super Sly Fly Guy.

2005-08-18T21:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid there always seemed to be a swimming pool in the neighborhood. In the summer time my friends and I would go swimming first thing when we woke up in the afternoon (I usually slept in until at least 11 am). The swim replaced taking a shower and the pool water was always pretty warm from the day before. When we swam in the evening we would get out of the pool and run to the front yard where we would lay on the cement sidewalks. I would be laying there with my face on the hot cement looking at my best friend laying on the hot cement next to me. We would be laughing about something. The cement had a certain smell when the chlorinated water off our bodies would soak in. It was the smell of summer. Like the smell of cucumbers, watermelon or charcoal brickettes heating up a barbecue. Life was free then. Taken for granted. Someone once said that youth is wasted on the young. I want to be that free again. I want to smell the hot summer cement mixing with the chlorine water. When we would get up off the cement it was always fun to see the image of our little skinny bodies imprinted on the cement where the water had not evaporated. I guess that part of me really hasn't changed.

Drooling Spectators

2005-08-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

What do you do when something bad happens? Usually you try to make it better. Solve the problem. Take steps to not do it again. And, of course, suffer the consequences. I understand this and have experienced it all too often.

What do you do when this happens to someone else? I, personally, like to think that I show genuine empathy for the person that is going through the machinery. I listen to them. I like to think that they can trust me. I don't laugh at their misfortune, but try to remember what it was like the last time I made a mistake and my stomach was in knots over it.

It appears to me that there is a complete lack of any empathy in the professional world. I would admit that there is lip service (what does that actually mean), but there is an absence of real caring. I have seen some things recently in the professional world that have made me sick. Some people made mistakes. Natural. But the reactions of those around give me an empty pit feeling in my stomach. Some people reveled in the gossip. Others probably saw the events as potential step up in their career. Others wanted to just pass out blame, I suppose in an effort to avoid blame themselves. The main reaction I felt was a sick empathy for those that were going through all these awful experiences. The surprising thing about all of it was how for many empathy did not even enter the picture. For most it was the car wreck from which they could not turn away. Everyone looking for the next reality TV freak show, no matter what the costs or that their number may soon come up. It was like people watching NASCAR only for the great car crashes. I just feel sick. On account of the person in the car whose life is getting twisted and distorted before our very eyes, but more at the realization that there are so many eager drooling spectators.

The House of Jews-box

2005-08-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

My wife and I were reading some scriptures with our children tonight. For some reason we got on the discussion of the twelve tribes of Israel, that these are the descendants of the twelve sons of Jacob (Israel), who was the son of Isaac, who was the son of father Abraham. This led into a discussion about Jews.

In the middle of our very academic discussion, my two year blurts out in his sweet little voice that he wants a "Jews-box" (juice box). It stopped us all cold and pretty much ended the discussion (which is good because I was reaching the limits of my knowledge on the subject). We all ended up laughing, which was much better that talking about esoteric religious questioning.

Old Navy Frustration

2005-08-05T21:19:00.000-07:00

The other day my wife was buying my boys back to school clothes. She took them to Old Navy and let them going whole hog, so to speak. After a while they came back with nothing. Again my wife encouraged them to find something that they would like for the upcoming school year. After another 20 minutes or so they came back empty handed. So my wife took them each throughout the store and picked out clothes she thought they would like. "Do you like this shirt?" "No." "Do you like these pants?" "No." Pretty soon my wife became very frustrated and finally, being fed up with the situation, asked, "So what do you guys want!?!" Their response was, "We like our old clothes."

Jokes with Mr. Heat Miser

2005-07-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have to travel with my job. One destination is small tourist town in the mountains. There seems to be an inordinate number of antique shops and used bookstores in this town, but my favorite place is this antique/coin shop. The owner is this guy that looks surprizingly like Mr. Heat Miser in that old stop motion animation Christmas special. Although he should remember me by now (because I have follow the same routine described below every time) I seem to get away with the same patronizing jokes time and time again.

First, I walk into the store and look around at the antiques. Eventually he comes over and asks if he can help me with anything and I ask an overly dumb softball question about something in the shop. Something like, "So is that old Buffalo Bill poster worth something?" or "How do you know it's really that old?" He will then educate me for about 15 minutes and I will listen patiently. Then I pull out the zinger. I ask to see his coins for sale.

Mr. Heat Miser has a separate room for his coin collection display cases, but the cases are always covered in tons of junk. Papers, file folders, other odds and ends. When I ask to see the coins, he usually gives me a nervous laugh and tells me that it won't be possible today. Mr. Heat Miser needs to clean up that room and, well, maybe next time. I give him a crest fallen look and say something about how I had $20 and I was really hoping to buy something. At this, he gets even more perturbed and stammers a little about how busy he is and hasn't had time to clean the junk off the display. He will then ask me what I was looking for and I will say something totally dumb like "Er, I was hoping to get something old."

At this point I thrown him another zinger and I ask, "So where else can a feller buy really old coins around here ?" At this he gets really agitated and stammers some more. Often this will turn into an mild conniption will some out loud grumbling. Mr. Heat Miser usually won't say anything else, but mutter out loud to himself as he goes into the side room and starts to clear off the displays. All along he is grumbling about how busy he is and how impossible it will be to clean the cases off. Eventually, he gets the cases cleared off and I buy some coins. The great part of all this is that my set ups and his reactions never vary. I have performed this little skit about six times now. I know that he is ripping me off with some over-priced coins, but the $20 is worth the show.

Rescue Ointment for the Indecisive

2005-07-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

I'm coming to the conclusions that you can never really know what the right decisions in life are until after you have already made them. Or even the wrong ones. Well, some wrong decisions are pretty obvious. Henry David Thoreau said, "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." I've never quite known what that means.

The following may seem self-evident, but I am only just learning it for myself. When making any major decision, one can consider the options, various factors, and other events that may alter a life decision. One may weigh the pros versus the cons. (Or just ignore all that and simply live with any consequences, which is how I have merrily lived my life up to this point.) However, when making any major decision I am convinced that it will always come down to faith. There are simply too many multipliers in life, to many variables that, if you try to consider all of them, you will either be stunned into fear or go mad.

Faith is the soothing Doctor Burt's Rescue Ointment that goes over all your deliberation. It makes it feel better, without really solving anything at all. Some people slather themselves with ointment, and never really have any debate. Well sure, that feels good, but any results are somewhat arbitrary and subject to other's decisions. It is much better to argue with yourself, avoid a filibuster if at all possible, and go for the straight up or down vote. Once you make the decision, get out the ointment and don't look back (until, of course, you realize what a colossal mistake you just made).

My only hope in life lies with Ty Pennington

2005-07-24T23:45:00.000-07:00

The other day I went to eat an all-you-care-to shove-in-your-cake-hole buffet restaurant. You know, the kind of place that carries a name like "Chuck-a-Rama". There were your usual set of overweight trolls and skinny cigarette raspy voiced couples enjoying plate full after plate full of starch. But what struck me was the waste. There was so much left over food being chucked out. And most of it was getting thrown away for no reason at all. Or maybe the reason was because you could get a new plate and start again. Or maybe it was because the food always looked better than it tasted. It was the antithesis of the "clean you plate" mentality. There was not a word to be heard about starving children in India. If for any reason you didn't want to take more than one bite of that fried chicken, then you could throw the rest away and go for some pasta. It was Americana at its best/worst. It was the "Extreme Makeover- Food Edition". I'm pretty sure I could see a wannabe Ty Pennington in the back with a mega phone screaming something about there was only three minutes and I would be back for the chicken again, but this time it would be rotisserie style!

If I ended up feeling dissatisfied with my food, I would throw away what was left and get a "clean plate", going back for something different, continually hoping for some satisfaction. In the end, the hope for a better meal was the only thing that happened. In fact, the buffet was just a set up. Everything was crappy. But there was a lot of crappy food with different smells and colors. So for my entry fee into this sad strange little world, I was allowed to hope for a decent meal over and over again, with a belly full of mash potatoes and soft serve ice cream to show for it.

Bubble Wars

2005-07-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

With my job I have to travel a bit. The drive isn't so bad, but I do often get bored or even sleepy. I have tried loud heavy metal, opening the windows, and even sunflower seeds, but not one seem to really solve the "long drive" issues.

This reminds me of when I came back from a two month trek in Europe. I flew into Minnesota and it was arranged that I would drive a circa 1984 Ford several hundreds of miles to Utah for someone. I was happy to do it because it saved me the airfare. Also, it gave me some much needed thinking time by myself. The thing I didn't know was that the car had no radio whatsoever. Things went well for the first several hours, but then I lost my mind. I have a memory, kind of like a strange movie, where it was near midnight somewhere in Nebraska and I was screaming at the top of my lungs at the "Schneider" freight trucks that seemed to continue to appear out of the darkness. I wasn't sure I was even moving. That is the low end of my driving insanity.

What I have found is that bubble gum is the best solution to prevent loosing your mind or falling asleep on the long drive. There is something about the challenge of blowing a really big bubble and the slight thrill of the burst that keeps you awake. You may think there are lingering affects from the "Schneider" experience, but it does work.

Since this discovery I have compared the qualities and shortcomings of what I like to call the Big Three: Bubble Yum, Bubblicious, and Hubba Bubba. Here is my take:

Bubble Yum: Medium bubble quality, but decent flavor that seems to stick around longer than the others. (All the bubble gums eventually evolve from the designated flavor (like to Dazzling Strawberry or Super Ultra Mega Lightning Grape) to basically spit flavor).

Bubblicious: Superior bubbles, but short lived flavor (i.e., spit flavor takes over after a dozen or so successful bubbles).

Hubba Bubba: Plastic quality to the bubbles and a very obnoxious, short lived flavor (i.e., the spit flavor actually tastes a little better and comes as a relief).

Overall, I would buy Bubble Yum first, then Bubblicious. I will never by Hubba Bubba ever again unless I crave spit. That said, I am experimenting with breaching the gap that divides society and combining one cube of Bubble Yum at the same time as a cube of Bubblicious. This, hopefully will allow for long lasting flavor and good bubbles. I will be sure to report the results in a later blog if anyone cares to comment (i.e., please comment because I need to feel some form of self-worth).

Acquainted With the Night. By Robert Frost

2005-07-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

This is a favorite poem of mine.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat.
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet.
When far away an interrupted cry.
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

What Jimmy Hendrix and a Quarter Pounder have in common

2005-07-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

There is something fundamental about food. Not just that were are addicted to it, but food can be particularly right for a particular moment. Music can be the same way. If you are in the right mood for Jimmy Hendrix, then nothing is better or more satisfying.

The other night, it was quite hot outside and a plate of spaghetti and meatballs would have be down right oppressive. Instead, we ate some green grapes and slices of fresh french with a creamy havarti cheese on top. We also had some prosciutto. There was something in the simplicity (and the fact that it wasn't hot) that made the meal just exactly right. Said another way, it hit the fundamental spot. (Whenever I mention to my wife that something hits the spot, she will invariably ask, "So where anatomically is the spot located?")

I think that food and eating is somewhat atmospheric, like music. The challenge is to read the situation correctly, (even more difficult with multiple people) and then make good decisions. Don't get me wrong, sometime what is just right is a quarter pounder with cheese. It's not the idea of always eating pretentious food, but of making the right call. Tonight I had pizza, but if it was my call, I'm pretty sure a slurpee with a Slim Jim was what was cosmically right for me tonight.

Train lessons

2005-07-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

I remember being a young boy growing up near some railroad tracks. Freight trains would scream through at all hours and the sound of the rumble over the rails became familiar. The sound became the background music of my latent boyhood years. Even today, the sound of the rails with a freight train rumbling at full speed over the top seems to tap into a treasure trove of feelings and emotions.

As children, the rails were a constant source of new entertainment and experiment. My friends and I would see how far we could walk down the rails without falling off. We would shoot rocks with our slingshots at the green glass domes that were on the power poles adjacent to the tracks to see if we break them. The tar that came up from the railroad ties when they got hot were great for making all sorts of concoctions. Kids would find playboys or cigarettes hidden in the weeds along side the brick wall that was supposed to keep us out.

The most fun part was putting things on the tracks right before a train would come. I would put my ear to the shiny rail and I could hear (at least I thought I could hear) a train at least a mile a away. I think I actually saw that in some movie, but my friends thought I really could hear the train coming, which is what I really wanted. We would put an assortment of things on the tracks. Two by fours, bricks, rocks, soda cans, basically anything we could get a hold of and wanted to see it splatter. The best thing to do was to put coins on the tracks. The trains would flatten them into these thin wafers. I put some on the tracks on the way to school one day (1st grade, I was probably 6 years old) and made it my show-and-tell. The teacher was horrorified. I didn't think it was any particular horror. Another trick was to go into the drainage culvert right next to the tracks (almost underneath them) while the train roared by. I also remember putting a shopping cart on the tracks once. Now that was impressive for a young boy! Regardless of what we had to smash, we would always throw as many rocks as possible at the giant metal behemoths as they would stampede by us, as if trying to get their attention.

One memory that will never fade is one day when I was crossing the tracks with my bike. I'm sure I was only ten or younger. A train was rapidly approaching and I really had to hurry. My brother had already crossed and as I was going over the tracks the train was getting extremely close. Suddenly, I stopped. One of my pedals had got stuck in the rail. With the train coming very close, closer than I had ever with me on the tracks, I tugged and the bike wouldn't let up. The train blew its whistle and it was the loudest sound I had ever heard. My heart was racing and I tugged harder without and movement. The whistle blew again and I could see the face of the guy in the train. Finally, I let up pulling and the pedal freed itself. I was over the tracks as the whistle blew again and the train flew by me. I was sick with adrenalin.

I will never forget the pressure I felt that day. I will never forget the feeling of fear and panic. Many times in my life since then I recollect back on that feeling of being stuck with a real fear of destruction about to descend upon me. I have also felt panic as my personal trains have been right upon me, certain to kill me. Luckily, I have always had the ability to relax a little and pull out. I am still alive. Left to otherwise live another day, to throw rocks at the all other trains that seem to just rumble past with that familiar background music.

Don't think about it

2005-07-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

Do you ever think of those things in life that you readily enjoy, but if you actually thought about it, you wouldn't enjoy them so much? For example, the Jacuzzi. Sure, its all warm and bubbly. But do I really want to know what's in the water? If I stopped to contemplate what/who was there before me and what may actually remain, floating around, I start to get sick. If I think what may have mutated in the water since the last visitor to the primal waters, I want to run and bleach myself.

Another example of this, which is a little more obvious, is the sausage/hot dog. Don't get me wrong, I love a nice brat as much as the next guy. But have you ever actually looked at the insides of one of those? There are like chunks of stuff. Honest to goodness chunks. Hot dogs and chicken nuggets are the same, just fully blended and formed before you buy them. When I was a kid my mother fed me something called "turkey loaf". It was like a giant turkey nugget that you sliced. I would guess that it contained the leftovers of a turkey processing plant (like elbows, cancers, nodes, etc.), but as a kid I gobble gobbled it up. Now, I would only go so far as to maybe look at it in the store, like I do the cow tongues. (By the way, who actually eats cow tongue?)

Another enjoyable item is a hotel pillow. I have to travel some with my job and nice clean sheets in the hotel are always a delight. But if I think that the pillow I am laying face on to slumber away was between some slob's legs the night before (or possible worse) I literally can't sleep.

Remember, there are those things in life that we enjoy, which we really shouldn't. Just don't think about it.

The flood of '95

2005-07-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

If you read my last posting, I explained some of my own neurosis regarding use of the public restroom. For some reason, I always have to poop when I am at a library or a bookstore. I'm not really sure why this is, but it has been like that since I was little. My son had the same problem as a little boy. Whenever we went into Toys R Us, inevitable he would need to let it all go.

When I was studying for one of my undergraduate classes I went to the library at the university really early in the morning to do some research. There were probably only 10 people in the whole big building. My natural tendencies in a library kicked in and, although I would normally "retain", I figured I would be grown up and use the bathroom since there were so few in the library. I found the most remote bathroom possible on the 4th floor. Certainly I would have privacy and get out without any hassle. Right when I was finishing up my business, someone walks in. What are the odds? So I stonewall, so to speak. I'm all done, but I just sit there and wait. And wait. The guy does not leave! He's like brushing his teeth and then thoroughly flossing for like hours. Finally, riding on my "we are all grown ups and this is just a biological process and this is the place to do it" attitude, I decided that I would just get up an leave, despite my instincts just to hide and wait anonymously.

Well, I get up and flush the toilet and the thing instantly starts to overflow. Not just a little overflow, but a virtual flood of toilet water comes pouring out. It is all over my shoes, splashing onto the floor. I am then put between the horns of a dilemma: Do I stay there and soak my socks, or do I get out as quick as I can? I decide the latter. So I say to myself, "Don't make eye contact. Just keep your head down and get out as quickly as possible!"

So I open the stall and start to walk out. Out of instinct, or some inner duty, I look up. The guy's back is to me, but in the mirror we make direct eye contact. It lasts about 2 seconds. Why did I ever look up? It was an awful 2 seconds. Like some form of forced confessional. I immediately left with the flood still raging. A normal person would have gone to the front desk and told someone about the flood four stories above. I, however, quickly found a few books to check out and left. As I went to check the books out, the librarian walks up to help me. What are the odds, it's my confessional minister from the mirror above. The great flood of '95 is forever burned into my consciousness.

Women are better off (or the Great Society is true)

2005-07-03T22:46:00.000-07:00

Although there are some that hate to admit it, there are differences between men and women. I know this is somewhat mind blowing. My latest vacation, however, proves this theory beyond a doubt. And I am hear to tell you, women win!

My thesis begins with the simple proposition that women are better off when it comes to the nasty subject of defecation in a public restroom. I was recently on vacation and I ... uh ... er ... had to poop. I did not have the comfort of my own home, nor even the slightly less comfortable but equally acceptable hotel bathroom. It was a public "facility". I had no choice, but to enjoy the Great Society's open to all public accommodations. No longer could I be a on-looker of society, secretly enjoying other's discomforts, but now I had to biologically participate. As I gingerly sat on paper that is really too thin to realistically keep any bacteria off my back side, I had an epiphany that a woman has to sit like this every time they use the Great Society's facilities. (I have since been informed that some women actually do not sit! Really! I don't quite understand this, but have no reason to doubt my informant's veracity.)

You see, its not actually the sitting that is the problem. It's the stigma. For example, if you leave the stall at the wrong time, BOOM, someone else walks in and your get that look saying, "Boy you can really stink it up!" Women have it easy because they always sit in stalls, regardless. There is no stigma when others are in the restroom and a woman emerges from the stall. If the place is really stinky, the fact is no one knows, or can even presume, whether you were engaged in No. 1 or No. 2! Whereas in the men's restroom, no man would ever willingly take a stall when he can stand, unless of course you were stinking the place up. Which reminds me, I have in the past been the recipient of the "Boy you can really stink it up!" look on several occasions when it WASN'T ME!! I swear. Some guys give you the look when you are just washing your hands, nothing more. So I routinely try to give the "Hey, I myself had to suffer this ungodly stink throughout my entire urinating experience" look right back at them. As you can expect, that is a really hard look to make and often can be confused with "Yep. I did stink it up." In any event, if I were a female and the restroom was totally foul, everyone is potentially to blame, and therefore no one is to blame. Now that's a Great Society even Johnson could be proud of.

Los Hermanos

2005-06-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go to a good Italian restaurant (i.e., not Olive Garden), I always like to think of brothers in the back cooking my food. I like to think of them in the back, busting up and talking loudly as they chuck my pizza dough in the air. I know from experience that it is this is the farthest thing from the truth. It's like a Chinese restaurant I went to a while back where the gal that took my order told me she was actually from Vietnam and the cook in the back, which I could see hovering over a wok, was distinctly Hispanic. I'm sure his name was Junior. I really wish I hadn't seen that guy because I could swear in my General's Chicken I tasted chipolte.

Yesterday my older brother came into town. We hung out with my other brother and it was great. I found that there is a laugh that boils from deep inside me that only my brothers can find. It is probably because we have been laughing together since the beginning. We also cut our comedic teeth at relatively the same time with Steve Martin stand up records (what my son once called big black CD's) and early Saturday Night Live and David Letterman. It is great to be with them because I will laugh at the stupidest stuff, but the laugh will be so genuine and deep that I literally can't help myself. Stupid as it may be, what is great is when I am with my two brothers and laughing I am honestly happy. No Junior. No chipolte.

The Origins of a Super Hero

2005-06-21T18:38:00.000-07:00

What actually is a Super Sly Fly Guy?

The origins are in Fresno, CA, mid 1980's. It came upon me like the sudden relief from a stomach cramp. It was the summer time, the nights were hot. Looking for adventures, someone suggested sneaking into the pool at Clovis West High School and jumping off the platforms. It was completely dark and the thrill was jumping off these high platforms into the empty darkness and at some point (hopefully) landing in the water below. I swam, but would not take the Soren Kirkegaard "leap of faith". I was prodded and teased a little, but faith was always harder for me than the pressure to be faithful.

What I did find, as if from a prayer, was an alter ego. A super hero I could become when I couldn't be myself. What I found was a water polo cap on the side of the pool. It was numbered, multi-colored and had plastic shells to go over the ears. Instantly I became Super Sly Fly Guy. This character continued into the night, even at 2 am when we all ended up a Denny's. I went on about how I was long in vision, far in sight, etc., with my hands on my hips and phony deep voice. Plenty of laughs because of the ridiculous sight of a skinny kid in a T shirt, plaid baggy short and a stupid hat.

Super Sly Fly Guy is the ultimate "change the subject" when I can't stand myself. But it is also me, albeit a defense mechanism. No one can seriously tell you how to become a fly guy, much less super or sly. I never felt better than that night when I was busting everyone up with my outrageousness.