The Soda Fountain

Well, it's been fun, but I have to go now

2006-11-09T16:15:00.000-08:00

Dear patrons of the Soda Fountain, our lease has expired.

And we must move.

It's been fun sharing the last year and a half with you, it really has. I've been as candid with you as possible during this time about my life and struggles and what have you.

But it's time to move on.

However, there IS good news here too.

The Soda Fountain has found a new home. Some of you have (or will be) e-mailed a link to our new location, a brighter and shinier building with a brand new soda fountain that is open and ready for you.

And it will host all of our podcasts. Past, Present, and Future.

If you would like to be directed to the new location but haven't received an e-mail with the new link, please email me here to let me know.

And so, I bid you farewell.

Advice for 18-Year-Old J

2006-06-09T13:45:00.000-07:00

There's something about this season of graduations and commencements that makes me want to give advice.

The other day I was thinking about what wisdom I would impart, if given the opportunity, to my younger self. If I was somehow able to catch up with my 18-year-old self, what would I tell him?

So, 18-year-old J, listen up. I've got some stuff I need to share with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dude, you just turned 18 and you're starting out at college! I'm so excited for you, you have no idea!

I've got some good news and bad news for you, J. First, the bad news.

You're about to enter a very difficult and often shitty decade of your life. I'm here to help, so I'm not going to mince words. You're tougher than you think you are...you can handle it.

The good news is that you make it out a much better person than you are now. Oh, stop. You're fine now, true. You're definitely fine for an 18 year old. The problem is that you STAY 18 way longer than you should. Don't beat yourself up about it now, just be mindful of it.

At the risk of ripping the whole space-time continuum to shreds, causing the universe to collapse, I'm going to give you some much-needed advice. You might want to take notes.

1. OK, this is a biggie. Don't try to fuck every woman you meet. Yeah, yeah. Save me that crap about being in love with your high-school girlfriend and you'd never do such a thing. I'm you, remember?

You're actually kind-of a dick when it comes to women. High-school sweetheart included.

The thing is, some of these women might actually make good life-long friends. If you try to fuck them all, most of them are going to end up being your mortal enemies. Dude, that's a lonely, lonely place.

2. Try making some guy friends. They're good for you. You get much better at it much later, but why not start now?

3. You're going to join a fraternity when you go to college this year. I know you can't believe it, but it's true. And it's mostly a GOOD thing. You pick a good one. I'd recommend hanging out there much more than you're prone to do. It's not all pornos and beer, you know. Some of these guys you're about to call "brother" are really cool, really smart, really brave, really down-to-earth, and will really care about you if you let them.

4. Avoid isolating yourself, which is another thing you're prone to do. Some "alone time" is fine. But weeks of "alone time" on end? That shit'll fuck with your head something fierce.

5. Consider studying in groups. Yes, you're really smart. No, you're not going to flunk out (but you have to work at not flunking out.) There are some classes you're going to take that are going to be almost unbearable to get through. Those might be good ones to study in groups for. You'll know which ones they are pretty quickly in the semester.

6. Live life with hope, not fear. I've started doing this only recently. It's quite nice. You might want to do this before you get to be my age.

7. You're going to be lonely sometimes. After a while, you're going to get lonely a lot. Then it gets better. Maybe, when you're feeling really lonely, hanging out with someone would feel less lonely than feeling lonely all alone. Deep, I know.

8. You have a tendency to get impulsive. Sometimes it's a lot of fun. But I'd recommend getting in the habit of stopping for 60 seconds when you feel impulsive and thinking things through to their logical and likely conclusion. You make some REALLY big decisions in the next five or six years. This whole "60-second" rule would be an awesome thing to exercise. And all decisions, like "should me and her get naked and root around for a while", would benefit from the 60-second rule.

9. Some dreams take risks to realize. Some risks are manageable, or even worth it. Take 60 seconds (see rule 8) to think about the risks, and then if they are manageable refuse to let them get in the way of your dreams.

10. You get desperate and pick some lousy girlfriends. Don't.

11. Seek advice and listen to it. No one says you have to do everything on your own.

12. Your parents are kind-of critical of you and don't support you in some of your dreams. It sucks, I know. They act this way because they love you and want you to succeed. And they recognize how neurotic and insecure you are. Oh, quit pouting. You need to hear this.

Your parents are people too and they don't always do the best, most perfect things. Listen to them, look for a "deeper" message beyond the disapproval and worry, and take that to heart.

Then ignore them.

13. Stand up for yourself. You spend a LOOOONG time taking unnecessary shit from people. Tell someone to fuck off if they need to hear it. Speak your mind, if you need to. Sometimes you'll need to exercise tact, sometimes not.

14. Having said that, don't do something just to pick a fight. If it's going to result in possible physical harm, exercise tact.

15. Drive carefully. That car you call "yours" is a bit of a death trap. It wasn't built to handle 80 + MPH. Actually, it wasn't built to handle you at all. And for a while, you make it your hobby to get into car accidents. Bad idea, dude. Bad idea.

16. You know your uncles who have that problem called "addiction?" Do you think they're happy? Do you know addiction issues run in families? Be careful here. It may not be the same issue those uncles have, but whatever it is could sneak up on you and really fuck up your life.

Here, I'll make it simple. If you start "indulging" in something a lot, and you start doing things you never thought you'd do, and you have to start justifying your behavior, and you start lying to cover it all up, all the while hating yourself more and more...well, that's addiction.

17. No matter what's happening during the moment, life continues. It goes up, it goes down, and you ride along with it. Try not to be too discouraged by the "down" times and try to enjoy the ride. Things could always be worse. Hey, look at me! So far, I have all my limbs and a decent brain and can still make farting noises with my armpits.

19. Get out and do things you wouldn't normally do. If you have an opportunity to explore, do it. Go on road trips. Play in the rain. Take dancing lessons. Learn Origami.

OK, scratch the Origami lessons. But maybe "balloon animal" lessons would be cool?

20. Set goals. Then meet them. Some should be small goals, like "I'm going to finish this chapter of Biology before the end of the night, even if I fall asleep 11 times doing it." Some should be larger goals like "I'm going to be a campus leader by running for X position." Set these goals based on your other scheduling requirements. You probably shouldn't join some 4-AM streaking club if you have an 8 AM class, for example.

21. No one in the world expects you to be perfect. So maybe you shouldn't expect it of yourself.

22. Finally, have fun. Smile and laugh. People like smiles and laughter. You have a tendency to take yourself too seriously. That's a bad thing. No need to make life harder than it is by taking yourself too seriously.

I've got to go now. Honestly, I could probably give you a thousand pieces of advice to follow but I'll stop at 22. That should take you a long way.

Look. Life is hard. The end. There's this concept that you've never been taught about "suffering gracefully." I know, it sounds like bullshit. But it isn't. You're going to suffer from time to time...suffering gracefully means taking the disappointments in stride, keeping things in perspective, sharing the disappointments with friends who love you, and being thankful for the things you're not suffering through.

And don't be afraid. Remember the good news at the beginning before I started to talk? You make it through all of this just fine.

Oh, one final thing. You do get married when you're older, and she's an absolute HOTTIE! So don't worry about ending up alone, or ending up with an ugly girl, or anything like that. Trust me, it all works out.

See you in the mirror in about 14 years.

Blessed are the forgetful

2006-06-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

"Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders." - Friedrich Nietzsche

It isn't often that a movie captivates me on so many levels like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I don't write about movies much in spite of my love of a well written show. It's hard to find a movie that can resonate inside. Machismo and explosions have their place, but there is an astounding lack of substance in movies these days. The substitution of form over substance is the order of the day.

I'm not going to tell you too much about the show. If you're a moody, emotional bitch (like me) then you'll like the show.

I admit, I was completely turned off by the title. It's just weird. But I've watched it about 10 times in the last 2 weeks.

I guess I got over the weird title.

"Tis Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

Or is it?

On the surface, that's the premise of this show. Would you erase all memories of a lost love if you could, make it so that they never existed? In the pain of a breakup, would you decide it's better to have never loved at all?

On subsequent viewings, I've noticed some deeper themes, points, and questions. Such as, if two people really are good together, if they really do enrich each other to the nth degree in spite of their dysfunctions and idiosyncracies, can that really be erased permanently?

Or if the pain of disappointment upon finding your significant other is actually NOT perfect is confronted directly, can it be overcome? Can it even actually serve to deepen a relationship?

This last question has special significance to me, and I believe it to be true. It certainly has been true in my marriage.

One of the most interesting aspects of this movie is that it focuses on five relationships in five stages of growth and destruction. During the primary viewing, I was captivated by the main relationship, the main focus of the story. Later, I started to look more at the other friendships and relationships in the story. Then I was able to watch it again and put it all into context. None of the characters are airbrushed into perfection...it is no typical Hollywood romance. It's one thing that makes it such a fascinating story.

And then there is the amazing cinemetography. It is told very well with the visuals alone.

The next time it's raining outside, and maybe a little chilly out, go out and rent this DVD. Maybe you're able to take more in at once than I am...but if you're not, watch it a couple of times. Watch it once to absorb the central story line and the cinematography. Then watch it again to check out all the other stuff that's going on.

Then sit down with a cup of tea and think about it.

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd." - Alexander Pope

Once a swimmer, always a swimmer

2006-05-31T12:43:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe today is the 31st of May.

Do you remember the excitement of coming to the end of May when you were in grade school? Though I'm 32, sometimes it seems that it hasn't been that long since I would giddily anticipate the end of the school year. The freedom of the summer laid out before me and my friends, the long days spent at the public pool barely out of reach.

I spent most of my summers at the local public pool in small town Illinois. We weren't a wealthy family and I didn't live in a "wealthy" town, so the idea of having a private pool seemed sort-of antisocial and elitist. Part of the fun of going to the public pool was seeing your friends (and, later in adolescence, seeing teenage girls in small swim suits). But there was always more to my love affair than friends and hormones.

I always loved pools, ever since I was old enough to drown. The smell of the chlorine, the feeling of the cool clear water on my skin...even the burn of the chemicals in my eyes was appealing. My hair would become bleached by the sun and made brittle by the chlorine. There was nothing better.

It seemed natural to me that I joined the summer swim team after 8th grade, though my parents were surprised. I was never an athletic child, so that (I'm sure) was part of the surprise. And I guess the fact that I was a really fat 8th grader also added to the shock. My mom was very concerned about me being seen in a speedo.

But I joined. Joined and, that first summer on the team, found out what consistently placing last in the heats felt like. It was discouraging...I'm not sure why I stuck with it. But I did, and I made it through that first season. Belly hanging over the tiny swim-team speedos and collecting purple 6th-place ribbons.

Then my growth spurt kicked in. The tubby kid in the purple speedos was no more.

I was a different me the next summer. Getting up at 6 am to do two hours of laps was no struggle, and often I would do a third hour of laps at 5 pm. I would sleep in my swim trunks so I could roll out of bed and onto my bike. My heart rate got to be so low (about 40 beats per minute) that my parents become concerned. I could swim 50 meters (down and back) underwater without breathing. I started having dreams that I could actually breath underwater, which rocked my world. The sixth place ribbons were replaced by first and second place ribbons, and I qualified for our divisional finals. I didn't get very far...those were some fast fuckers I was placed against. But that day at the divisional finals was one I'll never forget.

Nor could I ever forget the feeling of the ice-cold water at 6 am after a cool summer night. The dew would still be on the fields of corn and beans as I rode my bike to the pool. My skin would tingle those first couple of morning laps, and then my muscles would warm up. And soon I would find myself in the zone. I'd be swimming and swimming and lose track of time and distance. I'd just hear the sound of the water in my ears, the feeling of the water as it glided over my skin.

My last summer on the team I was 16. I was in the 16 - 18 age group now, and suddenly I was the slowest of the bunch again. I still enjoyed it...sometimes success or failure isn't measured by ribbons but by how much fun something is. But I won't lie; being unable to finish first took some of the fun out of the sport.

I can no longer swim 50 meters holding my breath. Young women with wet hair and a swim suit on still do it for me, but now I'm the creepy guy in the next lane instead of the handsome young swimmer.

But I'll always be a swimmer. I'll always love the feel of the cool water against my skin and the smell of the chlorine. And when I get in that pool, I'll always feel 15.

Jen's birthday...time for another story!

2006-05-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

Once again, it is J's Sister's birthday. She turns...old today.

I've been trying to think of another good story to tell about her, but all the ones I think of end up incriminating her in some way, shape, or form. I mean, she has always been "her own woman". Hard headed and determined. It's why she's such a kick-ass business-woman.

Things were "Her way or the highway" ever since she was a little girl, and things haven't changed much as she's grown. Take, for instance, her penchant for running away.

It seems that Jen has always been in a power struggle with my parents, from conception through High School graduation. If she had had her way, she would have been emancipated and living in an apartment in New York City by the time she was 7. While I was the son who missed his mommy after a week at Boy Scout Camp, she was the daughter who shrugged with indifference when mom and dad showed up to pick her up from horse camp.

"Did you miss us?" they'd ask.

"Sure. Yeah. Whatever." would be the reply.

"Whatever" became a very popular word in her vocabulary.

This power struggle was fairly one sided, at least until she started driving. Driving at the ripe old age of 13, I might add. Slightly ahead of society's accepted driving age but, like I said, she's her own woman.

Jen even tried to emancipate herself several times as a young girl by threatening to run away. I didn't understand why my big sis wanted to leave our family so badly and was more threatened than my parents were, to be sure.

"If you make me, I'll run away".

You gotta admire her, she was "plucky".

One night, my parents decided to call her bluff.

"Ok." My mom said. "Dad will help you pack and I'll make you a sandwich for your trip. You want peanut butter and jelly?"

"I mean it!" My sister yelled.

"I know, honey. So...Do you want peanut butter and jelly or something else?"

My sister stood and stared, trying to figure out what was going on. I ran to the family room and hid...if I wasn't there surely this wouldn't happen. Finely my sister responded "Yes, peanut butter and jelly!" and stormed to her room.

Mom went to the kitchen and dad went to her room to help her pack her little white suitcase with red stripes.

And me? Well, my mind was blown! What in the name of God was going on? Had my parents completely lost their minds? I was really starting to get worried now. What if my parents wanted to get rid of me next? Would they just go buy me a new sister? Dad liked to build things and tinker...maybe he'd make a trip down to the local hardware store, pick up some parts, and build a new one! And I'd never see my real sister again!

Good God, had the world completely gone nuts!?!!??

I think I started crying when dad helped Jen carry her suitcase down the stairs to the front door, prompting her to make sure she got her rain coat in case the weather turned bad. I was too overwhelmed to notice the thoroughly freaked out look on Jen's face.

She meekly said "I mean it. I'm running away..." as my mom brought her a paper bag with a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches inside.
"Ok, honey. Be careful. Make sure you look both ways before crossing the street. Send us a postcard when you get to wherever you're going..."

Dad opened the door and Jen walked outside into the night.

That was it for me. I ran back to the family room, buried my face in the sofa cushions and started bawling. I was never going to see her again! My mom tried to come comfort me but there was no comfort to be had. She was the one, after all, who had sold out and given in to my sister's threats. She even made sandwiches! SANDWICHES!!! Seriously, what the HELL was going on? I was doubting everything I knew to be real!

I didn't believe mom when she said she'd be back, that she couldn't go far. I called her a liar. I told her to get the hell away from me, that she had gone completely bonkers, that she was way out of line to let my sister go. There would be damnation and hellfire awaiting her at death.

I'm paraphrasing, of course. I was only 4 or 5.

After I calmed down, I went out to the kitchen to see what was going on and found my sister there. Eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She told me, matter of factly, that it was too cold out tonight and that she'd leave in the morning when it was brighter and warmer.

She was undefeated, merely set back. And I was traumatized for life...

Happy Birthday, sis! I love you!

RWO Rocks Sydney

2006-04-25T12:17:00.000-07:00

The lights go off at the Sydney Entertainment Centre as I stand off stage left, every nerve in my body vibrating with excitement. It's the first show of RWO's first international tour...the months of rehearsal and preparation are either going to pay off or we're going to embarrass ourselves horribly.

Either way Craig, Pip, Dale, and I are going to goof off and have fun on stage. I can't think about it too much right now...I'm solely focused on keeping Craig from passing out from excitement and nerves.

As the venue is steeped in darkness we can hear the crowd roar in anticipation and excitement. The enormous semi-transparent projection screen that serves as a stage curtain lights up with the image of StrongBad's monochromatic computer screen. StrongBad walks into the picture and sits down at his computer with his back to the audience to answer an e-mail. The crowd quiets down as he begins to type...

As StrongBad lifts his BMW lighter into the air at the end of the clip, the electronic background rhythm of "Clearly Opaque" (all but hidden on the CD) starts to loop. Pip, behind his drum kit, starts playing the jazz-influenced rhythm on top of it that starts the song, backlit with a strong spotlight that shows his silhouette on the screen as StrongBad's image fades. Dale comes in on the bass part, front lit by an orange spot in all his goateed glory. On a dare by Craig and I, he's wearing some lederhosen a German fan sent him after an offhand comment he made in an interview a couple of weeks ago. I don't think he's wearing underwear, either. We're going to have to burn those after tonight's show.

Thankfully, his image is eerily blurred by the screen in front of him. That's one goofy mother.

Craig comes in on the primary rhythm guitar part but remains dark, a shadow behind the screen. Standing a few inches behind the screen, I sing and growl the first verse. All goes dark (except this trippy image of a woman descending motionless into a watery abyss being projected on the screen) on the bridge that leads into the chorus and then...

An explosion of light as the curtain falls to the floor and we rip into the chorus with full force. The show has truly begun, for us as well as you.

I look down into third row, center, and see the woman who is ChickyBabe standing there with this enormous grin on her face. During Craig's solos I find her staring at him with what can only be described as "lust" in her eyes. She looks at me during one of his solos and raises her backstage pass (on a lanyard around her neck) toward me. With a smile, I look back and nod. It's going to be fun to read her review of the show on her blog the next day. And though I know I'll be exhausted after the show, I can't wait to meet her. I'm sure it will be a brief meeting...somehow, I know that she'll manage to get Craig alone. Still, it'll be good to meet.

To be continued backstage after the show...

Christmas '95, in Dayton

2006-04-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

You know Emily, it's funny. I can't hear Alannis Morissette's song "Ironic" without thinking of you.

You remember it, don't you? Walking down the streets of Dayton in late December with Whitney, singing the chorus in three-part harmony? Damn, we sounded good. Sure, it was cheesy. And it's never been one of my favorite songs, you know. I wonder how many times Alannis has been confronted by someone well-educated in English to tell her that indeed, it isn't really "ironic". More of an "unfortunate coincidence" than anything else.

But in this case it had nothing to do with the lyrics. Even songs that show no understanding of "irony" sound good with three-part harmony. We sounded like a regular Peter, Paula, and Mary. Man, did it feel good.

Look, I'm not trying to be melodramatic or anything, but does that memory ever cross your mind? Or can you only think about how much of a dick I was in my early 20s? Or maybe you don't think of me at all.

No matter the answer, I sure wish we were still in touch. I wish we could make each other laugh again...

As Defined by Pet Shop Boys

2006-04-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

This is probably going to come as a shock to those of you who only know that I'm recording a rock-oriented CD, but one of my favorite bands is Pet Shop Boys. Most people think of them as only Euro-Pop, which is certainly true. But they also write amazingly complex songs, both musically and lyrically. And they're weird and artistic in a way that shows everyone they don't take themselves too seriously. You get major points with me for being weird and silly and artistic.

I self-tagged myself on ChickyBabe's blog to answer these questions with song titles from my favorite band. So, here we go...

Favorite band: Pet Shop Boys

Are you male or female? Boy Strange

Describe yourself: Sexy Northerner

How do some people feel about you: Electricity; flamboyant; How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously?; So Hard

How do you feel about yourself: Being Boring

Describe your ex boyfriend / girlfriend: I Don't Know What You Want But I Can't Give It Anymore

Describe your current significant other: It Always Comes As A Surprise; Positive Role Model

Describe where you want to be: Closer to Heaven

Describe how you live: I Get Along

Describe how you love: I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind of Thing

What would you ask for if you had just one wish: I Want A Dog

Share a few words of wisdom: We All Feel Better In The Dark; Se a Vida E; It's Alright; Happiness Is An Option

Now say goodbye: Always On My Mind, J

The Trouble With Redheads

2006-03-03T14:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a post by The Dog's Name for this post idea. He's an amazing writer, and I highly recommend reading some of his posts.

Before going further, I need to tell y'all that I'm married to a redhead, and a wonderful redhead at that. Although she's not perfect, she's the closest to perfect that a guy could find. And she's only getting better, she really is.

The trouble with redheads is that they're so damn beautiful.

Part of it is the novelty factor, the fact that true redheads are few and far between. Shoot, other women think redheads are beautiful. Why else would so many women claim that they are "redheads" when clearly they are brunettes, or dirty blondes (referring to hair color of course, not sexual proclivities).

But there is a much cooler component to redheads that make them beautiful and sexy. Redheads , for the most part, have been made fun of most of their lives growing up. I've found that the "personality" factor in redheads is directly proportional to their fiery personalities and the fact that they had to be strong growing up. Simply put, redheads are not only beautiful, but very very cool. That's a dead sexy combination.

Red hair...porcelain skin...mischeivious smile...freckles...fiery personality...yes sir, the trouble with redheads is that they're so much trouble.

secret Lair

2006-03-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

No studio time tonight after all. I spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights this week working on various projects and could use a night off, away from the computer.

Not many people know this, but I am in possession of a small volcanic island in the pacific...you know, for those times when I just have to get away from the hustle and bustle of life in and around the soda fountain.

Of course, I've also built the requisite secret underground lair. It's just the thing one has to do. I don't make the rules...

It's a combination of "pimp-a-licious" and "functional". The problem with most underground lairs is that there is only really one secret underground lair design and construction company. Which has led to a certain laziness in progressive design. That, and most evil geniuses bent on world domination don't have much time or inclination to be directly involved in their lair development.

That's not the case with me, though. Anyone who has worked with me in any capacity knows that I'm a "hands-on" kind of guy. This is no different. It's my "lair away from lair", if you will, so it was important that I be involved in it's development.

And that leads us to the crux of this post. What, exactly, is in my secret underground lair?

For starters, there is a secret resort of sorts for my guests. What good is a secret underground lair if one can't entertain? Full suites, king-sized beds, LCD tvs, free movies on demand, fresh tropical fruit delivered daily. Both a shower and a tub...sometimes visiting evil geniuses just need a good soak at the end of a long day making demands of world leaders.

Then, of course, there are the conference facilities. Boring but necessary. And a very well-stocked (and well-staffed) kitchen and wine cellar. The chefs can pretty much make anything. Their bratwurst is amazing! but they also make a great rack of lamb in mint sauce. It just depends on my mood.

But what makes a truly great secret underground lair? Whatever I want, of course! I'm thinking bigger than "sharks with lasers." There'd be an amazing virtual reality room, which can simulate any situation in any environment. It's great for torturing prisoners by making them believe they are in the bowels of hell, or for simply taking a "virtual day trip" to Italy. I'm not an evil man and don't require much of the standard fare of the traditional secret underground lair. But I also realize that no lair is impenetrable, so it's important to have some defenses at my disposal.

There's a full recording studio, a full art studio (for visiting artists), and a full auditorium which can be used for pretty much any type of performance.

I have an awesome closet there with clothes for any occaision. If I need to sneak like a ninja and blend into the shadows of night in Los Angeles, I can dress as necessary. If I need to seduce a spy at a small bistro in Paris, I have 3-piece suits and expensive shoes. And, for those days of just hanging out on the island, I have a nice selection of Hawaiian shirts and board shorts.

There is no heliport or airstrip. In fact, there is only a very small patch of land where a helicopter could land, and that's only kept that way in case an emergency evacuation requiring non-standard transportation from the island was necessary. I can't give you too many details on how to get to and from the island, but you have to be physically present at the soda fountain for the trip to begin. It's complicated, but I've been able to use current technololgy to create a fourth dimension, allowing for a non-traditional form of transportation.

Pools, top telecommunication, a full recording studio...I've got it all there.
But the best part of the island? It's invisible! It can't be seen by the naked eye, by radar, or by satellite. Unless, of course, I choose to make it visible.
Which I shall do right now, for a very brief window of time. Want to see my secret lair on my secret island?

4 degrees 30'39.26 S
172 degrees 11'00.79 W

Hurry, before it's invisible again.

Allison's Moving

2006-02-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

In an effort to keep my one faithful reader, I've changed the formatting of the Soda Fountain back to it's previous state. Funny, but I consider this more of an eyesore than the updated one. It seems to me that if Blogger can accept HTML code, then I should be able to develop a completely unique skin for the Soda Fountain using Dreamweaver and import the code. That is, at least, my hope.

I think I told y'all early last year (in this post) about a dream I had in which Allison met me for coffee.

She's moving to LA, with her husband and new baby. She called me out of the blue about 3 weeks ago to tell me the news. I'm excited, but it's also weirding me out a little bit. It isn't that she's moving out that weirds me out, or even the dream. It isn't sexual tension, either.

Without making it overly complex, here is the issue. I always saw her as having the potential to be a great, great friend. The friendship never had the opportunity to be fully realized 10 years ago because I was quite the self-obsessed asshole, making very poor decisions, resisting maturity with an ease that defies definition.

I'd love for the friendship to have air to grow while she's out here. But the fact that we're grown and both married complicates things so much. I don't want to cause problems for either marriage in any way, shape, or form. I want to grow a friendship based on who we are now not who we were, who we thought we were, or how memories have distorted who the other was.

Patrick and Allison, welcome to LA. I hope the move went well.

No use crying over spilled mocha

2006-02-26T17:11:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in a funky little cafe in Santa Monica, the sun is out, my wife is writing letters and sipping her chai tea latte. I spilled half of my mocha, which is sad on so many levels. The people are weird, the food is "all natural" (which means it was harvested by some woman with hairy armpits in some roof-top garden right here in Santa Monica), and the tree-huggers are out in full force. Life is good.

It seems to be quite the weekend to go to funky places in Los Angeles. Last night I went to a bachelor party for CJ, the producer and engineer for my vocals on the RWO CD. It was at a place in downtown LA called the Cabana Club. The food was good, the atmosphere was very upscale and a little snooty, the bar was amazing, but the deserts were below par. J was very much out of place...I'm just not a very hip and trendy guy. It's kind-of fun to go watch people at these places, but I inevitably end up thinking "soooo...you're 30 and THIS is your life? Going to a bar and being pretentious with a bunch of beautiful people?"

Hey, what fun is life if you can't be quick to judge?

There is just this thing in LA where everyone tries to pretend to be someone else. Go figure, a town full of actors trying to be someone else. Who would've guessed?

A Formal Apology to Tom and Brad

2006-02-23T11:34:00.000-08:00

I remember getting excited in seventh grade about the release of Boston's third album, "Third Stage". Yes, I know how uncool that is. What can I say...I was a little geeky nerd in seventh grade. It's an extremely wimpy album, and it hasn't exactly stood up to the test of time. It's overproduced, cheesy, wuss-rock. It especially sucks in comparison to their first two albums, which are still pretty decent. They're not records that changed the face of the world or defined a generation or anything like that, but they're not bad at all. "More Than a Feeling" is a great pop song, with a great melody and an incredibly catchy hook.

Anyway, back to the "Third Stage" album. In the liner notes of the record, there was a description of why it took four years to make the album. I remember reading it and thinking "What a crock! There's no reason an album should take four years! It just sounds like a bunch of excuses!"
Consider this my formal apology to Tom Scholz and Brad Delp. I was awfully quick to judge.I started working on RWOs next CD at the beginning of 2003. Three years later, it's still not done. And it's certainly not going to be done by March first, the self-imposed deadline. I’ve come a long way in the last 30 days, but not far enough. Thank God for Guns N Roses, who have been working on their Chinese Democracy CD for 13 years. They make me look like I'm working at the speed of light!

Oh, one more thing. While I apologize for judging so harshly while in seventh grade, I can't accept responsibility for the fact that they put out such a crappy album. Mr. Schulz, you're a very smart guy. Most graduates of MIT are. And I've heard you're a perfectionist.

Um...so, this album was your idea of "Perfection"? That makes me very sad inside. So very, very sad.

Where are you?

2006-02-17T14:14:00.000-08:00

There's gotta be a record of you someplace
You've gotta be on somebody's books
The lowdown; picture of your face
your injured looks
the sacred and profane
pleasure and the pain
somewhere your fingerprints remain concrete
and it's your face I'm looking for
on every street

Lady killer, regulation tattoo
silver spurs on his heels
he says "what can I tell ya as I'm standing next to you?
She threw herself under my wheels."
It's a dangerous road
and a hazardous load
And the fireworks over Liberty explode in the heat
and it's your face I'm looking for
on every street

This three-chord symphony crashes into space
the moon is hanging upside down
I don't know why it is I'm still on the case;
it's a ravenous town
You still refuse to be traced
seems to me such a waste
and every victory has a taste that's bittersweet
and it's your face I'm looking for
on every street.

~Mark Knopfler
"On Every Street"

Back In Town

2005-12-19T16:42:00.000-08:00

*J is behind the counter today. If you're in a Christmas Ice-Cream type mood, we made some great homemade Peppermint Ice-Cream this morning before we opened. It's pretty good and the kids in town really like it.*

...and, one scoop of Peppermint Ice-Cream for you. Everything tastes better when it's homemade, don't you think?

You know, I've been asked that question a lot today. It seems everyone who stops in today wants to know where ''ve been! The second-most-popular question today is "why are you open today?"

Well, that last one's the easiest one to answer. I'm open because this is a great time of year to be open! All the kids are out of school, the college students are home for the next couple of weeks...The Soda Fountain's a great place for old friends to meet and talk. And I love this season! I love seeing everyone who stops in and says "hi". I love hearing the stories that are told, reflecting on the year that has passed, and I just love being here. It's warm, it's comfortable, it's familiar, it's safe. I don't have nearly as many bar brawls as the Corner Tavern across the street!

But the first question, the one everyone is dying to know, isn't as brief. I swear, it's like I'm Willy Wonka and I just started up my factory again.

Man, how cool would it be to have a glass elevator that could go anywhere?

Truthfully, I've just been busy with other pursuits. You know, I inherited this soda fountain from my grandfather. In fact, our family has owned the building that the Soda Fountain and all these other shops sit in for the better part of a century. The income I get from renting out the space ensures that I don't have to work this place full time. Plus, the fact that the Soda Fountain isn't always open has been part of the mystique of the place. My grandfather started the tradition of closing for months at a time when he got older and started traveling the world. I think they were his two loves, this soda fountain and travel.

Everyone knew when he was back in town from some far-off land. The butcher's paper he'd use to keep prying eyes away would come off of the windows, he'd fire up all the lights and spend 12 hours with us boys washing and mopping and making sure the place was spotless. We'd spend some time making a couple of fresh batches of ice creams and sodas, and open the next day. By the end of our clean-up day, kids and adults alike would peer through the front windows at us working away. They'd knock and smile and shout something about seeing us tomorrow when we were open.

The difference between my grandfather and I is that his absences were exciting. Some of the stories he told about his trip to India were awesome. And, I'm sure, quite embellished. But me? Well...

I've been in the studio. The most exciting part about it is the fact that it's been Capitol Record's studio in Los Angeles. But that's about it. Truthfully, I'm happy to be taking a little break from recording for the next week. Oh, I have my homework to do. After I close the shop each day, I have to go through and listen to each of the 10 songs and make notes about how I want to produce it, mix it. All that jazz. But it's also great to be here, be back in the old home town. It's really great to see you.

When am I closing again? January third, give or take. I know, I know. It's an awfully brief time. But the GOOD NEWS is that I've got some great treats this week! I have recording time already booked back in Los Angeles at the start of the new year.

But let's just enjoy the time we have together over the holidays, huh?

Want a cup of coffee to wash down the ice-cream? It's on the house...

2005 In Review

2005-12-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?

I snorkeled. It was really cool.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?

No…pretty much everyone who gave birth was very far away from me.

3. Did anyone close to you die?

No, it was the first year in a while that my friends all survived. Mostly because they stopped sky-diving with rabid pit-bulls.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?

The Wife and I went to Hawaii in September. There are just too many awesome memories of our time there, but the best was probably sea-kayaking.

5. Best thing you bought?

I spent way too much money on studio equipment this year but none of it was a mistake. Best purchases are my ProTools Mbox 2 and my new heavy-duty workhorse-of-a-computer in the studio.

6. Where did most of your money go?

I funded a study by university students of predicting earthquakes with the common household blender. It was expensive, with negligible results.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?

Stalking local movie starlets. I really slacked off this year.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?

Playing tuba in the courtyard of my apartment complex at 3 AM. My neighbors have NO sense of humor. I just couldn’t stop myself…

9. What kept you sane?

Music. Listening and playing. And a lot of therapy.

10. What drove you mad?

My boss. He’s kind-of a boob.

11. What made you celebrate?

Honestly? Just being alive. And my dreams make me celebrate.

12. What made you sad?

My loneliness.

13. How was your birthday this year?

It was fine. Nothing to jump up and slap grandma about, but it was fine.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?

Politics in California…well, they’re just plain bizarre. Get a bunch of people in one place who aren’t willing to take responsibility when they should, and you have California.

15. Were you in love in 2005?

Yes. Except when I wasn’t. But then I was again, so it's all good.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?

Mostly, I have everything that I need. The things that I want are inconsequential when I have what I need. Having said that, I’d like more job satisfaction. Oh, and continued progress on Artificial Heart, which is taking FOREVER to finish recording.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?

The year was pretty consistent, and it was consistently “good”. There are a lot of great dates but none of them stand out over the others. I spent a day at Capitol Records recording studio, which was an amazing experience.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?

Impossible for me to answer. Music is the air I breathe. A brief list of the songs that rocked my world in 2005:
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger – Daft Punk
Miracle – Foo Fighters
Such Great Heights – by both Iron and Wine as well as The Postal Service
You and I – Delirium
Jennifer’s Jacket – The Presidents of the United States of America

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?

Much happier, thank you. Seriously, this last year has been 10 times better than any year in recent memory.

20. Biggest achievement this year?

Every step forward with Rhymes With Orange is a new “Biggest Achievement”. Continued addiction recovery is quite an achievement as well.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?

Not being able to work with Trent Reznor or David Gilmour.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

Having my potential recognized at work with more challenging projects.

23. Best new person you met this year?

No one comes to mind…all my friends (old and new) are pretty damn awesome.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?

Sucking water into your car’s engine through an after-market air filter installed too low to the ground by the car’s previous owner is a very bad thing. Especially on a freeway on-ramp. In driving rain. With cars whizzing past. When the car was purchased less than 72 hours prior to this event.

Yeah, don’t do that. Try to avoid that at all costs, actually.

ChickyBabe Stops By the Pharmacy

2005-10-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

*the bell over the door jingles as a beautiful blonde steps into the pharmacy and towards the Soda Fountain*

“I knew I’d find you here on a rainy day like today” she said.

Oh, hey, ChickyBabe. How’s the unpacking coming along in your new house?

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. The rain makes me want to curl up on my couch and listen to some rainy-day CDs, but I moved my couch into my spare bedroom to make more space for the guests to mingle last night.”

Oh, hey, yeah. Thanks for inviting me to your little shindig! I think I told you last night that I’m a little shy and don’t go out with big groups of strangers often, but I had a really good time getting to know some of your neighbors. And it’s exciting to know that you’re within walking distance of the Soda Fountain. Maybe I can drop by sometime, see what’s going on over at your “nest”.

“Ooh, that was a BAD one, J. Hey, Soda Jerk, can I get a….oh! Hi, Craig! Can I get a latte?

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you last night, how’s the CD coming?”

Phillip and I had a three-hour rehearsal on Saturday that went really well. It looks like we’ll be recording the first weekend in November.

But I tell you, ChickyBabe, I only have nine songs that are currently ready to be recorded. I need to have at least ten. I have two more guitar riffs that could be developed into songs, but I’m running out of time. Phillip and I only have two more weekend of available rehearsal space before they close down for renovation. It’s an external deadline for which I hadn’t planned.

Basically, my task this week is to work those last two riffs into full songs before Saturday.

Throw on top of that the fact that I just changed recording platforms from Acid to the industry standard of ProTools, and I’m a little antsy. ProTools has about a billion times more power and better quality for what I’m doing, which is great and all, but I really wish I didn’t have to learn new software now and could just focus on recording.

Finally, I’m not sure my year-end bonus (which is funding the project) is going to be as much as I had hoped. We could run into financial issues when it comes time to press the discs for distribution. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it…

So, if there are days when you don’t see me at the Soda Fountain, it usually means I’m holed up in my home studio with an acoustic guitar working out chord progressions, melodies, harmonies, and lyrics.

What, is the latte not strong enough? It looks like you’re nodding off…get back to unpacking! Invite me over sometime…as long as it’s after March 15.

Downpour

2005-10-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

*the door to the pharmacy jingles and I head straight for the counter of the Soda Fountain*

Man! What a downpour out there! I’ll never understand why Californians are so afraid of the rain...I just love days like today.

I’m glad you’re here. I just spoke with my friend, the music producer. Man, am I naive.

Did you know that everyone uses pitch correction on vocals? Everyone. I’m a purist…this was a little shocking. Obviously, the flash-in-the-pan flavor-of-the-month artists use it. But I’d like to think that some of the bigger artists, who I respect, don’t use it. I was wrong. My friend gave me several examples of people who ooze talent and creativity and use pitch correction. People you’ve heard of, people who have been around and sold millions of albums.

It’ll be great to get his input on the project. Like anyone who takes great pride in his creativity, I’d much rather hear “this has so much potential” instead of “ummmm…all I can think to say is ‘no’.” Still, fresh perspective is always appreciated. And it’s a huge favor that he’s doing. Even if nothing comes of it in the sense that he connects me to everyone in the business and I get rich and famous, his feedback will allow me to further hone these songs.

I’m still as ambiguous about “fame and fortune” as ever, by the way. On the one hand, I’d love to be able to make some money off my talents. I’d love to be on stage, too. But the idea of touring endlessly for 10 years just to build a name and giving up all of the things that make my life so wonderful…well, that’s not very appealing.

Well, that’s about all I have time for today. Just wanted to stop by the Soda Fountain and say hi to the regulars. That, and they make the best Vanilla Cokes here.

Drink up!

Turn-offs (Part the Second)

2005-10-10T10:34:00.000-07:00

The awkward pause, lasting seconds but feeling like weeks, rings through the auditorium like only silence can. The crowd shifts in their seats as J stands uncomfortably on the stage, seemingly evaluating his decision to expose himself in front of so many people. A single cough pierces the silence.

Finally, J steps back to the microphone and clears his throat, saying:

3. Women with dark hair on their bodies where it shouldn’t be. This includes (but is not limited to) hairy armpits, mustaches, beards, hairy chests, hairy butts, hairy legs, and hairy feet. Now, my definition of “hairy” isn’t “a few hairs around the nipples.” I’m talking hairy like a Hobbit. Women with that much hair, well, they disturb me. Frighten me. And women that hairy generally don’t smell very good.

4. Speaking of which, intense body odor is a turn-off. Ladies, a little bit of “musk” during sexual congress is intoxicating. But sweating like you’re on a treadmill at the gym while giving off the accompanying odor is not enticing. If you’re going to shave to get rid of all that hair, you might as well shower and wash up, too.

Turn ons and turn offs (part the first)

2005-09-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

And so, we begin. The house lights dim, the audience shifts impatiently and anxiously in their seats. J takes center stage, under a single spotlight, and says into the microphone:

1. Wasps. Actually, the threat of being stung by any insect is a turn-off. Fear of injury just doesn't do it for me. Obviously, I’m not into S&M.

2. New-Age music. I don’t need to re-align my chakra, thanks.

You are the socket, I am the plug. Turn me on, baby. Turn me on.

2005-09-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

Back at the beginning of August, ChickyBabe invited me to tell the world my top ten turn-ons and turn-offs. A month and a half later, here we go.

Why so long to rise to the challenge, you ask? Well, it really boils down to one simple question; Do my parents and sister, who have this blog address and read on occasion, really need to know what turns me on? Good God, that’s a tough question to answer.

I mean, how badly do I want my family to know how perverted I am? Should I mention stuff about dressing up in girlie clothes? Or that I can only achieve release when thinking about dwarves and midgets?

Thankfully, those aren’t on any list I’ve ever made. So, we’re safe there. Still, how exposed do I want to be?

Well, tomorrow we begin. Why dish it out all at once? Especially given how verbose I can be.

Look out, world. I’m the cyber-guy standing on the cyber-street corner in the cyber-trench coat. Prepare to be awed.

Or, at least, slightly embarrassed. For me.

Hey, lay off. It’s cold out here.

More Pics for ChickyBabe

2005-09-11T01:48:00.000-07:00

ChickyBabe requested more pictures, so here you go. Hope you all enjoy.

Sunrise from the ship

Fanning Island - Paradise Found

Beach Hut

Babe and Boats

J's Feet in Paradise

Notes From Hawaii (Part the Fourth) - News from Da Cruze

2005-09-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been an interesting day at sea.

I played Monopoly for the first time today. My hunch was correct…I’m no better at managing Monopoly money than I am real money. You can kiss my big Community Chest, Mrs. Moneybags!

The excitement started when we were having lunch. We spotted something orange and floating in the distance, something that looked about the size of a life raft. We told our server, and he advised us that he was sure it was nothing to worry about. We ordered our food and took him at his word.

About 20 minutes later, we felt the ship start to lean to the starboard…and lean hard. Further than we should have been leaning. We heard china crashing and breaking in the kitchen, we heard heavy thuds from items falling to the floor on the deck above…it was intense. The servers all looked a little afraid; it appeared that no one really knew what was going on. I kept a clear head in case this really WAS “Titanic, Part II”, but I was sufficiently concerned.

I looked back at our wake and noticed we were turning, and turning rapidly. This ship turns on a dime, which is pretty impressive! It’s no leaky dingy! Anyway, it was at this point that I was sure we were going back to take a closer look at said floating orange object. It really did look like some sort of raft to us when we saw it at first.

It was nothing. It turns out it was some kind of discarded air tank. The captain came on the PA system later and told us that he had notified the proper authorities of the object. We turned around (much more slowly this time) and continued on our way.

The final news of note has to do with laundry. Or rather, how frugal I can be. There was a note on our bed with a mid-sized paper laundry bag when we got back from dinner; the note notified us that they would wash whatever we could fit into that bag for $25. Laundry on the ship is not cheap, but we need to have some done.

You expect me to accept a challenge like that without really going for it? They had no idea who they were dealing with! I rolled everything that needed washing into tight rolls and fit $54 worth of laundry into that bag. Suckers! Yeah, that’s right.

Notes From Hawaii - Part the Third

2005-09-08T14:52:00.000-07:00

All beaches are not created equal. My Wife and I went to the beach on Tuesday and floated for about an hour in the warm clear water. The sand was beautiful and soft, and the water was as clear as can be. It was absolutely amazing. A storm was coming across the mountains while we were floating there…it was blue above us, blue around us, and misty and gray over the mountains. Phenomenal. It absolutely took my breath away.

All X Files episodes are not created equal. I stayed up way too late on Tuesday night watching the X files episodes I’d never seen before…shortly after midnight I realized I should probably get some sleep. Even if it did mean the cockroaches and black oil on the X Files might attach me.

Tired J is a real treat for The Wife. Oops.

All euphemisms for sexual congress are not created equal. Yesterday we “tubed the ditch”. This actually wasn’t a euphemism in my vocabulary until the day trip we took yesterday.

The sugar plantations used a ditch system built by cheap Chinese labor in the late 1800s to irrigate the sugar plants. It was dug by hand, including tunneling through several mountains. No explosives were used…they used pick axes and shovels. They would put one team of laborers on one side of the mountain, another team on the other side, and tell them to dig towards each other. Often they wouldn’t meet exactly in the middle, so you’d have a couple of 90 degree turns in the pitch black tunnels.

We jumped in the cool water up the mountain, grabbed a couple of innertubes, and floated down for about an hour. It wasn’t as exciting as kayaking, jumping off cliffs, or sliding down waterfalls, but it was relaxing and fun. I got to be the punk of the group and splash everyone. Hey, if you can’t make friends then make enemies. That’s my motto, anyway.

Today, we’re at sea. The Wife is sleeping in the cabin, feeling a little bit sea sick. I thought I’d take the time to come up to the coffee bar and write y’all. I miss you, my loyal readers. I cry out your name in the middle of the night, waking myself up disoriented and not knowing where I am.

Come back to me. We’ll make love by the fireplace like we used to.

Notes From Hawaii - Part the Second

2005-09-05T23:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve just received word that I can now unveil the identity of my Very Good Friend, on one condition. As long as her new name is always capitalized, we can dispense with the name that makes us sound like a 40-something gay couple (not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Drum roll please…..My Very Good Friend is…..

My Wife.

I know, I know. For those of you out there that have been to the Soda Fountain frequently, you already knew this. I’m just excited because it’s less typing. And I sound Heterosexual again. That’s a bonus for me.

We’re two days into the cruise…and it’s been awesome! My Wife and I are having a great time.

We slept very well the first night. After the guy next door stopped pounding his wife like a mallard duck.

We got up the next morning, looked out our window, and there was Hilo. That’s the big island, or so I’m told. We threw on our swimsuits and were off to our first “excursion”, sea kayaking.

Yeah, it was pretty amazing. We paddled about a mile across the sea to a river and then paddled up the river to a waterfall. I’d love to show you pictures, but our digital camera isn’t waterproof. My Wife and I paddled behind the waterfall then out underneath it and back to the group. We didn’t capsize once…yeah, we’re the shit like that.

We jumped over the side of the kayak and into the cool fresh water…the water was clear and beautiful. A few of us climbed a rope up the side of the rocky cliff, made our way over to the waterfall, and actually slid down the waterfall one by one. Water parks in Southern California can’t compete with that…it was awesome!

Then My Wife and I climbed back up the rope (we were the only two this time) to actually jump off the cliff. We got up there, looked down, and thought….wow, this is pretty high. I took a deep breath and gave a good jump. I honestly tried not to scream like a little schoolgirl, but I’m not sure I was successful. Still, it was a rush. More importantly, it solidified our status in the group as “The Crazy Ones.”

Our whole bodies ached from kayaking, so we laid low the rest of yesterday.

This morning we arrived at Maui. My Wife and I went ashore and up into the mountains to…well, how do I put this…to (basically) hang from a zipline several hundred feet above the forest floor and zoom from point A to point B.

It was quite a rush. We had some very cool guides, and I was actually able to video a run on one of the lines for the viewers at home. It’s too big to put online, but maybe you can come over when we’re back in town and I’ll show it to you? You’ll have to wait a couple of days…we didn’t exactly leave the house “spotless” when we left.

Tonight we watched the sunset over Maui. It was stunning.

I can’t believe I’m here…

P.S. As odd as it is, I miss Lil’ Shorty, MILF, Pinky, Orange, Brick, and Dutch Girl from the office. Hope you all are well.

Notes from Hawaii - Part the First

2005-09-03T19:34:00.000-07:00

I didn’t actually believe there was a 5 AM. Oh, sure, I’d heard rumors. I’d just lumped it in with tales of the Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster. 5 AM. Please. Like anyone would do a thing like that…

Well, it’s all true. Not only does it exist but one can actually wake up at that time. Albeit with some difficulty, but still.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s only two places for which I would wake up at 5 AM. Hawaii, and my parents’ house in winter. I’m speculating (at this point) about Hawaii, but if it’s half as good as everyone says then it’s on the list.

And my parents’ house? Well, it’s comfortable, it’s got my family (at Christmastime, when we usually go), and it looks awesome decked out for Christmas. When there’s a blanket of snow on the ground, and a fire in the fireplace, and a good book to read…it’s like heaven.

So, yeah, 5 AM is not just a rumor. But you still can’t convince me that the Eiffel Tower is real. I was in Paris for 5 days and I didn’t see it ONCE. Not even on the horizon. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a bunch of happy horseshit dreamed up by the cheese-eating frogs to get the American tourists, who they hate so much but couldn’t live without, to come visit. If it weren’t for us, they’d all be blonde and speaking German anyway.*

Ah…I’m on vacation and I can still find time to be offensive to Yetis, Monsters, The French, and the German.

*I actually don’t feel this way about any of the aforementioned groups. Except the Yetis. I hear they smell pretty rank.

Highlights of the day:

Landing in Honolulu…and realizing it looks just like Van Nuys, California. At least, from the airport. Thankfully, it really was Hawaii.

Meeting Grumpy McBitchalot at the mandatory fire drill. He’s my new favorite curmudgeon. Seriously, dude. We’re all hot, we’ve all be traveling all day, we’re all tired. Shut your cakehole or I’ll hide your Viagra.

Realizing that you can eat and get up after the meal without paying. And no one chases after you. In fact, they encourage it.

Feeling like a kid again. Especially comparing our age to the average age of those on board.

Finally, hearing the man in the next cabin over pounding his wife. Ah, L’amore. I can’t wait to put a face with those moans.

Wish you were here.

T-Minues 19 hours and counting...

2005-09-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

We’re leaving the house at 6 am tomorrow morning…sheesh, that’s early.

I’ve found some interesting ways to hide my face for you blog readers so I can post pictures and update the blog during the trip. Should be fun.

I’ve created some initial promotional materials for the CD release next year. I believe in simplicity and lack of clutter. The fonts and logos are set in stone but I’m still working on the actual CD cover and images for the booklet.

Feel free to print and post. I need all the help I can get in creating initial interest in this project.

Anyway, that’s the news for now. I look forward to telling you about the coming adventures…

The Last Funeral

2005-08-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

We touched down in Manassas, VA on a cool autumn afternoon, finding that our luggage had been lost somewhere in transit. The plane is only so big…I volunteered to go look for it myself but apparently there were some security issues with that option. Karrie, who was there to bury her best friend, immediately went to pieces. As it was my job to be the “strong dependable one” on this trip, I asked her to sit and relax while I straightened everything out.

I wasn’t the only one at the lost luggage counter, a miniscule, muggy and hot office next to the baggage claim area that smelled as though someone had just urinated in the corner. I was assured our luggage would be sent to our hotel. Why anyone would take a job where they had to deal with irate individuals, assuring them that they would get their property back at some point in the future, is beyond me.

Manassas was beautifully decked out in all of it’s fall splendor. This was long before snipers were picking off people at local gas stations..the town seemed quiet, peaceful, and content. It started raining almost immediately, dampening both the town and the mood. A beautiful sadness seemed all around. Appropriate enough, given our reason for the trip.

Gabe was a wonderful friend to Karrie. They had known each other since childhood, could complete each other’s sentences, and always knew what the other was thinking. Gabe had come to see Karrie during our Senior Year fall break, and all three of us spent a good deal of time hanging out and laughing. She was engaged to be married and had recently celebrated her 21st birthday. She was the kind of woman who, after knowing her for 3 days, you felt like you had known her all your life.

On her drive home from our university with 3 of her friends, Gabe had fallen asleep at the wheel in the middle of the night. There were no survivors. It’s very surreal to receive a phone call in the middle of the night that a friend you had just made has just died.

I remember a lot of time was spent in the hotel, trying to comfort Karrie. Old friends from high school asked her to go bowling with them, which only made her feel more alone. I imagine it’s hard to bowl when the best friend you’ve ever had is being buried in two days. I remember buying beer and alcohol in an effort to numb Karrie and I…Karrie was experiencing pain that I could not comprehend and I was starting to crack. I was supposed to be the strong one…I couldn’t crack. We made love several times, finding comfort and solace in each other.

I remember visiting Gabe’s fiancé with Karrie. He was a military man, the kind who looked very strong and handsome in uniform. I let them talk and walked around his neighborhood, asking God questions in an attempt to make some sense out of the whole thing. I didn’t have a very strong relationship with God and didn’t really understand the universe outside of my very small, very personal world. God may have answered some of my questions…I’m not sure. If he did, I didn’t know how to understand his answers.

The funeral took place late on Sunday afternoon. I had to walk quickly out of the visitation for fear that the bile in my throat would be followed by the contents of my stomach. Outside the funeral parlor the stoic exterior cracked and I started sobbing. It was all too much. Karrie’s mother came out and comforted me.

Two months later, the child we had conceived on that trip was aborted. A year after that, Karrie and I were no longer speaking to each other.

Not a week goes by that I don’t think about the whole experience, about the daughter I never had, about the wonderful friend who was ultimately betrayed. I guess today is the day this week.

I haven’t been to a funeral since.

Happy Birthday to Me!!!!

2005-08-24T16:15:00.000-07:00

So, turning 32 wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. For some reason, “32” sounds so much more ominous to me than “30”. “30” was sort-of like “Hey! What a major milestone! Let’s celebrate!” Yes, with three exclamation marks.

“32” felt more like “Shit. I’m well into my 30s now. How did I get this fat? Some of my friends are making six digits…what have I been doing with my life?” Notice the absence of exclamation marks.

But I certainly made the most of such a somber occasion. Some of the highlights of my day were:

I slept in and went to work a little late. Because it was my birthday.

I put in my time at work doing pretty much nothing. Again, because it was my birthday.

I ate ice cream cake at work and played pool. Gotta love having a pool table at work.

I went home and took a nap. I imagine I’ll nap the majority of my remaining days on earth…might as well start now.

I ate an amazing dinner prepared by my Very Good Friend.

My Very Good Friend and I engaged in some libido-satisfying activities.

So, all in all, a pretty good day. Given the fact that I’m really old now.

Your cell phone is about to become a suppository

2005-08-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

Why can’t phones just ring anymore? I swear, my office sounds like a fucking video arcade stuck in 1986.

When did phones become mini-orchestras? Phones no longer ring, they play a theme. Unless you’re in the porn industry…then they moan. Yes, you can actually buy “moan tones” from adult stars. Why would someone do this to their phone, to their friends? I don’t need to know how big a pervert you are by hearing your phone moan. I’ve got a pretty good idea already.

Personally, I’m all for cell phones not ringing at all. They’re small enough to keep on your person at all times; just let them vibrate. They CERTAINLY don’t need to ring at the phone’s highest volume. As fond as I am of Beethoven’s Fifth or the theme from The Sting, I don’t need to hear a cheesy silicon rendition of it every 15 minutes. Yes, Linda, I’m talking to you.

For that matter, why do we need to be in touch all the time, anyway? People, we learned the concept of “Object Permanence” when we were toddlers. You know, just because something is out of sight doesn’t mean it no longer exists. When I was growing up, if you couldn’t be instantly reached then….well, then I guess we’d just have to talk later.

I have to go. My phone is playing “Drop It Like It’s Hot”. Pimpin’ ain’t easy but it pays the bills.

T-minus 23 days and counting

2005-08-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

What does the whole “T-minus” thing mean, anyway? Anyone here work for NASA?

At any rate, we depart for Hawaii in 23 days. It’s our first vacation together, and we’ll be trapped together on a traveling ship for eleven days. It’s pretty cool. From a horn-dog point of view, it certainly works to my advantage. I mean, there are only so many places she can run before I corner her and she has to…kiss me.

I’m not telling you to brag. Alright, I’m telling you to brag a little bit. They have an internet café on board, and I’ll have my digital camera and laptop. Obviously, there will be plenty for my Very Good Friend and I to do during which photo taking would be wholly inappropriate. You know, like snorkeling.

(Sheesh, you all have such dirty minds.)

But there will be plenty of “photo ops”, I’m sure. It will be fun coming up with creative ways to hide my face in the pictures. You know, sort of like on Charlie’s Angels, where you never see actually see Charlie. Not that it mattered to ME if I saw Charlie’s face, what with all the T&A around.

The bad news is that I’ll be very busy the next couple of weeks and don’t know how often I’ll be able to write. I have volunteer duty at the Animal Shelter this Saturday, which is going to be a blast.

Next Friday, We’ve got great seats to see Ben Folds in concert.

Then, the week after that, I turn 32. I invite you to pour one out for your homey in Los Angeles.

On the weekend of the 26th the Comedy Sportz Olympics are in Los Angeles, and I’m trying to secure tickets for that. I always bring a glass of milk to those things so I can have the juvenile thrill of shooting it out my nose. You should try it sometime. Really lubes up the sinuses too.

Then, the weekend after that, it’s off to the only U.S. state to my west.

No, I won’t be packing my Speedo. I don’t care how much you’re dying to see me in it.

Guardian Angel

2005-07-25T11:51:00.000-07:00

It’s funny, but I can’t remember her name. If I could draw I could show you exactly what she looked like but I don’t remember her name. She had an uncommon beauty to her. Not beautiful in the classical sense, but the freckles in her irises made her eyes dance with vitality. The first time she looked at me she smiled with her entire face, her eyes dancing as if to let me in on her private joke.

I fell in love. It was that simple. I had never believed in love at first sight, but here I was. Fast forward several days and I knew I had to spend my life with her. Shortly after that realization the trouble began.

We were being followed, chased, hunted. She asked me several times if I had done something to piss these people off, but my answer was always the same. I had never met these people, I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, I only wanted to get away. It was the truth, you know. Those piercing eyes read my honesty for what it was but showed no fear. Instead, there was peace in them. This time those freckles imbued me with a sense of calm. Her private laughter was subdued but those eyes still shone bright.

I mistakenly thought the police could help. I learned quickly how wrong I was when she and I had to flee them. Below the fear I was impressed at how quickly she could run. It was almost as if her feet didn’t touch the ground. Not that I had a chance to look…I was too busy diving into the driver’s seat and getting us out of harm’s way. And yet, she was still calm. I wanted nothing more than for this all to be over so I could hold her and be held by her, to feel her against me. Though I could see our future in her eyes I couldn’t imagine how it would become a reality with this symphony of turmoil surrounding us.

We caught our breath behind a building, sitting for 10 or 15 minutes. My fear was taking control; I was drowning in it. She got out of the car and peeked around the corner of the building, returning with the news that they were advancing on us. For the first time, I saw sorrow in those eyes. Not fear, not panic, just the tiniest bit of sorrow.

“Get out of the car” she told me. “Everything is going to be fine. Trust your gut and make your feet move when you know you should run.” The sadness betrayed her, but I had to trust her. I had ceased being in control of the situation ages ago (Hours? Days? How long had we been running?), and I had no other option but to trust her.

I was standing by the back wall of the building, my back pressed against the bricks, when the engine screamed to life and I heard the tires squeal. I saw her rapidly accelerating towards our enemies, hitting several as she sped forward. Her impact into their vehicles sent our car flying into the air. It corkscrewed upside down, landed on the roof, and disappeared in flames.

I ran, but not far.

The firemen arrived shortly, and doused the charred wreck that held her. The police had scattered, as had our pursuers. The tall fireman in the bright yellow slicker approached the driver’s side door as I came out of hiding and approached the scene. He pulled her limp and damaged body from the wreckage. I cried until my world was obscured by the salt-water lens. It was raining and dark, outside and inside.

He stepped forward towards me with her draped over her arms, a grim look on his face. He held her as we stood looking at each other. His eyes pierced me and I couldn’t look away. I tried, believe me. I wanted to climb inside myself and hide from this horrid scene but his eyes held me firmly in place. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the skin on her burnt face repair itself as if it was melting back in place. Finally he let go of me and our eyes looked down on her.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me again with her entire face. She was beaming, the light she radiated hurting my eyes. I closed them for a brief moment, and when I opened them again I was bathed in the sunlight shining through the bedroom window.

(Disclaimer: I have no idea who the subject of this photograph is but found her while doing an image search on the web. She closely represents the woman in my dream.)

What a Saturday!

2005-07-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

Diary posts are pretty narcissistic and self-indulgent.

I guess I’m feeling narcissistic and self-indulgent. Consider yourself forewarned. I’ll try to exercise brevity.

On Saturday morning I had an appointment with the Burbank Police Department. It’s a nice place, as long as you’re not going there in handcuffs. Which I wasn’t. I was there to meet with Detective Spears. I’m sorry to report that she looks nothing like Brittney. I don’t even think they’re related. Imagine my sadness at finding this out.

Still, I had business to take care of. I got my picture taken and pressed my right index finger firmly on the fingerprint pad. And then, it was done.

I had my new badge for the Burbank Animal Shelter. Now I can finally play with the dogs! It’s good to volunteer.

After I left the police station a free man (I went in as a free man too, but that makes it less dramatic) I went and picked up Phillip the drummer. Now, I was nervous. As you know, we were going to work on drum arrangements for the Rhymes with Orange CD. Some of the guitar parts were recorded over a year ago, and the last time I played in front of anyone else was in October of 2001. That’s about 28 years in dog years.

We got to the space and set up the equipment. I didn’t quite remember how to lead a band at first, but it came back to me in short order. Phillip was driven to learn, and before I knew it we were both dripping in sweat. He’d toss an idea in to the drum part, it would work or it wouldn’t, we’d take a quick break to discuss it, he’d toss off a quick count of four and we’d be off jamming through the song again.

It was exhilarating! The nerves faded away like they always do. At first it was tough to make eye contact with Phillip, partly because he’s one of the shaggiest guys I’ve ever met and partly because I was afraid I’d see him mouth the words “this music is shit!” at me. Then I realized I needed to give him cues, and the best way to do that was to look at him.

For the first time in years, I felt the blood of a musician flow through my veins. There was no fear, no self-consciousness and I felt alive like only a musician can. The heat of the rehearsal room couldn’t touch me. The small stage we were on held my entire world.

We went back t0 Phillips house, where the rest of his family was cutting into a banana cream pie. They invited me in, and I swear it was like I was back home in the Midwest. A family sitting down for an afternoon snack, including the baby. Phillip’s father, who has produced a lot of music for a lot of famous musicians and bands, asked Phillip what the music was like. Phillip rattled off the names of a few band that I had never heard of, at which point his father arched his eyebrows, looked at me, and said “I’d be very interested in hearing your work sometime.”

I tried really hard not to shit my pants.

That, my friend, is what I call a very good Saturday.

House of Many Smells # 543

2005-07-22T14:06:00.000-07:00

I submitted all of the paperwork for my new passport today. In triplicate. Stamped by a Notary Republic. There’s an ad on a local radio station that some Notary Public’s will make $100,000 dollars this year. I’m thinking the one at the post office isn’t pulling down six figures. Just a hunch…

My Very Good Friend and I are going on an eleven-day cruise around the Hawaiian Islands in September to celebrate our wedding anniversary and as a honeymoon. I have more money in my front pocket now than I had in my bank account when we got married, hence the delayed honeymoon. Anticipating that my CD will go triple-platinum and all, we decided now is the time to book that trip. Well…actually we’ve saved some and we have some bonus money coming to us that will pay for the trip. But if my CD DOES go triple-platinum, we’ll probably take another cruise.

I think going to the post office is a very interesting experience; It fits in the category of “House of Many Smells.” There are good and bad Houses of Many Smells; this one was very ripe, dare I say rancorous, today. I felt a little embarrassed because I smelled clean and freshly-bathed. I was definitely an outsider, one of those lucky few in Los Angeles who can afford running water AND deodorant. I am one of the blessed.

The post office is like a big stinking ethnic melting pot. I bet when the founders of our great nation thought of the concept of the Great American Melting Pot they didn’t consider the smell. Which is unfortunate for the rest of us.

There have been no Rhymes With Orange updates lately. Why, you ask, have I been keeping all of my loyal fans (well…loyal fan, anyway) in the dark about the most recent goings on in the studio? Mostly because there hasn’t been much to report. I have a job, people. What do you want from me?

But tomorrow is going to be a very exciting day for Rhymes with Orange. We’ve rented a rehearsal space in downtown Los Angeles in which we (Phillip and I) will be working on drum arrangements. Including the arrangements for FOUR (count ‘em, F-O-U-R) new tunes. These new tunes will take the place of some of the “weaker” songs on the CD. In other words, it’s going to wind up being a strong, powerful, emotional tour of force.

When we get around to releasing it. Now that this year is half over, and Craig is traveling so much between Minneapolis and Sacramento, I’m very afraid that it’s not going to be done in December. Maybe if some of you out there (I know you’re there lurking) write and tell J and Craig how absolutely stoked you are about the imminent release of “Artificial Heart”, it’ll light the fire under our collective asses to sacrifice sleeping and eating to really push forward.

Mail a pair of lacy undergarments to Craig to really seal the deal.

Unless you’re a man. That weirds him out.

Dreaming my Dreams

2005-07-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

I keep having this dream that I am hired to do a late-night radio show on Sunday night. After about a month I forget that I have that commitment and just stop showing up. Two or Three months go by and then I suddenly remember that I was supposed to do this radio show this whole time.

It’s sort of like dreaming I’m at work with no pants on, but without the part where all the women swoon over how well endowed I am and feed me grapes.

Two nights ago, I dreamed I was in a talent show with Craig (the other guy in Rhymes with Orange), Phillip (they guy who’s doing session drumming for Rhymes with Orange) and Richard Wright (the keyboardist for Pink Floyd). About a year ago, I recorded a cover of Pink Floyd’s song “Time” with more of a pop single approach to it. We decided to play it in the talent show, and everyone LOVED it.

Data Jockey when my eyes are open, rock star when my eyes are closed.

Things I wish I had learned from Mr. Rogers

2005-07-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of Mr. Rogers speaking to children in universally known and accepted sign language. Yes, other cultures have different ways of getting this message across, but this is probably the most widely accepted gesture.

And it got me thinking…what are some other grossly inappropriate lessons that Seseme Street or Mr. Rogers could have taught? Here are but a few thoughts I had on the subject.

They should have taught us that while it’s true that it IS possible to be anything, even the president or an astronaut, the world also needs fast food employees and middle management. Odds are that you’ll be the latter no matter how hard you shoot for the former.

That’s another thing that could have been taught; gambling. True, you wouldn’t be able to get very advanced, but it would have been nice to know the skills involved in bluffing. Hell, that would come into play on a daily basis as a child! Oh, the childhood success I never knew due to my lack of bluffing skills. I mean, which would have been more valuable as a white boy in a small Midwestern town, saying “open” and “close” in Spanish or knowing how to bluff?

I rest my case.

I also think they should have taught us that we should keep the opposite gender in the “icky” category for as long as possible. Think about how many problems were caused by the opposite sex in high school and college? If they were icky through college, teen pregnancy would be down and students would get much higher grades! Think of how many times you neglected studies because you were trying to get into someone’s pants.

What, was that just me? Really? Well, huh.

Yes, Public Television has failed the youth of our great nation. All except Mr. Rogers. He was obviously giving much-needed lessons in getting your point across clearly and concisely.

Stupid Toy

2005-07-14T11:31:00.001-07:00

Our office passed out modified “Rubik’s Cubes” to the employees here a week ago to encourage problem solving and creative thinking. Modified, meaning they have several “success” words printed on the different faces.

Do we not have enough frustrations with work as it is? As far back as my memory serves, there has never been any fun associated with Rubik’s Cubes. Oh, sure, maybe for those few guys in the 80s who could solve it in under 10 seconds. Incidentally, has anyone heard from any of these guys lately? Or are they off living in some remote corner of the world? Maybe sharing a cabin with Bobby Fischer…

Have any of you had one of these things? More importantly, have any of you solved it? I mean, legitimately solved it? Sure, you can peel this stickers off and put them back on so that it looks like you figured it out. With a screwdriver, you can pry it apart and re-attach the pieces to show off your “victory” over the stupid little plastic beast.

Indeed, this Devil Toy has caused more harm than good, causing panic attacks and anxiety the world around. I’m convinced this latest gesture of “fun” from the company is really an attempt at mind control.

I’m not falling for it.

STAND STRONG, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! DON’T LET THE RUBIK’S CUBE MAN HOLD YOU DOWN!

I’m thinking I may need to drink heavily this weekend.

Guest-Writing post

2005-07-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

I was honored to receive the request to participate in the ChickyBabe Challenge about a week and a half ago. I just recieved word that my entry has been posted...go to The Chicken or the Egg to see what I wrote as I slipped into the skin of someone of the opposite gender, thousands of miles away, who I have never met...

2005-07-08T17:26:00.000-07:00

Well, the day is finally here. My sister arrives tonight.

Many preparations have been made during the last several days. Groceries have been purchased. The carpet has been cleaned. We even dusted! Such royal treatment, I know. I guess I just want her to feel comfortable…you know, to increase the likelihood that she’ll come to visit again. Seeing her once a year over the holidays just isn’t enough.

Of course, I may be singing another tune at the end of her visit. I figure, it will either go one of two ways; we’ll either connect better than we have before and have a great time together, or we’ll fight like brothers and sisters sometimes do and I’ll I won’t even wait for the plane to take off before I peel out of the airport parking lot at the end of her visit.

I’m pretty confident it will be the former, not that latter.

Tonight we’re going to a comedy club that I’ve been to a couple of times and really enjoy. Tomorrow we’re going horseback riding in the Santa Monica Mountains, overlooking the Pacific.

Sunday or Monday we’ll probably go to an amusement park and ride roller coasters. We have some great roller coasters in Southern California, so if we choose to do that we’ll have a good time.

Bottom line: I should have some good stories to tell during the next couple of weeks. Looking forward to getting back into blogging, maybe rebuilding my reader base a little?

And I'll leave you with a joke:

Q. What's the least-used sentence in the English language?
A. "Isn't that the banjo player's Porsche?"

Countdown to My Sister's Visit

2005-07-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

It’s been a very long time since I’ve posted…I’ve found it hard to make time for this very important form of expression. A friend of mine asked me to be a guest writer on a blog of theirs, and that was very fun but taxing. It’s hard to slip into someone’s persona, especially someone who is a long distance friend who I’ve never met in person. I’ve been asked to not disclose any further information until it’s posted. At that time, I’ll include a link to my guest-writing post.

Three days, and my sister arrives for her visit. You remember her from an earlier post in May, don’t you? She’s the one who wouldn’t let me walk with her to or from school yet always willing to look out for me and protect me.

It’s been about 5 years since she’s been out to California to see me, and has never been to the new apartment when I moved into Los Angeles. I’m excited beyond belief! Even the last time she came out, we didn’t get along that well. I was fighting maturity quite a bit. That’s a polite way to put it, anyway. I think we got into our first argument on the way back to my place from the airport. We had very little in common, and she was appalled by some poor financial decisions I had made recently. Not that I blame her…I was an idiot.

But these days, she and I have more in common. We’ve grown closer, even though we’re still thousands of miles away from each other. She’s still a jock and I’m still the sensitive artist, but we’ve come to a greater understanding (and appreciation) of each other in recent years. Plus we’ve both mellowed out a bit. It’s a great feeling when a sibling who you never had much in common with becomes a friend, an equal.

So, Sis, if by chance you’re reading this, I’m so excited about your visit. Recently it’s been a little difficult to get to sleep because I’m so excited! While I may never understand your need to ride 50 miles on your bicycle on a Saturday morning, and you may never understand my need to express myself through music, I’ll always love you as only a little brother can. And we’re going to have a blast during your visit!

Just don’t make me walk half a block behind you as we walk down Ventura Boulevard.

An Open Letter to Tom Cruise

2005-06-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Tom,

Most of the time, I try to be creative and fun to read. But every once in a while I feel compelled to write something more serious. You, Sir, have compelled me to post this letter to you.

I’m a Christian, though I don’t believe in most organized religion. I know from experience that faith is best examined with skepticism and a critical eye. A person can’t be a lemming. Look at the whole picture. No person is impervious to greed, corruption, and selfishness. Well, ok, one person was (according to my faith).

I’m not jumping on the bandwagon…there are plenty of sites that are amused by what’s going on, what you’re doing these days. As someone who is actually concerned for your well being, I’m actually taking a more serious tone. I’m not coming into this discussion uneducated. I have a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology (including the history of), a Master’s in Education with an emphasis in counseling, and a strong faith of my own. I’m NOT writing to “convert” or “witness you.” You’re walking your own path…I respect that. I’m writing in the hopes that you’ll do some research on your own. But I’m going to give you a few things that I’ve learned about this cult over the past 10 years. Verify it on your own. Don’t take it face value.

Let’s start with a brief overview of what Scientology boils down to: This is taken from Clambake.org.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

75 million years ago there was an alien galactic ruler named Xenu. Xenu was in charge of all the planets in this part of the galaxy including our own planet Earth, except in those days it was called Teegeeack.

Xenu had a problem. All of the 76 planets he controlled were overpopulated. Each planet had on average 178 billion people. He wanted to get rid of all the overpopulation so he had a plan.

Xenu took over complete control with the help of renegades to defeat the good people and the Loyal Officers. Then with the help of psychiatrists he called in billions of people for income tax inspections where they were instead given injections of alcohol and glycol mixed to paralyze them. Then they were put into space planes.

These space planes then flew to planet Earth where the paralyzed people were stacked around the bases of volcanoes in the hundreds of billions. When they had finished stacking them, H-bombs were lowered into the volcanoes. Xenu then detonated all the H-bombs at the same time and everyone was killed.

The story doesn't end there though. Since everyone has a soul (called a "thetan" in this story) then you have to trick souls into not coming back again. So while the hundreds of billions of souls were being blown around by the nuclear winds he had special electronic traps that caught all the souls in electronic beams.

After he had captured all these souls he had them packed into boxes and taken to a few huge cinemas. There all the souls had to spend days watching special 3D motion pictures that told them what life should be like and many confusing things. In this film they were shown false pictures and told they were God, The Devil and Christ. In the story this process is called "implanting".

When the films ended and the souls left the cinema these souls started to stick together because since they had all seen the same film they thought they were the same people. They clustered in groups of a few thousand. Now because there were only a few living bodies left they stayed as clusters and inhabited these bodies.

As for Xenu, the Loyal Officers finally overthrew him and they locked him away in a mountain on one of the planets. He is kept in by a force-field powered by an eternal battery and Xenu is still alive today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

L. Ron Hubbard late in 1952 wrote a book called What To Audit, later renamed The History Of Man. The book is still sold by the Church Of Scientology and it contains many of the basic beliefs of the Church Of Scientology. In the introduction Mr. Hubbard claimed it was "a cold blooded look at your last 60 trillion years." He also claimed his book finally proved the theory of evolution.

Hubbard sought to explain that the human body was occupied by both a thetan and a 'genetic entity', or GE, a sort of low-grade soul located more or less in the centre of the body. To underpin his new science, Hubbard created an entire cosmology, the essence of which was that the true self of an individual was an immortal, omniscient and omnipotent entity called a 'thetan'. In existence before the beginning of time, thetans picked up and discarded millions of bodies over trillions of years.

The GE was once 'an anthropoid in the deep forests of forgotten continents or a mollusc seeking to survive on the shore of some lost sea'. The discovery of the GE (Hubbard hailed every fanciful new idea as a 'discovery') 'makes it possible at last to vindicate the theory of evolution proposed by Darwin'.

Much of the book was devoted to a re-working of evolution, starting with 'an atom, complete with electronic rings' after which came cosmic impact producing a 'photon converter', the first single-cell creature, then seaweed, jellyfish and the clam.

Mr. Cruise, read the above again. According to Mr. Hubbard, the beliefs of Scientology are based on his assertion that humans are evolved from clams. And, prior to that, jellyfish. And, prior to that, seaweed.

Please feel free to respond with the scientific studies that show this delineation. After all, if you’ve learned so much about the history of Psychology (as asserted in your appearance with Matt Lauer), you must have access to resources that can prove this assertion. For that matter, there should be fossilized evidence showing the burial of all of those aliens 75 Million years ago. If we can find dinosaur fossils, surely we can find these as well.

Now, let’s assume that you’ve done your research on the history of Psychology, the brain, the mind, physiology of the brain and behavior, and the differences between different forms of therapy (for example, Adlerian vs. Fruedian therapy). It seems like a little much for you to have studied and understood objectively, given your high school education and time spent working in the film industry (as opposed to time spent in medical school). But I’ll be kind and give you the benefit of the doubt that you are well-read in the areas above.

Heck, I’ll even throw in that you have read the reams of psychopharmaceutical research conducted by drug companies as well as independent researchers. You haven’t claimed as much, simply stating that you know the history of Psychology and we don’t. But I’m a generous man.

In all of your research (having read all of the case studies, all of the research, all of the clinical studies), how can you make a blanket assertion that psychiatry and psychology are harmful to everyone, all the time? Not every psychiatrist takes advantage of his patients. Not even most of them. As medical doctors, they have to take an oath that they will do no harm. Do your Scientologists take that oath? If so, where? Which public officer officiates the ceremony? Please let me know.

I happen to know a few psychologists. I haven’t been in therapy with all of them, no. They generally help a person as best they can and are open to terminating treatment if either party states that they want to. As I understand it, this isn’t an option in Scientology.

Do you know where Scientologist’s historical disdain for mental health treatments and providers stems from? According to an article based on an interview that Barbara Klowdan gave to Russell Miller on July 28 1986 regarding L. Ron Hubbard:

In 1950, he took a lover - Barbara Klowdan, a 20-year-old psychology major. She soon recognized that he was, in her words, "a deeply disturbed man" who displayed all the symptoms of "a manic depressive with paranoid tendencies." She later recalled:

"He was highly paranoid and would be rushing along the street with me and I would say, "Why are you walking so fast?" He'd look over his shoulder and say, "Don't you know what it's like to be a target?" At all times he thought the American Psychological Association and the American Medical Association and CIA had hit men after him... he thought everyone was after him. This was long before the IRS was after him. No one was after him at that time, but he certainly had delusions.

When I went to work for him he had hired somebody who had been in the police department. He gave everyone who worked for him a lie detector test asking if he had designs on his life."

Tom, this is your leader, the man who "created" your religion. Think critically here for a moment. Is this someone whose writing should be the basis of a religion?

One last thing, Tom, and then I’ll let you get back to promoting your new film.

In October of 1948, L. Ron Hubbard wrote to the Veteran’s Administration requesting Psychiatric help. I quote from his letter:

“I was placed on certain medication back east and have continued it at my own expense.

After trying and failing for two years to regain my equilibrium in civil life, I am utterly unable to approach anything like my own competence. My last physician informed me that it might be very helpful if I were to be examined and perhaps treated psychiatrically or even by a psycho-analyst. Toward the end of my service I avoided out of pride any mental examinations, hoping that time would balance a mind which I had every reason to suppose was seriously affected. I cannot account for nor rise above long periods of moroseness and suicidal inclinations, and have newly come to realize that I must first triumph above this before I can hope to rehabilitate myself at all. I cannot leave school or what little work I am doing for hospitalization due to many obligations, but I feel I might be treated outside, possibly with success. I cannot, myself, afford such treatment.

Would you please help me?

Sincerely,
L. Ron Hubbard

It is not known if he received treatment. But Tom, the founder of your religion, which is adamant that psychiatry is evil, sought psychiatric treatment.

It’s good to examine these things with discernment and a critical eye, isn’t it?

Sincerely,

Sources:

www.scientology.org

www.xenu.net

www.factnet.org

www.scientologywatch.org

www.suppressiveperson.org/

www.spaink.net

www.snafu.de/~tilman/

www.narconon-exposed.org

www.studytech.org

www.modemac.com

www.truthaboutscientology.com

www.scientology-lies.com

www.lermanet.com

www.freedomofmind.com

www.altreligionscientology.org

www.xenutv.com

Motorcycles, Part the first

2005-06-24T11:16:00.000-07:00

Until recently, I’ve always had a thing against motorcycles. When I was a kid, I split my chin open 8 times. At least, I think 8 is the “official” number. Whatever…I was always landing on my face. Yes, I have arms. I’m not typing this with my nose. I guess I fell faster than most kids…that’s the only explanation I have for why my arms couldn’t get out in front of me fast enough.

One of the last times I split my chin open I was on my 10 speed and was moving pretty fast on the way to the public pool. My family was packing to get ready for a two-week trip to Colorado, and I think my mom wanted me out of the way for the afternoon. So she sent me to the pool. I was riding with one of my friends when we decided to race to the end of the supermarket parking lot (a shortcut to the pool). The old lady in the sedan didn’t know we were coming, backed out, and I smacked into her car head-on.

I always figured that if I could do that kind of damage to my body on a 10-speed I imagine traveling somewhere on a powered bike would end me up in traction for months. Hence, the lack of interest in motorcycles. Guitars and drums were much safer for me.

Lately that attitude has changed. Riding a motorcycle well has become an art to me. I have a friend who rides a Harley with his wife, and it’s the coolest thing ever. I’m into a little bit of risk now, and the possibility of pain no longer scares me so much. I’m in a men’s group where several of the men ride bikes to the meetings. And my father and I have been talking about taking a trip across the west on Harleys or something, camping along the way. I love the idea and hope we make it a reality. One of my goals for the next 12 months is to take a motorcycle-riding training course.

But not all bikes are created equally. We have a guy living in our building who rides a BMW motorcycle. Pardon the language, but what a pussy bike. I mean, really. Motorcycles are, in my opinion, a celebration of manhood, of testosterone, and a hint of dominant sexuality. This BMW motorcycle is the antithesis of all of the above.

What brings all of this up, you ask? Well, I was on the way to work this morning, at a stop sign, when I let a motorcyclist with long hair flowing from the helmet go in front of me. My first thought was “Damn! If you’re a girl, you’re HOT!” This thought was shortly followed by a shudder and the thought “If you’re a guy, I’m really creeped out right now and need a shower.”

She was a girl. She had to have been! Even if it was a sort-of “guy” bike…that just made her more cool. Because she’s a cool girl. Right?

Right?

Quote of the Day

2005-06-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

I was just talking with my friend Ryan. You know, he's the guy that I got into frequent trouble with in High School. Great man with great wisdom.

We were talking about how his kids will never be able to complain to him about not understanding them because he's been through a lot in his life. And I quote:

"J, you and I were uncool before being uncool was cool."

I couldn't have put it better myself.

The key to success

2005-06-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

Boy, after a morning that passed pretty darn quickly this afternoon is flying by at the speed of smell. Thank God our company installed a pool table…I wouldn’t have anything to do if they hadn’t!

I’ve figured out the key to success at work, especially as a new hire. Most people will say things like “come in early and stay late” and “don’t be afraid to take initiative”. Yeah, like that would ever work.

No, I have the real key to success. And it’s stunningly simple.

Walk quickly, with a determined look in your eye.

That’s it. People you pass will say to themselves “Boy, he must be really busy, walking that fast and with such steel determination in his eyes.” Bosses will take notice and think “I need someone that quick, efficient, and determined on MY team!”

It doesn’t matter if you’re on your way to play another game of pool, go to bathroom, buy something from the snack machine, or go outside to smoke a cigarette. If you’re walking fast with a look of determination in your eye, you’re on your way up.

I can’t believe no one thought of this before…

My weekend, in all it's glory

2005-06-05T22:55:00.000-07:00

It was another one of those weird and wacky Southern California Weekends, a truly odd 48 hours. Settle in, this is quite a long post.

I was exceptionally happy to be leaving work on Friday. It isn’t that I don’t like work. I actually like it pretty well, give or take the days when it drains me of my will to live. It’s more like the feeling you would get during the Friday afternoons in high school. I spent quite a lot of time in high school with friends in classes, so I had a pretty good time. And yet Friday afternoon always promised that feeling of being freed, of having untold adventures ahead. I felt that way this past Friday night.

My Very Good Friend and I watched “Spanglish”, which turned out to be a much better film than we thought it would be. Adam Sandler really isn’t a bad actor if he isn’t playing Adam Sandler. I also jammed in the studio for a while on Friday night and came up with a very cool guitar riff that I thought could become a really great song if I did a little work on it and developed it a little. And then, before I knew it, the night was over.

I woke up to the sound of the phone on Saturday morning, at about 8 AM. It was one of my Very Good Friend’s sisters. My Very Good Friend was traveling down to San Diego on Saturday afternoon to hang out with her sisters and have some bonding time. I got up as she took the phone in bed and went out to watch Daft Punk’s house musical Interstella 5555; the 5tory of the 5ecret 5tar 5ystem. Again, I didn’t have very high expectations. Again, I was impressed.

Before I go on, I must say a person must have an interest in both Anime and Daft Punk’s disco-licious music to enjoy this film. I have a stronger interest in Anime than in Daft Punk…their music can be a little repetitive. Still, I was highly impressed. It is a musical with no dialogue, telling a story with only images and the music. They were well paired, and I enjoyed it a lot. It was a very cool experiment, the art work was stunning in places, and the story was fun.

After watching the film I settled in with my morning paper, coffee, and Cheerios with a sliced banana. I usually find myself both highly entertained and highly annoyed when I read the paper. Living in Los Angeles will do that to a person. First of all, there was this picture of Michael Jackson’s supporters on the front page.

This doll is scary. No one should have a Michael Jackson doll, let alone someone old enough to know how creepy this guy is. I’m not saying he’s guilty…though my opinion of the matter is that he is. Just my opinion. However, the doll is just as creepy as he is! What really got me, though, is that if you look at one of the picket signs in the back it says “U.S. Policy Equals Tribal ____icide”. My guess is that the last word, which is obscured by the sign in front of it, is either “genocide” or “homicide.”

What I love about this is the fact that someone showed up at this Michael Jackson Love-Fest with whatever sign he or she endorsed at the time. I vowed, right then and there on the spot, that next time I know of people holding signs of support somewhere I am going to show up with a sign that has a completely random and unrelated message. Some ideas I had for the sign are:

I Like Chicken!
This little piggy went to the market
C.R.T = Cathode Ray Tube
Ban Picketing!
It’s My Right To Be Left!
I Don’t Know What This Sign Means!

The other thing that got me fired up was a picture of a guy from one of the houses that slid off the cliff in Laguna Beach last week with a caption that lamented the fact that he was only able to save 3 of his 50 or so prized surfboards. Sorry, I don't have a picture for this one.

Um, WTF? This dude can afford a house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I’m supposed to feel sympathy for him because he lost a bunch of surfboards? Normal people don‘t buy houses that are prone to sliding off cliffs! For that matter, normal people also don’t invest in a collection of rare and priceless surfboards. What makes a surfboard rare and priceless anyway? Unless it’s the surfboard that Jesus himself used to ride the waves when Moses parted the Red Sea, I don’t see how it’s that valuable. Listen, surfer dude, you bought a house on the edge of a cliff. Did you not think, at some point in the process of purchasing the house, “Hey, I wonder if this house could ever possibly slide off this here cliff?” Your lack of forethought in this matter astounds me. Does money really make people this stupid? How can someone this dense make enough money to buy a house on a cliff in the first place? Such are the deep and ponderous questions that cross my mind after rubbing elbows with some of these people.

I was in the middle of ranting about this when the phone rang again. It was a call from the Republican Party for my Very Good Friend. She listened for about 10 seconds before saying “Listen, let’s cut to the chase here. I’m not going to give you any money. I’m not at all happy with the way some issues are being handled.” She was asked by our friendly local Republican beggar for an example of something we weren’t pleased with, to which she responded “our porous borders and illegal immigration.”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Mrs. Very Good Friend, because President Bush just recently put 23 border patrol agents in place along the border.”

“WOW! 23 WHOLE BORDER PATROL AGENTS?? Well, that’ll solve the problem won’t it?” my Very Good Friend responded. She gave them one last curt goodbye and hung up.

I swear, I’m not making it up. I cannot believe that some telemarketing script writer thought this was a good way to illustrate that the issue of illegal immigration is being handled by our esteemed leader! What a brainless idiot! We laughed about this all morning.

Then I noticed an article about a change in area codes here in Southern California that had residents all fired up. As if there aren’t enough issues to tackle here. I understand being slightly annoyed about having to tell people that you have a new area code, but these people are upset because the area code “310” means “money” here in Southern California. If their area code changes, how will the let everyone know subtly just how filthy stinking rich they are? The following picture is of the owners of "310 Tattoo", I think. They are not happy about the proposed changes.

I took off to run errands, bought a homeless guy a hamburger, turned my shirts over to the cleaners for washing and pressing, got some prescriptions filled, and sang at the top of my lungs in the car to Boston’s song “Don’t Look Back.” A guilty pleasure, I’ll admit.

I laid down for a nap at 4, thinking I would just rest my eyes. I woke up at 8 as the sun was setting. Uh-oh. This was a bad thing. How was I ever going to get to sleep if I slept all evening?

I went into the spare bedroom to work on some drum tracks on the computer there when I heard the fire engine in the distance. This is not a rare occurrence where we live; there’s a fire station not for from our place so we often get fire trucks screaming by in the night. Los Angeles isn’t exactly a “sleepy little hamlet.”

The first sign of trouble was when the fire truck didn’t go screaming by. I heard it stop outside our window, which certainly got my attention. The fire dudes jumped out and went to aid someone on the far side of a car on the far side of the street. I didn’t know what was happening, but judging by their movements they stretched someone out on the ground. I realized this was a serious situation when they started performing CPR immediately. The sound of sirens interrupted the night again, this time from the ambulance as it turned the corner onto our street and pulled up to the scene. The EMTs jumped out and immediately went to aid the threatened individual. I don’t know the gender of the person in trouble or what the full story was. I do know that one of the guys in the apartment across the street was extremely distraught and agitated.

As they got the ill person on the gurney to put them into the ambulance, the agitated guy ran into the apartment and returned a short time later with a couple of bottles of pills. I was too far away to tell, but immediately this raised my concern that it was a suicide. Another possibility is heart failure of some kind, but there aren’t that many people over the age of 35 that live in the apartments in our area. I guess it could be a lot of things, really. For some reason, though, suicide seemed the most likely cause. Maybe it’s from my days as a Mental Health Counselor at a “behavioral health hospital” or volunteering at hospitals or working in residence halls as a R.A. It just seemed like that kind of trouble.

As they were putting the person in the ambulance, I heard the agitated man ask the EMTs if the person was breathing and they said “no.” He hit his car with his fist, ran up the stairs toward the entrance to the apartment courtyard, and collapsed in a heap sobbing.

It’s no wonder I dreamed that I threatened my mom, dad, and sister with committing suicide if they didn’t start loving me more.

I was heartbroken for the guy. I really hope it all turned out ok. It didn’t look like it would but I also wasn’t there at the hospital. (I found out today that the person did pass away on Saturday night.)

I spent the evening recording and playing…it was a good time.

On Sunday I decided to take in an afternoon show of the new Star Wars. I know, I know…it was my second time seeing it and this makes me a little bit of a nerd. It’s eye candy, and my eyes like candy.

How could a movie become such a bizarre experience? Well, let’s start with the girl and her dad behind me. She was a freshman in college and talked a mile a minute. If you own the DVD of The Incredibles, watch the short film “Jack-Jack Attack!”. This girl was, basically, Cari the babysitter.

She was also boy crazy. For Fraternity boys. Uh Oh for her father…those fraternity boys are trouble. I know…I was one.

Then the four people with light sabers showed up. These were no ordinary toy light sabers. No, these were neon tubes that light up and made that light saber humming sound. The uber-nerds had arrived.

Finally, some older people sat behind me and to my left. I have nothing against older people…I’m becoming one myself. But I do not like wet slurping sounds coming from old people. I have no idea what they were doing, and I prefer to leave it that way. One guy hacked up a lung, too. That’s always a little bothersome.

So, that’s my story. In interesting weekend, to say the least. But it was a weekend full of life. With a touch of death, which is a part of life. All in all, I’m very happy to be me after this weekend.

2005-06-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone. I’ve been a bad Blogger.

The truth is, I sort-of wasted a bunch of time at work on Wednesday, which made Thursday and today busier than usual. That and I was handed a project with a very short deadline.

So, sorry if you’ve checked back only to find my last post over and over again.

My life has been good lately. I’ve been tired, which gives me a tendency to feel a little down. But I’ve been tired because I’ve been having fun in the evenings. And really, there’s no better reason to be tired.

On Wednesday evening I went with my friend Brent to the Dodgers/Cubs game at Dodgers stadium. Yes, I was one of the 52,000 people there that night. So you may have spotted me. I risked my anonymity by going to the game, but it was worth it.

I’m not really a big fan of any baseball team. I’m definitely not a die-hard Dodgers fan. Sure, they had a decent start to the season, but have you caught a game during the last month? I’m beginning to think those boys like getting spanked so hard.

Having said that, some good baseball was played on Wednesday night. And we got to see a really big fight between, like, 8 guys. It was pretty far away so I have no idea what it was about, but the punches were being thrown all over the place.

I’m not a big fan of ballpark brawls, actually. I like going to the ballpark every summer because it’s such an “all-American” experience. Part of that experience was the dignity and respect involved. It’s usually a pretty non-violent sport, except for those rare occasions when the players on steroids start mouthing off to each other and fight breaks out.

But what happened to civility? Dignity? Respect? I went to the ballpark a couple of times with my Dad when I was a boy, and I really enjoyed the experience. These days I think I’d be afraid to take one of my kids to the ballpark, what with all the swearing and disrespect and drunken fighting. I don’t want to shelter my kids from life. But it would be nice if they saw people generally behaving well towards others.

And while I’m on the issue of civility and behaving oneself, since when did you become so important that you had to talk on the cell phone while you’re taking a dump in the stall next to me, Mr. Nasty Ass? I don’t need to know how much you spent on breakfast the last 2 days. I don’t need to hear you grunt words to your girlfriend while you work on that turtle head that’s poking out. Not cool, guy. Not cool.

I might even let it slide if today was the only time it happened. But this is the third or fourth time!

Next time I’m kicking in the door, grabbing the phone, and giving it a self-guided tour of the building’s sewer system…

To Allison, who joined me for coffee last night

2005-05-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

I was behind the register ringing up yet another latte as she walked through the door. I looked up from counting change and made eye contact as a flicker of recognition flashed through my mind. I furrowed my brow as my tired mind tried to connect the dots, but it was of no use. Whatever memory flashed through my mind was gone, and I had a customer standing in front of me waiting for his change. I redirected my gaze his way and thanked him.

I had seen the brief flash of recognition on her face too. What was it about her? How did I know her?

As she walked toward the register I was pulled aside to help another barista make drinks. I volunteered to take her drink out to her, sitting at her table reading a book, when it was finished. As I walked up to her I smelled her perfume and the recognition was almost electric.

"Allison?" I asked as I handed her the drink she had ordered. She looked at me for a moment before I saw the pieces snap in place in her mind.

"J!" she cried out, a broad smile jumping from her lips. "I can't believe it's you! This is incredible!" She jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around me, giving me an enthusiastic hug."

"I know!" I replied. "0f all the coffee houses in the greater Los Angeles area you stopped at mine! What are you doing here?"

"We're here on vacation. I'm just waiting for my husband to park the car." She waited a moment, then added "It's so good to see you. You really look great."

"You do too." And she did. It had been close to 10 years since I had seen her and I had forgotten how comforting her hugs were. "I smell like coffee..." I said as I gently pulled away. I took a good long look at her, soaking her in so I could remember her well until the next time we met.

Somehow, I knew it was only a dream. But it didn't really matter...there are a few people who have played a larger role in my life than they could possibly fathom. Allison was one of them. I was smiling softly as I woke up, happy that I had gotten to see her. Someday, I hope I have the opportunity to tell her how much she taught me during our friendship.

It was J, in the Kitchen, with a BonBon

2005-05-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

I almost killed a man named Harry when I was 22 with almonds and ice cream.

As all new grads do, I left college and was ready to take on the world. Or rather, I was ready to take on the small hamlet of Evansville in Southern Indiana. I was going to do big things, save many lives through my work at the mental hospital, rock the illustrious Southern Indiana music scene in the band Movin’ the Pharmacy.

But first I needed a place to live. I looked on a local housing bulletin board, saw Harry’s name, and realized he was only one block from campus. “Hmmmm…” I thought to myself. “I may have to leave campus, but maybe I don’t have to leave college. Especially if I live so close.” I called Harry and we met the next day.

He didn’t seem like an ax murderer, he was willing to give me space in his garage for my car, he had a washer and dryer. I could live with the things I didn’t like…he didn’t like natural sunlight in his house and therefore the thick curtains were closed all the time. And his furniture was very old and very dark, making the place a little like a funeral home. He was also in his 40s and had never been married. Actually, he didn’t have much of a way with women at all. He was your stereotypical computer nerd, complete with pocket protector.

Yeah, we had about as much in common as the Pope and Lucille Ball have in common. We didn’t become best buddies and we don’t still keep in touch. But he was a good man, and I had no intentions of killing him.

The problem is that he was allergic to everything. Things that I didn’t know a person could be allergic to, he had to avoid like the plague for fear of a gruesome death. I swear, I could put some pocket lint on the table in front of him and he would jump up, making the sign of the cross and chanting in Latin.

I didn't dislike the guy. And I wanted to be better at relating to people. In a rare attempt at closing the gap between him and I, in an attempt to bond, I bought some bonbons from a local primo ice cream shop. These things were good, let me tell you. The were made fresh, and nothing beat eating cold ice-cream bonbons with a hot cup of fresh coffee. It was a delicacy, let me tell you.

The bonbons came in three flavors; chocolate, vanilla, and... what was the third flavor? I couldn't think of the third one at the time. It's been years since I’ve been to Evansville, but the thought of those bonbons makes my mouth water for Lics Ice Cream. I brought the container home, brewed some coffee, and we sat down to tell some stories and bond. That’s when the trouble began.

The first 3 or 4 bonbons were eaten without incident. Nee, we were enjoying them immensely. That’s when Harry took a bite, and froze.

“Jeff, what are the flavors of these again?” Harry asked.

“Ummmm…I know there are chocolate and vanilla. The third one, I can’t remember.” I answered.

“Is it almond?”

“YES! That’s it, it’s almond. Thank you, that was driving me crazy!” I answered, relieved that we finally had the answer and oblivious to the hesitation and fear in Harry’s voice.

“I’m deathly allergic to almonds." Harry said with a combination of wild fear and loathing in his eyes. "I have to go have an injection before my respitory system shuts down. Already, my mouth is tingling and becoming numb.” Harry jumped from the table and headed into the back bedroom where he kept his walk-in closet-sized medicine chest.

He came back 15 minutes later or so, and I was relieved he was still alive. Accidentally killing someone is such an awkward experience. He wasn’t speaking to me…I think he expected me to assume he was allergic to almonds, since he had allergies to everything else. The bonding experience had gone horribly awry, I realized, and it was best if I left the house for a while. I checked my bedsheets before going to bed for the next month, looking for signs of any poisonous snakes or spiders.

For years, my best friend Craig and I have laughed about this. With a sinister voice, we often call each other chuckling evilly and asking over the phone “Having trouble breathing, Harry? Perhaps you’d like another bonbon…”

If I learned one lesson, it’s not to try to bond with a housemate. It could be fatal, and that’s just not a stressor I need to add to my hectic and stressful life.

Ryan and the Requiem

2005-05-23T15:50:00.000-07:00

Let me introduce you to Ryan.

Ryan and I have known each other for about 25 years or so. I played hide and go seek with him and his neighbor Eric a couple of times when we were in grade school, but we weren’t very close when we were young. Truthfully, I’m not sure how we ended up being best friends.

We have always been different from each other. He was tall and handsome and I was the shorter, scrawnier sidekick. He played football; I was a music geek. He had his first girlfriend when he was in 8^th grade, I kissed a girl for the first time a year later. Somehow, though, we ended up getting thrown together and forged a friendship stronger than time or distance.

I think 7^th period chorus was the glue of our young friendship. We had a choral instructor named Mr. Wenzel who was a stroke just waiting to happen. Not that I would ever wish that on him…I grew to love him as I grew up. But the man had very poor eating habits, was overweight, and wasn’t particularly adept at handling stress. Seeing how 7^th period chorus was a sort-of “get out of jail” card, a bullshit credit ripe for the taking, he got a lot of people in his chorus who were more interested in an easy “A” grade than in singing. Ryan and I were interested in both. And, while we were at it, we decided to make each other laugh as much as possible. It wasn’t a successful day in Chorus if Ryan and I didn’t make Mr. Wenzel turn red with rage and watch him fight to not say the four-letter words that we all knew he loved and we deserved so much.

After getting screamed at for the day, Ryan and I would try very hard to not raise his ire any more than we had. There was a fine line between getting him fired up and getting sent to detention, one that we walked delicately along. But by trying to be inconspicuous we would often find ourselves reduced to fits of silent laughter, unable to speak or sing. Unwilling to make eye contact with each other for fear of losing it we would spend the rest of the period holding the sheet music in front of our faces so that Mr. Wenzel couldn’t see us and so we wouldn’t set each other off. We truly had the time of our lives.

While our friendship developed outside of Chorus and still is strong today, Chorus continued to be a strong bonding agent for our friendship. It only got us into trouble, serious trouble, once…

The spring of our sophomore year Mr. Wenzel decided that the fine singers in Monticello High’s accomplished chorus were going to sing John Rutter’s requiem from start to finish at our final concert. Without music. I admire Mr. Wenzel’s faith in us as young vocalists. It may have been misguided, but he had faith that we could pull this off.

For those of you unfamiliar with this particular piece of music, it’s a bit ambitious. I think it was between 40 and 50 pages long and fairly complex musically. I might even use the word “tedious” to describe it. Ryan and I certainly thought so, which is why we made up alternate lyrics.

Alternate lyrics were a trick Ryan and I had used several times to inject fun into the often-boring process of learning music. We are both fine vocalists with a natural inclination towards learning music, so making up alternate lyrics (especially of the dirty variety) was a great way to learn the music and have fun.

The original Requiem has a passage that begins “Make a joyful noise” and is a very praise-heavy piece. For the life of us, Ryan and I can’t remember the actual lyrics. But we remember our lyrics to this day:

“Make a sexual grunt!
Unto the late John Holms!
The late John Holms!
Make a sexual grunt
A sexual grunt
A sexual grunt
Make….a sexual grunt
Unto the late John Holmes!”

It was high poetry. And sung along with the Requiem, it was a masterpiece. Never before had we come up with something so raunchy, so dirty, and so perfectly matched to the music. We were immensely proud and sang our lyrics, which were re-written for almost the entire Requiem, during every rehearsal.

We hadn’t anticipated the disaster that lay ahead of us. Concert night arrived, and we dressed in our ties and our sport coats. We all found our places on the risers without our music, Ryan and I standing next to each other. We launched into the piece, at which time Ryan and I both had the dreadful realization that NEITHER OF US KNEW THE REAL WORDS! In an effort to not stand out, we began the standard “Banana, banana, banana” approach to unknown lyrics. It got us only so far before we began to laugh as we thought of our made up lyrics.

Faces red from holding in the laughter, we stood in front of a community of parents and family who were in attendance. What a treat for them, our families who had come to be made proud by us. I bit my cheek so hard attempting to control my laughter that my mouth was bleeding at the end of the concert. Ryan had dug his fingernails into his palms so hard he had marks for days afterwards. You could practically see the steam coming out of Mr. Wenzel’s ears he was so pissed at us. The guilt was overwhelming…almost. It wasn’t quite overwhelming enough to make us forget the dirty lyrics we made up, to make us stop laughing. The verbal beating we got from our parents that night was brutal.

And yet, if you asked either of us, I think we would do it again. The memory is too priceless. There are so many stories to tell of Ryan and I getting into trouble. He’s the kind of friend that every parent wants for his or her child, really. He’s well grounded in his faith, he’s a nice boy, he has manners and is courteous and smart and fun and safe. It’s just that when we got together, trouble was only one step away in either direction. And it was too tempting for either of us to resist.

As a tool for learning music, making up dirty lyrics to sing along is second to none. Ryan and I can still sing that part of the Requiem flawlessly. But it’s always a good idea to memorize the real words, too.

Cat Pornography

2005-05-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

Today at work Pinky was showing me pictures in rapid succession of her new cat. She made the offhand comment that it’s “…like Kittie Porn.” She made sure that the “T”s were spoken clearly.

When I said “You know, I don’t watch nearly enough kittie porn” my “T”s were not enunciated as clearly.

I quickly turned several shades of red and ran to my cubicle to hide. That’s probably the worst sentence I’ve ever said out loud, and I’ve been talking for a loooooong time.

51 Things

2005-05-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

Lightning Bug’s Butt wrote a post the other day entitled “51 things about LBB you couldn't have gone your entire life without knowing.” He’s an amazing writer and very creative…I enjoy his blog a great deal. Go on…check it out. I’ll still be here when you return…

Anyway, I thought it was an awesome idea. I’ve gone several days without writing and I’m having trouble coming up with a really great idea. When that happens, I always plagiarize.

It’s the American Way.

51 things about J you could have gone your entire life without knowing

When I was a little boy I’d vomit without warning.
I drink at least 3 liters of water a day.
I pee a lot.
I’m not very good at playing video games. But I like them anyway.
I didn’t understand what the big deal was with hot tea until I spent a semester in England.
I still don’t understand with the big deal is with warm beer.
I don’t enjoy Guinness Beer. Beer should not need to be chewed.
I’ve never been sick on alcohol. And it isn’t for lack of trying.
I sprained my ankle once while wearing lederhosen and Birkenstocks and trying to dance like a drunk German man.
I’m a Sig Ep.
My nephew told me I was his favorite uncle when I bought him gum at the supermarket. Easy to impress, that one is.
I think sending someone flowers is overrated.
One of my favorite movies is The Sound of Music. No, I’m not gay.
I have a tattoo of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger.
I’ve been hit on in the gym shower by men because of said tattoo. It’s very uncomfortable.
I used to work at a hotline to prevent people from jumping off ledges when I lived in the Midwest. I always made sure my phone was on mute when I encouraged them to jump.
I’ve never been naked while driving a car, but I’ve been close.
I sing in the shower.
When I was in 8th grade I though the chicks on the G.I. Joe cartoon were hot.
I often dream I can fly.
Recently, I’ve been dancing in my car on the drive to work. Usually, it’s to the tune “Red Alert” by Basement Jaxx.
I stalled my car recently while looking at a chick walking a dog. And I wasn’t checking out the chick, I was thinking “Damn, I want a dog.” But I still felt stupid when the car stalled.
While I am excited to see the new Star Wars film, I won’t be in line to see a midnight viewing on the day of it’s release. Those people need to get a life.
One morning I woke up and looked out of the window on my tent to see the sun rising over the Rocky Mountains. I was convinced there was a God, not because the scene was incredibly beautiful but because I was actually awake to see it.
I had intimate relations once with a girlfriend in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room. I highly recommend it, but only if the doors are full length floor to ceiling.
I’m the one who sold the $600 hammers to the U.S. Military in the 90s. Those hammers put me through college, they did.
I was going to be a nurse until I admitted to myself that the sight of blood and people in pain makes me pass out.
It is often Fall in my dreams. The trees are very colorful.
I’m afraid of baseballs and softballs. They always seem to be heading straight for my head.
I never got past the phase of trying to stick things up my nose.
I don’t follow baseball but I try to go to at least one game a summer. It’s the quintessential American summer experience.
When I was in kindergarten, my favorite color was pink.
My parents had a picture on the fridge I drew in kindergarten of a pink rocketship. How phallic is that!?
I swear, I’m not gay.
I used to work at Starbucks, and I still remember all of their top-secret coffee recipes. Most of them go like this: 1 – make water hot. 2 – filter hot water through coffee grounds.
My favorite candy is M&Ms.
I’m not like Whitney Houston. I don’t believe children are the future…I believe apes are. I’ve seen Planet of the Apes, I know the score…
I’ve never broken any bones. But I have split my chin open 8 times.
I stopped landing on my face when I was in 6th grade.
We have an old-school Darth Vader magnet on our fridge. Neither of us know where it came from.
I only drink half-and-half with my coffee. Sugar is for posers and wussies.
My cologne is called “Sexual.” Women swoon when I’m near.
I’ve entertained the thought of naming my first son “Magnanimous”.
I hated being in Boy Scouts. The Scoutmaster creeped me out.
I’ve never photocopied my butt at work. But I have several photocopies of my face hidden in safety deposit boxes in banks around the country.
I shed. A lot. But I’m happy I don’t have hair on my back.
I usually sleep on top of the covers.
The first night I had an eyebrow ring I woke up screaming in the middle of the night. Those buggers hurt when you roll over onto them!
I used to volunteer at a camp for kids with Muscular Dystrophy, back when I was in high school. They kept me away from the really small kids because I thought I was really cool when in actuality I was just dangerous.
I look like an ax murderer in my driver license photo. I made the face to try to scare cops, but it’s backfired more than it’s helped.
It took me 6 hours to create this list. Not feeling too bright today...

Happy Birthday, Sis

2005-05-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

I love my sister so much. She’s one of the coolest people I know, even if I don’t always know what planet she’s on. We’re about as different as two people can be.

My sister was full of attitude growing up, practically spilling over with it. As head-strong as could be. She was the kind of sister that would play with me when she felt like it, but if I solicited her company at the wrong time I became the biggest nuisance in the world. In reality, I just don’t think she knew what to make of me. I was a peculiar little guy, as different from her as I could be. She was aggressive, I was passive. She was an active little girl, and all I wanted to do was listen to records. I was obsessed with music at a very young age, and immersed myself in the world of music as soon as I could reach the knobs on my dad’s self-built amplifier. It was a world that was foreign and vague to her, just as I didn’t understand all of her activity and restlessness. The town of 4,000 we grew up in was too small for her by the time she was six.

And yet, she upheld her sisterly duties and was always there when I needed her the most. We both walked to and from elementary school together, but I was never allowed by her to be within twenty paces of her. She was usually a half-block ahead or behind me, persistently ignoring me the way only a precocious bigger sister can. One day we were walking home at the same time (but not quite together), when a guy named Chris from her class rode up on his bike and started picking on me. I don’t remember what he was saying or doing, only that he wouldn’t leave me alone. He grew more and more bold, hurling bigger insults, threatening more insistently, until finally he was right on top of me. Then, out of nowhere, my sister appears, telling him he must be a real sissy to have to pick on boys three years younger than him and that if he lays a finger on me she’ll level him, and why doesn’t he pick on someone his own size? Chris tucked his tale between his legs and rode off on his bike, embarrassed that a girl got the best of him. I turned to her to say “thank you,” and she looked at me and said “you still can’t walk home with me. Stay here until I’m a half-block away.” She turned and walked off, and I stood as she asked me to and waited for her to be up by Mrs. Lindsley’s house before I started walking again.

An older sister’s love is a strange thing, a creature with a life of it’s own. Sometimes it breathes fire, sometimes it’s indifferent, and sometimes it makes her the best friend and the coolest girl in the world. No matter what, though, I couldn’t do without her.

Happy belated birthday, Sis. We’re still looking for an awesome California gift for you. Thanks for letting me walking home with you, even when I wasn’t exactly walking home WITH you.

I've been tagged!

2005-05-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Well, how about that? I got Tagged by ChickyBabe! Being an insecure and needy bugger, I was hoping to be tagged by someone. So a heartfelt thank you goes out to my best blogging friend in Oz. Come to think of it, my ONLY blogging friend in Oz. Not that I’m complaining. In fact, I don’t think I could have asked for a better and creative friend who I’ll never possibly meet in real life! Sort of like an imaginary friend, but a lot less imaginary.

I used to have an imaginary friend, his name was Jogurt. I don’t know why. He was from Hawaii…maybe that’s the most exoctic Hawaiian name I could come up with as a wee little one. My dad almost killed him once by shutting the car door on him.

Back to my previous train of thought, being tagged.

The rules are simple when you're tagged. You get to choose 5 items from the following list to write about. Then you get to tag 3 lucky people to continue the meme.

If I could be a scientist…
If I could be a farmer…
If I could be a musician…
If I could be a doctor…
If I could be a painter…
If I could be a gardener…
If I could be a missionary…
If I could be a chef…
If I could be an architect…
If I could be a linguist…
If I could be a psychologist…
If I could be a librarian…
If I could be an athlete…
If I could be a lawyer…
If I could be an inn-keeper…
If I could be a professor…
If I could be a writer…
If I could be a llama-rider…
If I could be a bonnie pirate…
If I could be an astronaut…
If I could be a world famous blogger…
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world…
If I could be married to any current famous political figure…

Here it goes…

If I could be a scientist, I’d be a hunk in my white lab coat.

. I’d be like the scientists in the old Far Side cartoons. The ones writing weird and wacky equations on the board when EUREKA! I discover some amazing theorem that will have a worldwide impact on the scientific world. I would probably goof off a lot, but with an even higher concentration of nerd humor than I use now. With an emphasis on having creative fun, I’d be inspired to let myself loose to think outside the box. I’d also go on the lecture circuit and talk about what has been discovered in my lab. I’d probably study sound, technology, and emotion. And when we weren’t in difficult experiments there would be Al Green playing in the background of my lab. Because 70s soul and science go hand in hand.

If I could be a musician (more so than I am now), my band would be my second family. Neither Craig nor I had a brother so in a way this is already true. We’d both be hunks in our leather pants behind our guitars. We would have a blast in the studio except when we didn’t. But most of the time we would. We would take our music seriously but not ourselves. Our stage show would be mostly intense but also a lot of fun to watch and be in. We would pour ourselves out through our music but also goof off a lot. We’d purposefully design our stages in every tour to afford us the maximum of physical creativity as well as musical creativity. We would record a stellar first CD that was loved by all the critics but a mediocre (at best) sophomore effort which would be panned worldwide by the critics (but would still be a blast to record). Then, having the Sophomore slump out of the way, we’d move on to a long and illustrious career. We’d constantly listen to different musical styles on the tour bus and at home and this diversity would come across in our music. We’d always challenge ourselves to be different but not pressure ourselves to sound like anything in particular, thereby guaranteeing that we always sound like us. Most of all, we’d enjoy the ride while it lasted, spending and saving money wisely so we didn’t have to pump gas for a living if the ride came to a premature end. As a family, we would love each other, encourage each other, and tolerate each other. We’d work together creatively as well as interpersonally as well as business-ally.

If I could be a gardener, I’d be a gardner at Neverland Ranch. Then I’d write a tell-all about Michael Jackson.

OK, let’s try that again. If I could be a gardener, I’d be a horticulturist at a National Park (probably Yellowstone). I would spend my days mostly outdoors. I’d be a hunk in my National Park Uniform, all rugged and fit with legs that showed off my experience and time on the trails. I would study plants and the environment spending time with God in nature. At some point, I’d come across a tourist being threatened by a black bear and I’d be a hero because I knew the bear and could speak “Bear” with an accurate accent reflecting the dialect of the Yellowstone National Park Black Bear Tribe. You see, the bear and I had become good friends and actually met up with each other every Tuesday evening for fresh berries and coffee (I’d bring the coffee, Molly the Bear would bring the berries. Oh, the laugh’s we’d had over calling the berries “Bear-ies”! She always did have quite the wit, that Molly.) We’d discussed the photography of Ansel Adams (he was why Molly relocated to Yellowstone in the first place) and both enjoyed the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker. Lately, we’d both had lively discussions about the growth of Harry Potter throughout the books and how many great qualities and traits the books taught both young children and young bears.

Thanks, ChickBabe, for inviting me out to play. I had a great time.

Everyone I read has been tagged, so it looks like this game is playing itself out.

See you soon?

Woman For A Day – Final Thoughts, Reflections, and Reactions

2005-05-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

I was hoping there would be some good comments about my uber-long post and was getting worried. Then Amber Lynn, Andy and ChickyBabe weighed in. As usual, they hit the ball out of the park. It’s good to have fun and creative e-friends. I wanted to respond to a couple of comments and thought that they were “front page” material.

amber lynn wrote “Mexicans on the corner of Home Depot can be a little intimidating, but if you spend more time as a woman, you will get used to it.” Except that I only had 24 hours as a woman. Getting used to the perving day workers was not a priority. Getting laid was.

Andy wrote “You left out the constant attempts to be assured that you're actually really good looking... despite the fact that you already know it to be true...” Ahh, pandering to stereotypes. Well, Andy, they’re stereotypes because they’re based in truth. Generalities don’t become generalities if they aren’t general and common.

I’m a confident woman…er…man…whatever. I knew I was hot. I wasn’t snobbish about it but I knew. I didn’t need some MAN telling me how attractive I was. (Apparently I was also a liberal feminist. Who knew?)

And then ChickyBabe weighed in. As I hoped she would. Since we both spent 24 hours in the body of the opposite gender, I was hoping she’d have some valuable feedback. I will start the following bullet points with her quote and then respond.

“I’m so thrilled you wrote this based on my recent post!”

Well, I’m glad I wasn’t panned for my lack of creativity or for riding on your coat tails. Besides, it was a worthy challenge. It seems more acceptable for a woman to write about what they would do if they were a man for a day than for a man to write about being a woman. There are some social acceptability issues with turning it around that way and I wanted to know if I could write honestly about what I would do. I’m pleased with the result.

In response to me writing my physical description, ChickyBabe wrote “Do you want to be me?”

I didn’t know I was modeling myself after you. I think my personality is similar to yours, so maybe that’s why I chose to look as I did. I’ve never seen anything but your shadow profile on the sand. But I knew I was hot! So, if you look similar to how I looked, stand in front of the mirror tomorrow morning and tell yourself how beautiful you are. It’s a good way to start your day!

ChickyBabe said that my “girl hygiene” comment was TMI. And yet, it’s an important detail. Think of all the little things that you ladies know what to do that guys are clueless about.
ChickyBabe wrote “Back to bed for one minute?? You’re thinking like a man.”

Really? Are you quite sure? Because I think I was just acting like a curious and randy woman! Don’t come down on me for embracing my sexuality and sensuality. I am sick of being repressed by The man.

Seriously, what would YOU have done first thing in the morning? And if I was thinking like a man, it’s understandable. Seeing how…well…I’m a man.

Chickybabe next wrote a paragraph about how my business attire wasn’t what she would have chosen, offered to take me shopping, and ended with the sentence “You’ll get to see what ChickyBabe likes…Deal?"

This is where things start to get confusing for “Married J” vs. “Woman For A Day J”. I thought I dressed quite nicely for the office! Am I totally without fashion sense? I’m a professional, after all, and didn’t want perving people at the office to get in the way of the work to be done. And, knowing that I was a hottie, I needed to dress appropriately.

The offer to go shopping was much appreciated. I mean, that’s what women do! How silly to leave that off my list of things to do as a woman. But there’s a minor concern.

At the core I’m still a guy, and shopping with a woman may have given that away. Maybe it was better that I didn’t go. Do you think the girls would have noticed when I plucked a couple items off the rack and said “Yup. These will fit fine. Let’s go.”

Now, here’s the funny reaction. ChickyBabe offered to take me lingerie shopping as well. Being a guy, my first thought was “AWESOME! I get to see a woman try on a bunch of underwear! Much nakedness will ensue!” Then I felt like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie! It just wasn’t right. Next came the shame. After all, I’m married. Except for that one day I wasn’t. But I was a woman. Does that make me gay? It gets very convoluted very quickly. Alas, this was one aspect of my experience that I couldn’t wrap my head around.

ChickyBabe commented that I picked some wild, fun, naughty lingerie.

Of course! I tried on everything that she chose for me. I only had one day to do this. I hope we went to some fun shops, not just the run-of-the-mill stuff! Something tells me we did…

ChickyBabe wrote “Hey Jess, that cool dude you met at the café sounds too good to be true. Is he for real? Careful, you may fall in love. But he needs to work on his flirting technique.”

The cool dude I met at the café is, indeed, for real. He’s me, on a good day back in my single days. Of course I picked me! I’m a great guy, if I do say so myself. The funny thing is the last sentence. I wrote exactly what I would have done if I had met Jess at night at a coffee house. I’m fairly certain that my flirting technique is lacking. How well ChickyBabe hit that one on the head…”

ChickyBabe wrote (commenting on my experience with this dream man in bed) “Multiples, wow! When can I meet this guy?”

Well, I’m in Los Angeles and taken. But Craig, who is even more attractive and charming than I am, is single and currently accepting dates…

ChickyBabe wrote "You seem obsessed with him. He’s cute, he’s hot, and he’s a good kisser, a considerate lover. What about you Jess? What was it like for you? Forget about him for a minute. You can’t? Too bad…"

Ahh, yes. Taking my egocentric nature to a new level. I’m obsessed with myself! How odd and strange and amusing.

All I’ll say publicly is that it was awesome for me. I’d hate for this to turn into some horrible Harlequin Novel. You know… “he thrust his masculine chest forward, biceps bulging. She was captivated by the depth of his blue eyes, sailing away on an ocean of bliss as he…” You get the idea.

ChickyBabe wrote "Hmm…If I have one critique, it’s to say that as a woman, you seem to want to be with a man like you. So think about it for a minute… Defeats the purpose, no?"

Why is that a critique? Why wouldn’t I want to be with a man like me? Huh? What are you saying? Huh? HUH? You wanna take this outside?…

(calming down)…sorry. Yes, even knowing my faults as intimately as I do I would still want to be with a man like me. I know the depths of love and feeling of which I’m capable. I personally don’t think it defeats the purpose at all.

ChickyBabe wrote "Well done, J. Very entertaining! Maybe the day I’m a man for 24 hours, I can have a coffee with Jess and take it from there..."

Thank you, CB. Coming from someone who’s writing I admire very much, that means a great deal to me. It isn’t that I wouldn’t want to meet, but the whole “two people changing genders and then meeting” is just getting too weird for me, too much to handle.

At some point the meeting would devolve into “So, wait…who’s the girl? What’s going on? Who’s supposed to say what and do what? Why do I have to pee again? Never mind…I’m just going to go home and play with my boobs some more.”

One final note. It was a good experience, being a woman for a day. But I sure am glad I’m back in my own flawed body.

Thanks for reading! One of these days, I’ll write a short post!

Woman For A Day (Part. 1)

2005-05-04T22:14:00.000-07:00

*******WARNING*******

This post is a little weird, as it discusses the subject of being the opposite gender for a period of 24 hours. Plenty of guys have talked about it, and if I followed my first instinct it would have been a very short post. Something like "woke up, played with my boobs all day, went to bed." But that's not very creative, is it? So I delved a little deeper.

Be warned.

************************

I had writer’s block (or apathy, not sure which) yesterday, and it has flowed into today as well. Not much has been going on around here. Still, I feel an obligation to myself to write. It’s my way of staying in touch with myself just as much as staying in touch with any of you readers out there.

ChickyBabe did an interesting post today asking who anonymous bloggers share their joy of blogging with. It’s a great question. She also linked to a post by Andy about motivation for blogging, which was very insightful.

ChickyBabe has become my favorite daily read. As such, I’m going to do a “male” version of one of her recent posts.

If I could spend 24 hours as a woman, how would I spend my time?

Let’s get a few logistics out of the way. It’s my fantasy, so I get to choose what I look like (and a few other select details).

I’d be about 5’8” tall. I figure 4 inches shorter than the traditional 6 foot tall male would be good enough. I’d have blonde hair, a sun-kissed face with a few freckles and a nice figure. My hair would be about shoulder length…maybe a little longer but not longer than my shoulder blades. I wouldn’t be “perfect” super-model pretty. Real men (with substance) don’t go after that crap. But I would have nice hips, a cute ass (not too big but big enough to give a skirt definition) and nice breasts. Probably a large B cup to medium C cup.

I would have had my period approximately 5 days prior to waking up a woman. Of all the joys of womanhood I want to enjoy during this trip, a period is not one of them.

I’d be single. I have a very close friend who has shown me what it’s like to be a wife, and that’s not how I want to spend my day and evening. No thanks, maybe some other time.

I wake up. Dude, I’ve got boobs! These things are SOOO COOL! Of course I’m going to play with them for a minute or two. I like seeing how the lie differently on my chest when I’m horizontal versus when I’m sitting up. Already, I’m glad I didn’t ask for a D cup; these are heavy enough as they are!

I have to pee. Women always have to pee first thing in the morning. Out of bed and…hey, I’m in silk P.J.s! Practical but comfortable. I think I need to shave my legs, though.

In the bathroom, I sit and…whoa, that’s weird. I’m so used to being able to aim! What did my wife do yesterday? Oh yeah, wipe from front to back. I’m a girl now, hygiene is important. There are so many details…

Back to bed for a minute longer. Of course, I bring myself to orgasm. It’s different but pretty darn cool. As a guy, it all just explodes all at once. As a girl, it builds from my tummy and totally freaks my bean. That’s cool. (Oh, don’t act so surprised. Of course it’s the first thing I’d do! Like you’re any different.)

Back to the bathroom, I put on Prince’s Hits CD and cue up “Kiss.” In the shower, I have no problem hitting all the notes. Damn, I’ve got a good voice! I try a few flourishes in the otherwise familiar song and think to myself “Wow, J, you sound GREAT!”

Uh oh. J isn’t going to work as my name today. Too masculine. Mental note to self, check driver’s license when out of the shower to see what name is.

The shower gel feels good, and I dig having all this hair to wash. After lathering up my legs, I tentatively take the razor in my hands. This is going to take a moment. Carefully, I do the work and manage to not cut myself.

I dry off with a big fluffy towel and stand naked in front of the mirror. Hey, I requested my butt not be too big! Maybe it will look better after I dress. I’m pretty, I decide…and I’m not going to compare myself to other women today. I tell myself to remember I requested to not have a perfect body. (Why did I do that? Why, why, why?)

Now comes the part of the day where I stand in front of my closet for a half an hour trying to decide the exactly perfect shade of blouse and skirt. I already know that I’m wearing some “fuck me” lingerie underneath, but I need to look professional on the outside. “What would ChickyBabe wear?” I ask myself. I settle on a nice skirt and a long-sleeve silky blouse. The pink top makes me look pretty and feel powerful.

With Purple Rain playing in the background, I take a stab at make-up. I’ve paid enough attention to not be a complete idiot in this department. The basic goal is to not look like some cheap ho. Oh, and leave the lipstick for last. I’m not sure why, I just know that’s what girls do.

Brushing and drying my hair…already I miss being a man. As a guy I tousle some gel in my hair and I’m off and running.

Damn, I look good. If I do say so myself. Maybe the skirt is a little "hippie-ish", but not too much.

Off to work. Man, I look good in this car. I’m getting looks from all the Mexicans at the corner by Home Depot, which creeps me out a little. I deny them direct eye contact, throw the car into first, and speed away. As I pull into my spot at work, I realize I still don’t know what my name is! Opening my purse and pulling out my wallet, I take a look and…

Jessica. Jessica? Why Jessica? Other than my initials stay the same?

Upon arriving at my desk I find that I go by "Jess." That's better. I like it. (editor's note: No, that's not my REAL name.)

At work, I carry myself with pride and a sense of power and authority. At lunch, I can feel the eyes on my ass. I’m friendly and chatty (but not overly talkative) and I take pride in being beautiful and smart. It may be a men’s world around the office, but I am NOT a passive individual. I have a whole different kind of power as a woman, and I'm not afraid to use it!

After lunch, I’m invited to go to the restroom with other women. Shit! I forgot they go in groups! I go, of course, and just follow their lead. They ask me while applying lipstick if I’m still up for going to the bar tonight. I am, of course. I'm a little weirded out by the whole group bathroom break, and it shows. Hopefully not too much...I'd hate to give myself away!

After work I go work out…Being the kind of girl who goes to the gym to actually WORK OUT, I don’t dress like a slut. Sports bra, t-shirt, work-out pants. Still, I enjoy that eyes are drawn to me as I do my cardio on the StairMaster. A couple of the guys catch my eye…

Woman For A Day (Part 2)

2005-05-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

After a shower and a burger (I don’t want to go out drinking on an empty stomach), I meet up with the girls at the bar. A little shorter skirt, a little perfume, a little cleavage, and we turn heads when we walk in. Over drinks, I have the courage to ask the girls to play a game with me. “If I was a guy and I woke up in this body this morning, what would you want me to know? What would you be sure to tell me? What sort of thing would you NOT tell me?” They have some good laughs and I laugh along, all the while making mental notes.

In spite of the information, I’m getting frustrated. My sole goal tonight is to have awesome sex, preferably more than once, but there are many obstacles. I thought the nightclub was the way to go, but I’m not so sure now. I don’t really want to be the kind of ho that goes home with some guy from a nightclub, a guy who’s half drunk, not considerate in bed, and falls asleep after The Big O.

I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but damnit! I have needs too! More importantly, I have standards.

It’s only 10…still early in my book. I tell the girls that I’m feeling tired from my week and I’m going home. I’ve had a drink or two, but I feel fine.

I go home but don’t feel like turning in. Instead of admitting defeat and moping about, I walk down to a local coffee shop with live acoustic music on Friday nights. I sit outside on the patio with my latte listening to some decent Simon and Garfunkel and Beatles covers. During the song The Boxer, a rather hunky guy walks up to my table and asks if he can sit down. Blue jeans that highlight a very cute butt, and a strong chest. He looks familiar…he asks me if he saw me at the gym earlier today and it all clicks into place. Serendipity! One of the hotties from the gym I was checking out is having a seat across the table from me! It turns out he’s a friend of the duo onstage and is here to support them. We talk a little about how much Bally’s is the K-Mart of gyms, how we both grew up in the Midwest, share stories about our favorite concerts we’ve been to, our favorite trails to hike…we’re clicking (to say the least).

We hang out together until closing time, sincerely enjoying each other’s company. He’s a gentleman, he’s polite, he’s funny but respectful, and he’s hot. I mean, he was hot before he opened his mouth but now that we are talking and connecting he is getting hotter and hotter. I start throwing some playful and suggestive (but fairly innocent) remarks into the conversation, hinting at interest without being too overt. He’s so cute when he doesn’t know how to react to something I’ve said!

He offers to walk me out to my car but I told him I walked here from my place. He offers to drive me home, but I’m not sure I want to get in a car with him. So I say “no, but you could walk me home.” We walk to the front door of my apartment complex when he leans in to kiss me.

Good Lord, the boy can kiss! I look up with the steamiest look I can conjure and ask him if he wants to come up.

I fall asleep that night after discovering he’s a very tasteful and considerate lover (with a wild streak). I never knew multiple orgasms could be so fun! He stays over and I feel safe in his arms. Part of me wishes I could stick around to see how this continued, and part of me is ecstatic that I don’t have to worry about the morning after or looking like a ho.

I smile, say goodnight, and kiss him one last time.

At some point in the night my wife wakes me up by hitting me in the side and telling me to turn over because I’m snoring.

Dreams of Evansville

2005-05-02T00:30:00.000-07:00

Isn't the past glorious from 10 years out?

It's 12:30 AM, and I've been laying awake for about 45 minutes now. It's futile to keep trying to sleep, at least right now.

10 years ago I graduated with my Bachelors of Science from the University of Evansville. It's a nice little school in Southern Indiana, a school I fell in love with on my first visit. I spent 4 years after graduation wandering around Southern Indiana and (just across the border) Kentucky. In 1999, all I wanted was to run away from my messes. So I came to California.

It's calling me back. It's calling with a voice of forgiveness, as if the statute of limitations has expired and all my past transgressions have been forgiven or forgotten. As spring becomes summer here in California, I find myself missing the departure of winter's chill heralding the arrival of a new midwest spring. I miss the fragrance of the air, of everything smelling fresh and new. That's not a smell we get much around here.

As summer continues to approach I find myself thinking about how good a shower feels after a hot and humid day. They way the humidity would cling to your skin, and then (seemingly out of nowhere) the tempurature would drop 10 degrees and the storm clouds would appear. The rain would be warm enough to go walking in, with or without an umbrella. On one occaision, some friends and I played a game of co-ed mud football in an abandoned lot. Never have I been so happily a mess.

I miss the smell of decay as fall settles in and the leaves fall. I miss cool autumn evenings and dark country roads with a billion stars out above. I miss crisp November mornings when it's painfully cold to get out of bed but a hot shower never feels so invigorating. I miss the first snowfall and how the world gets very quiet, as if out of reverence for such a momentous occasion as this.

The transgressions have faded from memory. Oh sure, I could probably remember them if I tried. But why? Why hurt when peace is so clearly extended in my direction?

Part of me is afraid to go back, and rightfully so. Everyone has moved on...a decade is a long time. If I go back, everything will look the same but nothing will be. I won't have the luxury of an open college environment to foster friendships. More than fear, though, I know it isn't time yet. It isn't time to leave California. Not yet.

Several times lately I've dreamed very vividly that I'm back in the midwest, back both in time and location. Somehow, I'm blessed with the knowledge that I don't have to be the man that I was at that time. There are old friends that I haven't seen...Trent and Nate and Alison and Dawn and Danette and Audra and Jim and Homey and, of course, Craig. I'm not crippled by the intense depression that had a hold of me during that time, I feel alive.

It's disorienting to wake up from those dreams. As always, I'm thankful for eveything the Lord has given me recently. I'm thankful for all of the growing I've been doing, for my friends here, for my very good friend who's in the bed beside me (sleeping soundly with her beautiful hair framing her face), for my job. And yet there's always this sadness when I awaken from the Evansville dreams.

I'm crying now as I write this. I miss you all so much! Especially those of you I hurt and those whose friendships didn't survive the passage of time. My heart aches with love and affection for you. I may never have the opportunity to see or speak to many of you again. But I think of you often. I've dreamed about every one of you.

It feels good to cry.

It's been a very long time.

(written while listening to "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie)

Now, SPIT! My Weekend (part the second)

2005-04-26T18:20:00.000-07:00

I woke up on Monday morning, and I knew I was in for a treat of a day. The mattress we had slept on the night before was just a shade softer than granite. My eyes opened, and immediately I was apprehensive about my 11 AM dentist appointment the way a person is apprehensive about a triple-bypass. Yeah, I knew in my head I was blowing it out of proportion. It was not a good day to be high-strung. It seems that I don’t always have the final say in that, though.

We arrived at my father-in-law’s dental practice, which overlooks the Pacific Ocean. Peaceful, if you don’t think you’re about to die. We head into the office, and I’m ushered immediately into THE CHAIR.

This is where I proceeded to freak out. I didn’t want to do the nitrous because this was my first cavity. I wanted to experience it. I’m all about experiencing life. Besides, he was doing a local anesthetic.

He came at me with that needle, and I started climbing the walls. I was riding the dentist chair like it was a bronco! Then I started to black out, so the next several minutes are hazy at best. I felt like I was going to spray that room and everyone in it with a fine layer of eggs and coffee but, liking my father-in-law quite a bit, I tried to spare him that gruesome experience.

I told them I was going to need the nitrous after all, and they proceeded to apply the mask. But I was already too far gone in my panic attack, and the smell of the gas just freaked me out more. I started hyperventilating.

“Doctor! He’s about to pass out.”

“OK. We’ll let him.” Came the dry reply. If I hadn’t been going out of my head, I would have thought it was funny too.

Fast forward about 15 minutes, some pure oxygen in the nitrous mask, and a nice cool wash cloth, and I was pretty much done with my shenanigans. It was also at this time that I decided to stop listening to Nine Inch Nails’ “Downward Spiral” CD and change the CD to something a little more calming.

“Industrial music during dental drilling? Are you mad?” I can hear you ask. But I had actually thought this out and it made sense. First of all, it’s one of my favorite CDs and I love listening to the complexities of the engineering and mixing. Secondly, I thought the drilling sound wouldn’t be so obvious or so painful to hear if overall I was hearing industrial music.

Yeah, except it isn’t very calming. That part I hadn’t really thought about. It’s great work-out music, but not so much on the soothing tip.

The rest of the appointment went well. We did four cavities total, with about 4 more to tackle at a later date. After the first one was done, I thought “Dude, that was NOTHING! Fire up the drill and let’s go again!” It was harder to convince my father-in-law that I was OK, but I was fired up and ready to do this thing. As soon as he was done with the needle, I was cool.

He took care of the four top teeth that needed work and we called it a day. Talking was easier than I thought it would be, although I did have trouble with the letter “P”. I could only manage to make them “F”s. I gleefully said “hockey puck” over and over.

I got hungry about 2:30. Which may have been a little too soon. We pulled over at a Denny’s type restaurant (nice soft pancakes and eggs sounded good with a little coffee sounded good) and got a seat. The right half of my mouth had most of the feeling back. The left side?

Well, I found out when I took that big sip of coffee that this was going to require some extra effort and attention that eating hadn’t required from me since infancy.

The only regret? My very good friend and I didn’t make out. I seriously wanted to know what it would be like to make out with a numb upper lip. Thankfully, I have four more cavities to take care of and I’ll have my chance to neck “under the influence” at some point in the next couple of months. Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the juicy (and slobbery) details.

So, yeah. Maybe it’s time to start flossing regularly. My very good friend flosses all the time, but I just thought it was a nervous tick or something. So many horror stories from a dentist in the family can do that to a person.

My Weekend (part the first)

2005-04-25T21:14:00.000-07:00

My very good friend* and I headed down to San Diego yesterday for two reasons. First of all, it was my niece’s birthday. And I had a dentist appointment with my father-in-law/ dentist today.

The birthday party was on Sunday. We got her “Heelies”, which are apparently all the rage right now in the 7 – 9 year old female demographic. For those of you not exposed to said demographic, "Heelies" are shoes that have wheels in the heels. The child wearing the Heelies puts his or her weight back on the heel of the shoe and glides effortlessly along, pulled by her aunt or uncle. They may have come from me, but if she ever becomes one of those girls who wheels past me in the mall I’ll trip her in a heartbeat. Damn kids on wheels…

Kids take a lot out of me. Not having any of my own, I haven’t built up an immunity to all of the shouting, running, leaping, and tackling. It’s a blast, yes. But (as my nephew found out) there need to be boundaries. When J is trying to take a nap because the kids have sapped him of all energy, it’s best to leave him alone. Treat J as though he is a hibernating bear…you wouldn’t wake up a hibernating bear, would you? It turns out the hibernating bears have the same affection for naps and the similar reactions when awakened prematurely. Hopefully the color has made it’s way back to his face by now.

As a side note, I am told that I had the whole house in stitches with my naptime snoring. The similarities between J and a hibernating bear just keep coming, don’t they?

The birthday party was a family affair; the birthday girl had her brother and sister present and there was one more family present with an infant and a 2 year old boy. The infant was the most placid infant I’ve ever seen. And the 2 year old? Probably the happiest boy I’d ever seen. He was enthralled with life! It was SOOOO COOL! I hope that attitude stays with him through life and into his teenage years. Everything was exciting and fun for him. Even counting!

Take a second now (I’ll wait for you, it’s ok) and count to 20. If it won’t raise too many eyebrows count out loud for full effect. Was it fun? Not really?

You have nothing in common with this boy.

Now take a second and walk up or down a flight of steps. Do it like you’re two…making sure both feet are on one step before tackling the next one, holding tightly to the railing the whole time. Fun? Not really? Yeah, I know your co-workers are looking at you funny and they’re probably going to avoid you at lunch.

Our 2 year old friend would not understand you. Not having stairs in his house, these things that allow you to defy gravity and escape the confines of a ground-level existence are just about the coolest thing ever.

Seriously, everything was cool with this kid. Having been a somewhat melancholy and thoughtful bugger all my life, I can say that I was more than just a little jealous of his enthusiasm.

My charge to you, fellow bloggers and friends of mine, is to go through your day tomorrow trying to see ordinary objects as new and exciting and wonderful. Like the magic stairs we have in our new office building that move you from one floor to the next without the slightest effort on your part. Or the little magic rooms with buttons that light up and the ability move to different floors.

Sure, it’s dumb and hokey and childish. Just tell anyone who asks that Uncle J gave you permission.

*Yes, my very good friend is my wife. But she doesn’t want to be a central feature of my blog. So I told her I wouldn’t make reference to her here. You can ask her why next time you see her.

Bally's Fitness - The K-Mart of Gyms

2005-04-21T13:31:00.000-07:00

“The Atlantic was born today, and I’ll tell you how…”

So begins the song “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab for Cutie. The song makes my heart soft, which is nice sometimes. After a somewhat anxiety-laden afternoon yesterday, it’s good to feel like I have a softer heart.

On a previous post I used the colloquialism “getting the milk without buying the cow” when referring to trying to get every benefit from a “friendship with benefits” situation. I always forget how insulting that can be, subtly equating women with cows.

So, for all of those cow lovers, sorry.

I spent some time at the gym again last night (keeping with my Monday/ Wednesday/ Friday workout schedule). To be blunt, I’m not happy about looking like a pear. And when I launch my massive world tour in support of our new CD, I want to be able to run around the stage night after night. It’s like a playground to me.

Of course, I need to get picked up by a major label and sell millions of records first, but why get hung up on the details?

Anyway, back to my gym story. I work out at Ballys, the K-Mart of gyms. They even make announcements every 10 or 15 minutes about whatever special they’re running or to remind you to stop by the juice bar. I used to wear headphones to learn music and to push me in my workout. Now I wear them to drown out the annoying staff members on the intercom.

Yesterday, the announcement blared through the gym that the Laker Girls were coming at 6 to sign autographs. I only had one reaction to this.

WHO CARES?

First of all, have you seen the Lakers lately? I’ve seen Special Olympic basketball teams with more talent!

Secondly, why would I bother interrupting my workout just to meet the Laker Girls? They don’t do anything but look pretty. That’s a pretty silly job, if you ask me. And if their REAL job is to cheer the Lakers on to victory, they should probably all be fired. I know I’d be fired if my job performance was as lackluster as theirs. Then again, I don’t have the T&A that they have. Nor am I the correct gender. I suppose that makes a difference.

It all got me thinking, though. Who would the Bally’s staff have to mention is visiting to get me off my StairMaster? Here’s a list of 10 people I came up with.

Various rock stars. David Gilmour (Pink Floyd), Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails), Nick Bracegirdle (Chicane), David Grohl (Foo Fighters).
Jesus. He’d get me off my StairMaster.
The new Pope. I’m not Catholic, but I would have to go see him. Would he have headshots like the Laker Girls? I’d also have to ask him why on Earth was he at a Bally’s? Doesn’t the Vatican have a really top-notch workout facility? I bet they’d call it God’s Gym.
If they announced my best friend from college was here, who I haven’t seen for a year and a half, I’d definitely go see him. I’d jump extra-quickly if they announced he was also going to take me out for pizza and beer.
Bill Gates. I bet I could bench press more than he could. Heck, I might even be able to bench press him. He’s kind-of a beanpole.
Hitler. But I’d have to stand in line behind the Jewish Kickboxing Team. And I wouldn’t want his signature. I’d want to kick him in the junk.
Tiny Tim. I’m positive I could bench press him.
Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’m not his biggest fan, but I do think he’s turned out to be a pretty good leader of California. And while we’re bench pressing people, I’d probably let him bench press me. (No, I’m not gay).
Any of the bloggers I read regularly. Latigo Flint, Al, ChickyBabe, 1Glorious Conundrum, the Intern in New York, Jazzy. Since we’d be meeting for the first time, there would be an absence of people bench-pressing each other. Nothing makes meeting someone for the first time more awkward then trying to bench press them.
My future grown children. It would be fun to meet them. And take them for pizza and beer. Sort-of a “Back to the Future” moment (without the weird incest overtones).

Other quick updates:

I haven’t been in the studio this week. I’m thinking of spending most of the day Saturday recording and mixing. Incidently, I found out the DutchGirl (in my office) is married to a record producer. I’d get excited except that to mention that I write and record seems to me like a betrayal of our young working relationship. Maybe it will come up at some point in the future, but right now I don’t know how to broach the subject without killing all chances of ever getting heard by him.

Some of you* have asked where you can hear my music. Well, right now we don’t have a strong web presence. If you e-mail me and ask nicely I might e-mail you a song. We’re keeping a pretty tight lid on most of the stuff until it’s gone through the final mixing stage.

I just used my letter opener to bust apart a piece of chocolate. I knew it had a purpose.

Be good, play fair, share your toys.

*Actually, not one of you has expressed interest but I want to plug my music. Forgive me.

Movin' The Pharmacy

2005-04-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

All of this writing lately about music and recording has made me think back to my first experience in a band. It was named “Movin’ The Pharmacy”; we were a cover band made up of Southern Indiana college students, with a couple of non-college students thrown in for good measure.

The band line-up looked like this. Richard was a Brit who was significantly older than the rest of us and had a ton of experience. He was one of our guitarists, a principal vocalist, and our primary technical engineer, had a very dry sense of humor, and was panicked before every show. I haven’t seen him for six years and miss him terribly.

Garett was our lead guitarist and another vocalist. He was a young punk, with several tattoos and piercings where no man should be pierced. We didn’t really get along very well, but tolerated each other.

Mike was the drummer and was about 10 years older than us young kids. He had solid chops and wasn’t flashy, but was a very cool guy and laid down a solid beat. He had two little girls that came to most of the shows with his wife, and they loved dancing in front of us. Even when we were covering the more edgy alternative songs. That's the cool thing about little kids. Even songs filled with angst are fun for them to dance to.

Brian was our bassist and went by the nickname “Cool B”. He was a scrawny kid with glasses but was a solid bass player and was a lot of fun. We were often on opposite sides of the stage and occasionally took turns throwing snack food at each other in an attempt to catch it in our mouths without missing a beat or a note.

Emily was a secondary guitarist and primary vocalist. She was hot, blonde, and had a great voice. I understand that she’s in the greater Cincinnati area and making quite a name for herself on the local music scene. She was one of my best friends in college but we weren’t very good at maintaining the friendship after the band broke up. I think it had a lot to do with me being a womanizing jerk, and I think I sort-of broke her heart. I’m not sure how she would categorize the end of our friendship, but I can tell you she told me at one point that she wanted a deeper relationship with me and I shook my head and told her it would never work. In reality, I think I was trying to get the milk without buying the cow. I miss her terribly.

Then there is me. I was the multi-instrumentalist and vocalist, doing both lead and harmony vocals. I was responsible for the keyboard programming but also played rhythm guitar and, on one song, the drums.

As far as band experiences go, I couldn’t have asked for anything more. I was very close with both Richard and Emily, and together we formed the lead trio of the group. Sometimes we’d do acoustic shows with just the three of us, and we were fortunate to be the first group to play at an eclectic restaurant and coffee house called Jungle Mornings in Evansville, Indiana.

A typical gig would go like this. For a 9 PM stage time we’d arrive at 5 or so to start setting up. We’d do about an hour load-in, spend an hour setting up equipment and running cables, then an hour tuning, mic-ing and adjusting the front of house sound. With an hour left before show time, Richard would start to panic. Something would be terribly askew. You could count on a glitch in the front of house sound or one of the midi controllers acting temperamental or one of the 4 million cables had a short. With 20 minutes to show time, we’d have it as good as it was going to get and would all exit the stage to go for a smoke. Emily and I would stand outside the back of the venue smoking clove cigarettes and doing vocal warm-up exercises. With the cigarettes finished, we’d do some stretching then had back to the wings of the stage.

The lights would go out, and the one original tune, pre-programmed and run remotely by a backstage midi-controller, would waft from the stacks. It was a song I had written called “Infanticide” and it was just as eerie as the title suggest. A waltz in the key of D-Minor on a music box that sounded, as Garrett once remarked, “…like dead children.” We’d sneak out while it played and launch into something aggressive as the last music box chord died away.

3 solid hours later, with only one 10 or 15 minute break, we’d do the last song for the night. We’d be all soaked with sweat (except for Emily, who would merely “glisten”) and high on the energy of the music but also exhausted. We’d mill about for about 15 minutes talking to people who came to the show and then around 12:30 start tearing down. It would be 2 AM before we were done loading equipment back into the trucks, and usually we were quite hungry.

If the show was in Evansville we’d head to JoJo’s, our favorite all night diner. We always had the same waitress, Maria, and she came to expect us between 2:30 and 3 after our shows. She knew us by name, knew what we liked, and would often sit a spell to talk about how the gig went. We’d sit and talk about the best parts of the show and what needed some work in our next rehearsals. We’d laugh about how the stage was covered in Crunch “n” Munch as a result of Cool B and I throwing it at each other, or how everyone loved it when Emily sang the entire song of 99 Luftbaloons in German. We’d be amused (and a little jealous) how all the girls made goo-goo eyes at Mike, the only married one among us.

Before long, it would be 4 am, we’d be worn out and full, and we’d head our separate ways to bed. I’d fall asleep with a smile on my face, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world to be able to do this.

It’s been almost 5 years since I played live and twice that since the Pharmacy last played. I’m so thankful that God gave me the opportunity to experience that thrill when I was younger. I hope to have the opportunity to experience that again. I may never be famous, but for a while I got to be on stage every weekend. That was the next best thing.

Target Gnomes

2005-04-18T14:27:00.000-07:00

I had a friend whose grandpa used to talk about gnomes a lot. Indeed, he was plagued with them. They took his car keys, misplaced his TV remote, and hid socks (which earned them the title of “Sock Monster” in certain circles. That’s a misnomer. Or, misGnomer, as the case may be. But I digress). At first I thought he was just senile. Then my dad saw gnomes.

They were in his hospital room a day or two after he fell off the roof. He got a wild hair up his arse one Thanksgiving weekend and decided to clean the gutters. He picked a lousy weekend…it had been sleeting and snowing. I think he was just about to put his weight on the ladder to climb back down when the ladder slipped out from under him. For one split second, I saw him hanging onto the gutter with one hand, dangling like an ape over our driveway. It would have been funny if I knew he wasn’t going to fall, or if he had been hanging six inches above the ground or if there was one of those big inflatable stunt-men pillows under him. But no, he landed on his back across the ladder on our concrete driveway. I was sufficiently freaked out.

The ambulance driver that came to pick him up was my sister’s ex-boyfriend from high school; we got to catch up on the way to the hospital, which was nice.

A day or two later I came to visit dad in the hospital, and he was all doped up on some pretty heavy duty drugs. I mean, the dude was just loopy. He looked at me through his half-open eyes that gave the impression that he had just smoked a fattie with a couple of doctors and maybe a nurse or two, regaling each other with tales of meeting Jerry Garcia.

“J, the gnomes visited me last night.” He said. Baffled, I sat in silence.

“I remember them showing up as I was falling asleep. They built a fire at the foot of my bed and danced a little bit. I think they sang a little gnome song or two. I’ll admit, the whole thing was a little odd. But the weirdest part was that it didn’t concern me in the least. It just seemed natural to me, and I remember thinking ‘Of course they’re here. Where else would they be?’”

I have had limited experience with gnomes. Until yesterday, that is. They showed up at Target. You see, I wanted to bring a touch of “me” to my cubicle. If I’m going to spend so much time someplace, I want it to feel welcoming. I wanted three items; some brightly colored coffee mugs (one does want a hint of color in an otherwise blandly-beige world of cubicles), a groovy lamp, and some sort of toy. Target seemed just like the place to go.

I found the mugs first, then I headed over to home furnishings where I found just the lamp I was looking for. It has a brushed stainless-steel base and a cracked glass tube that sits on top of the base, on end. So the bulb sits inside, shines through the glass, and up through the top. But the coolest part of all? It has a touch base! Touch the base with any part of your body, and it lights up. Now, there are some parts of the body that should not be used for this purpose at work but that really doesn’t need discussing. I found the last boxed item on the shelf and tossed it in my cart.

Now all that’s left is some cool toy. I head over to the toy department and know it’s going to take a second to make my selection. Toys are serious business, especially when you take them to work. It needs to reflect your personality, your fun-loving nature, yet not make you look like a total and complete tool. It took about 10 minutes, during which time I left my cart sitting at the end of the isle I was in, and then I found my toy.

I walked back to my cart….wait. Wasn’t my cart right there? Maybe I left it a few isles over? No….not there either.

OK, now I’m pissed. Someone harked my cart. *GASP* SOMEONE STOLE MY LAMP! The last lamp on the shelf! It’s a one of a kind…at least, in this Target store!

If you had been at Target on Victory in North Hollywood yesterday at approximately 5:05 PM, you would have seen a guy doing speed-walking laps around the outer isle of the store, glancing into every cart he saw, mumbling obscenities under his breath. Yeah, that was me. I sort-of “stepped outside myself” for a moment (we can use phrases like that here in California with impunity) and saw how weird I was behaving…I looked like a low-functioning adult who lost his baseball. Except my “baseball” was my lamp. And I didn’t care that mothers were pulling children away from me and standing protectively between the children and me. I was pissed, and I HAD TO FIND MY LAMP!!!

After 40 minutes I gave up. I headed up to customer service so they could tell me which stores in the greater Los Angeles area to which I’d have to drive to find my precious lamp. If I had to drive an hour to Long Beach, I didn’t care. I was going to have my lamp. I was giving them the item number when a guy in khakis and a red shirt walked up and said “Is this the lamp you’re looking for?” I smiled, and practically jumped up and down with euphoria. I may have hugged the lamp…you’d have to review the security tapes to find out. I was so lost in joy that I nearly blacked out.

I asked this nice man where he found my lamp, and he just smiled and walked away. Now, As many details as I may have embellished in this story, this detail is not one of them. He smiled….and walked away.

I’m convinced a group of gnomes were standing on each other’s shoulders under that Target employee uniform. And there was a target employee named Stan gagged and bound in the back storage room, wearing only his skivvies.

They’re mischievous buggers, those Gnomes. Be careful out there.

Micheal Jackson is not Jesus

2005-04-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

I’m very confused by the Michael Jackson trial and his supporters, so I’ve chosen that as my final thought for the day. I’m not touching his guilt or innocence. I am going to comment on some things I’ve observed that frighten me, though.

First of all, Michael Jackson isn’t Jesus. Being a Christian, I’m confident saying this. I think his fans should stop treating him as such. I read in the news the other day that the mother of the current accuser claims Michael Jackson wanted her to say “Michael Jackson healed my son’s cancer” in his rebuttal video to the David Beshears documentary. That bothers me immensely.

Secondly, I applaud his charitable work and donations. There’s a difference between giving money and inviting the children of the world to sleep in your bed, though. Even if nothing ever happened, it’s not normal or, in my opinion acceptable.

Thirdly, enough about the missing childhood. He goes on and on about how he didn’t have a childhood. Get some therapy and get over it. Seriously. Work through it. Yeah, it’s sad and unfortunate. That’s a component of being human. There’s stuff that sucks about all of our lives.

Fourthly, how can you write music that people relate to if you are so far out of the realm of normality that you can’t relate to other people?

Fifthly, what is up with the demonic stuff? Yeah, Thriller was pretty cool. Tongue in cheek, goofy, self-mocking to a degree. And everyone who grew up when I did can do at least one or two moves from the video’s dancing. But the short film “Ghosts” is an entirely different matter. First of all, it retreads the tired ground of “quite calling me a freak and leave me alone.” But secondly, it paints a very disturbing picture of a demonic creature that loves children and abhors adults, especially responsible adults. The odd thing about this “short film” is that the kids aren’t afraid of Michael Jackson’s character (named “Maestro”…how full of shit is that?) but the adults are afraid of him. And, based on what is seen, the adults have the appropriate response! Shit, Michael Jackson actually POSSESSES another character in the short film. I’m sorry, but that’s not something to fuck around with.

And the discord between who Michael wants to be for the children and who Michael wants to be for the adults is pretty clear and obvious and frightening. If you market yourself as a child-friendly entertainer and then make music and videos about sexuality and demonic interests, you’re at odds with yourself.

Lastly, what’s up with the whole black and white thing? First he’s black and makes soul-influenced music (which I love, by the way). Now he’s white and makes very bland “pop” music. I enjoy some pop music, but not his. Then he writes a song called Black and White. Actually Mr. Jackson, it does matter if you’re black or white. It matters because it’s intrinsically tied into your self-identity. And no, self-identity and image are NOT the same things.

None of this makes him guilty of molesting a child. It isn’t up to me to decide his guilt or innocence on that matter. And for the record, I am a big fan of his music up through Thriller. Even a couple of tracks on Dangerous were good, though I thought it was a very bloated album. I’m not totally against anything that has to do with Michael Jackson.

But you have to pay attention to the facts, the reality of who he is now and what he’s doing. I contend that he is “Dangerous” (like one of his albums is entitled), but in the context that he’s a man who hasn’t addressed some long-standing issues in his life, has created a world that is not healthy or appropriate for a middle-aged man, is confused about his identity, and is drawn to the innocence and purity of children in what many see as an unhealthy way.

It all makes me very sad for Mr. Jackson. He’s not living life, he’s living in a self-constructed “Truman Show” world. Life could be so much more than it currently is for him.

What if my "A" doesn't equal 440?

2005-04-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

The title to this post may be a little confusing to some, so here's the skinny.
The note "A" = 440 Hz. This is the the standard in pretty much every situation. When you hear an orchestra tuning up, before they all pick up their bows and start hacking away at the strings and tuning, the Principal Oboist will play an "A". Prior to tuning the orchestra, backstage where all the other orchestra members are adjusting their cumberbuns, the Oboist is tuning her instrument's "A" to exactly 440 Hertz, using an assortment of electronic tools. They all come out to their chairs, he or she honks her note, and everyone tunes. Now everyone's "A" is as close as humanly possible to 440 Hz.

Now that we've all had our Music Theory lesson, let's move on to my story. I did a stupid thing.

Two weeks ago I spent about 4 hours in the studio working on a very difficult accoustic guitar part. It isn't friendly. I don't even know why I wrote it...yeah I do. It's VERY COOL!! It really moves and it sounds simpler than it is.

I tuned to A at the beginning of the session, and for the remainder of the session I kept the guitar relatively in tune but not in tune with A=440. Oops. Over time, the overall tuning slipped until my A=337. I used the takes recorded at the end of the session...they sounded great! It was exactly what I wanted! Except...

Well, it became appearant last night when I was trying to record a counter-melody to the guitar that something was just slightly off. I used some tools to figure out what was going on, and BLAMMO! The number staring back at me was 337 Hz.

I'm far enough along that I do NOT want to have to go back in and re-record the whole freakin' guitar track. Truthfully, I don't ever want to play it again. I hope it doesn't become popular. :)

At least, that's how I feel right now. It'll pass. Besides, if it DOES become popular I'll just have another guitarist do it on tour.

So, do I go forward and alter the tuning of the rest of the instruments? Or do I go back in and re-record that stupid guitar part, playing until I can't feel my fingers? (I hate that part, when I've played so long that it feels like I've got mangled half-cooked pieces of bacon hanging where my fingers should be).

The lazy rebel (is that even possible?) in me says "Fuck it. Who says "A" HAS to equal 440 Hz?" And then I'll just leave it as is and move forward. It all sounds perfect, as long as everything is tuned to match the original guitar part.

Then the perfectionist in me pipes up (he's a persistent little bugger) and says I should do it over. I hate that guy.

I'll talk to Craig (the other guitarist in the band) and see what he says. Feel free to weigh in with your opinion as well...

Your friend and mine,

J

Sun Setting

2005-04-07T21:20:00.000-07:00

Sepulveda Sunset

Some nights, it really is great to live in California.

I was driving home the other night with the windows down, the sunroof open, and Death Cab for Cutie playing in the CD player when I shot this picture. I was on Sepulveda in the San Fernando Valley, and everything seemed OK. You ever have that feeling? It doesn't come along all that often, but I'm encouraging myself to feel that more often.

Sometimes, when the sun hits your face and you're behind the wheel of a car you love, you just know everything's going to be alright.

J

Blue Enough to Swim In

2005-04-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

Sky blue enough to swim in.

I was on my way home tonight, another beautiful night in Southern California, when the sky was so blue it made me want to swim in it.

I always loved the water. I was a swimmer when I was growing up and was in the water every chance I got. I was the kid who would ride his bike to the public pool every day and spend 3 or 4 hours just playing in the water, content as can be.

My mom taught me how to swim, and it was a traumatic experience that I still remember. She might as well just have thrown me into the water and said "Now, swim boy!" No, she's not that cruel. But it felt like she was that cruel when I was little. Looking back, I can say this was probably the first time I was legitimately "PISSED OFF".

Here's what she would do. She'd leave me on the wall of the pool, and back out into the water maybe 3 or 4 feet. Then she'd say "Swim to me, c'mon!" And I'd launch off the wall and dog paddle towards her with the clear goal of making it that 3 or 4 feet.

And then she'd start to back up. She'd do it slowly, but I KNOW she was backing up. I may have been little, but I understood by this time that when a person is standing behind where they were originally standing to start with, they have backed up.

That was annoying. But then she'd deny it! "Mom, stop backing away!!!" I'd shout at her, as I panted for air, certain that my next breath would be my last. "I'm not backing up, J" she'd say calmly, as I'd see her take another small step backwards and the distance between us would increase slightly. I'd be furious.

I always made it to her, of course. I didn't drown. But it sure ticked me off.

In spite of this lesson of measuring trust in cautious cups, I still fell in love with the water. I've always been a solitary kind of guy, and the water became my quiet and peaceful friend. The pool could have been packed from wall to wall, but if I was under water and the sounds were muffled, I was in my own private heaven.

In 8th grade, I joined the swim team. I was desperately looking for a group activity that I could do well, and so far I had failed completely at both little league and baseball. The only thing I liked about little league was the pizza parties after the Saturday evening games. The only thing I liked about basketball was that I got cool new high-top shoes.

There's no way to be nice about it; I was fat in 8th grade. I wore "husky" sized jeans. My mom used to take me to Farm and Fleet, and we'd try on off-brand jeans. No brand names for me, I didn't even get Wranglers. No, we went straight to the off-brands, like "Spangler" and "Lavi Krauss". Seeing how I was shaped like a pear at the time, there was nothing I could do but buy the "husky" sizes. We'd walk toward the register, and mom would make some comment on my weight, and I'd want to eat my feelings of ugliness and fatness. So what if that's how I got fat in the first place?

I think everyone in my family was surprised when I decided to go out for swim team. I think everyone in my family was a combination of dismayed and amused when they found out that we actually wore Speedos at swim meets. Pear-shaped little guys should NOT be put into Speedos.

Incredibly, I was innocent enough that I didn't care too much about being fat and in a speedo. And I was in denial. There were fatter people than me at school...I wasn't that fat after all. I did displace more water than the other guys on the swim team, but I didn't really care.

Workouts were hard, and I wasn't very fast. I wasn't very streamlined, either. I had a nice collection of 6th place ribbons by the end of the summer. Still, I always enjoyed being in the water. And at the end of most practices, they'd let me swim for 5 or 10 minutes in the deep end.

I've always had a thing for wanting to fly. Floating and swimming, immersed in 20 feet of crystal-blue water, I felt like I was flying above the ground. Over the next 3 summers of swimming competitively (and getting better every season), I treasured the moments when I'd fly over the bottom of the deep end, holding my breath longer and longer each time. And when the sky is flawlessly blue like it was the other night, I sometimes imagine that I could dive right in if I wanted to. If I just jumped hard enough, I would break the surface and be immersed in the blue.

Good game, good season, good team

2005-04-04T21:06:00.000-07:00

I'm too sad to write. I really thought the game was turning around during the last 2 minutes....

I tried playing basketball once. Well, for a season. I was in 5^th grade, and I was the kid that scored the point for the opposite team. I can’t remember ever being as humiliated as I was when I tried playing basketball.

Humiliation makes me cranky.

Insomnia cured by Pink Floyd

2005-04-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

It was not the most restufl night, as I was kept awake by this cough I have. I got up, played some solitaire, had some NyQuil, and then listened to A Momentary Lapse of Reason by Pink Floyd. I drifted off during "One Slip", and that was that.

I've been a fan of Pink Floyd since my Freshman year of high school. I can remember the first time I heard anything by them...Steve H. and Rich H. (both seniors and, in my eyes, cooler than I'd ever be) came over to my house one Friday night when there was nothing to do and brought their L.P. of The Wall with them. They put on Side 3, which starts with "Hey You," and I was hooked. For 17 years now, that song has been one of my favorites.

This may come as quite a shock to all Pink Floyd fans out there, but I never got high while listening to Pink Floyd. Not on purpose, anyway. In 1994, I went to see The Division Bell tour, and I caught a light contact buzz from all of the pot being smoked around us. (side note; I wonder if my dad noticed the smoke or was affected?) Far from being a complimentary experience to the show, it annoyed me and gave me quite a headache. I had just finished an insanely stressful week at college, was exhausted, and the pot smoke was just too much.

I think Wish You Were Here is my favorite CD by the Floyd. Shine On has also always been a favorite and is, in my opinion, one of the best songs to hear live. The song was taken to a whole new level in 2002 when David Gilmour played it as an entirely accoustic song on is 2002 Live DVD. You have to hear it and see it to believe it.

I'm going to go have another cup of coffee and read the paper at the Soda Fountain. Thanks for stopping by. Hey, if you get a moment later today stop by again. I'm going to do a little creative writing later...

Jeff

GO ILLINI!!!

2005-04-02T18:00:00.000-08:00

For the first time in the history of the school, Illinois is going on to the finals in the NCAA tournament. Great game today. GO ILLINI!!!!

Still feeling pretty crummy; I went to bed right after I came home from work yesterday, and I'm sweating out whatever it is that I've caught. Since I couldn't get a flu-shot this year, I've caught just about every bug that's floating around the office.

Short post, but that's all I have right now. I'm going to go post my old car online to try to sell it, and then later we're making S'mores over our gas stove. They're not just for campfires anymore!!

J

2005-04-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

It just seemed to fit my mood. Cheers!

The StudMobile

2005-04-01T11:01:00.000-08:00

I guess you could call it a love affair.

No, I’m not being unfaithful to my wife. I’m talking about my car. It’s a 2003 Mazda 6 named M.J., and I truly love her. Leather seats, 5-speed manual, V-6, sunroof, 6 CD changer…what’s not to love?

I’m a “typical man” when it comes to cars. I’m not into the ultra “Penis Cars”…they really do make guys look like they’re compensating for something. But finding a car that fits…well, then the car becomes a part of me and I really grow to love it. I greet it when I get in it, sing to it, talk to it.

It started with my first car. It was ridiculously named “The Stud Mobile”…If you had seen it, you would’ve caught the irony. A 1982 Toyota Starlet hatchback, it was the most un-studly vehicle a guy could own. What made it so great was that it was so unique and it had a TON of character.

First of all, Toyota only made the car for two years. I never saw another one on the road in Illinois. I’ve seen a couple since I’ve been in Los Angeles, but not very many. It sat on tires the size of many doughnut-sized spare tires today. And it would take whatever abuse a 16 year old boy could dish out. It was a tin-can death trap, and I (stupidly) pushed it to the limit. I suppose my faith in God should be a little stronger, given that I walked away from driving that car after driving it for MANY years with nary a scratch.

Toyota was responsible for making it unique, but I was responsible for the character. Initially, I think I was actually trying to make the car cool. I bought some really cheap plastic rims to put on the tires. My dad and I tinted the rear windows with a home-tinting kit. (We did not sink any money into this car at all). He wouldn’t let me tint the front windows because it was against the law. At least, that’s what his story was. In reality he probably just wanted to make sure anyone could see in the car, make sure that there would be no hanky-panky. Not that I could have picked up ANY chicks with that car…it just screamed “I’m insignificant!”

We bought some seat covers when the seats started wearing out. They actually improved the appearance more than anything else. By covering up the imitation-vinyl seats (I have no idea what they were actually made from, but I’m confident it was the cheapest plastic available to man in 1982), the car achieved some measure of comfort.

The best addition, though, was the stereo. All of our neighbors knew when I was home because they’d hear the stereo screaming by their houses. My dad heard from a relative or friend that the Carver company was liquidating their car stereo warehouse, selling $400 car stereos for $60 a pop. No warranty, no guarantees, you might be getting a completely worthless piece of crap. Dad ordered three. I guess the odds seemed pretty good that one of three would be in operating condition.

He was right. One of them worked, and we installed it. I got a pair of 6x9 speakers for my birthday, and we installed those too. Soon thereafter I began destroying my hearing.

It may not sound like it, but all I had was love for that car. And, oh the stupid adventures I had in it…

I learned to do doughnuts in that car, and almost wrecked it in the process. I was trying to impress a girl once (I should’ve known better, given what I had to work with), spun a doughnut in a gravel church parking lot, and slammed the car into some bushes on the passenger side. The girl, being in the passenger seat, was less than impressed.

The thing to do in our tiny town was to cruise the square. All of the delinquents would sit on the square, smoking, and all of the kids with cars would drive around it as many times as possible. My buddy Ryan and I would mock this adolescent show of masculinity by driving around and around the square in my little car, honking and waving at people. It almost got us beat up a couple of times. Delinquents don’t enjoy being mocked by two smart-asses in a clown-car.

Then there was “Tickle Hill”. It was a tiny hill on the outskirts of town, and the thing to do was speed down this road that was barely paved. When you hit the top of the hill you would turn off the headlights and feel your stomach jump into your throats. Apparently, we thought this wouldn’t happen if the headlights were on. We were a silly, superstitious lot.

Now that I think about it, we probably turned out the lights to make sure no other car was coming so we cold slam on the breaks if we needed to. Not that slamming on the brakes would have helped much. We were flirting with death, none of us wise enough to realize it.

Then the car began to break down, giving it all that much more of a personality and character.

The car doors would freeze shut in the winters. So every fall we’d rub the rubber seals with baby powder to try and prevent it. Sometimes the locks would freeze, too. I would have to either climb in through the passenger side or, if that door was frozen too climb in through the hatchback. There’s nothing like coming back to your car at the end of a date in the middle of winter, only to find the car locks and doors frozen shut. How impressive it must have been when I would climb in through the hatchback, unlock the passenger door from the inside, and push with all my might with my feet against the door to pry it open.

The driver side seat bolts started rusting through the floor during my Senior year of high school. That’s when I started using my chemistry book in a way the publishers never dreamed (it was the perfect height for holding up the driver’s seat). For the rest of the car’s life, a chemistry book was an integral part of the car’s construction.

We gave the car away to one of my cousins when I graduated college, and I was sad to see it go. Apparently it was sad too. Not long after we gave it away it was so heartbroken that it stopped working.

I don’t think I had any of my teen-age “rites of passage” in that car. I didn’t lose my virginity in it or anything like that. For one thing, there wasn’t room. It was damn near impossible to make out in it! But no nerdy death-trap was loved more than my 1982 Toyota Starlet.

Rest in Peace, StudMobile.

Why you gotta be all up in my snorin' face?!

2005-03-31T15:26:00.000-08:00

I’ve always snored, as far back as anyone in my family can remember. I guess it’s pretty annoying to just about everyone who’s been near me while I’m asleep, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

My sister got the short end of the snore stick when we went on vacation. When we were little, our parents bought a small, 4-person pop-top camper. Every year, we’d hitch the thing up to our Suburban and head off into the rest of the world for an adventure of some sort. Man, we had some good adventures. I’m looking forward to writing about some of them later.

The thing about being on vacation when I was a little boy was that every day was exciting. Meeting new people, seeing new landscapes was always a thrill and I would be exhausted at the end of every day. Now, having a 4-person camper limited our options as to who slept with whom. My sister and I had sleeping bags on one side of the camper and Mom and Dad were on the other side (my Dad has always snored, too, so it’s not like you could get very far away from the noise anyway).

I don’t think I had a restful night’s sleep during those early vacations. Every time I would fall into a deep sleep, and start breathing heavy (forgive me for breathing, Sis! Jeez…) I’d get a kick or a punch or a shove from my big sis. I’d usually mutter something and roll over, and the whole cycle would start again.

But the WORST was how she would wake me up in the morning. Determined to exact some amount of revenge against me for her less-than-restful night, she would wake first and do the following:

Close my mouth, forcing me to breathe through my nose.
Hold my nose closed with her other hand, watching with glee as I struggled for a breath.
Laugh when my eyes would fly open with terror

This never ceased to amuse her. If given the chance today, she would probably sneak into my room before I woke up to do this to me.

For a while, the torture stopped. My college roommates didn’t seem to mind too much, and my from my Junior year on I slept alone. Except when I didn’t. But most of the time, I did.

Then I got married. I don’t know if my sister has, at some point, coached my wife in the fine art of torturing a snorer, or if she’s just a natural. Regardless, she has developed some interesting middle-of-the-night snoring confrontation skills.

For a while, she was a shover. She would just shove me, I would grunt and roll over. But that was never a long-term solution, merely achieving peace for a few minutes.

Then, for a while, she tried clicking her tongue. Someone told us that this was an excellent way to stop someone from snoring. The problem is that I’m a pretty deep sleeper, and noises generally don’t wake me. She said that it helped on occasion, but not for very long.

So now she has settled into the tried but true for generations technique of talking to the snoring husband and urging him to stop snoring. An exchange that happened the other night went like this (Keep in mind that neither of us were really awake):

Wife: J? You’re Snoring.

J: Mmmpth.

W: Roll over.

J: Mmmph…Why?

W: (long pause) Because that’s what boys do.

J: (another long pause as this registers as one of the weirdest things I’ve ever heard, but I’m too tired to comment out loud) mmmm….OK.

At which point I rolled over. Because, after all, that’s what boys do.

Until next time, sleep soundly, and be kind to the snorers in your house. They’re honestly not doing it to kill your will to live with them.

Bad Dreams and Haunting Ghosts

2005-03-30T11:19:00.000-08:00

Today is a little busier, which is a good thing. I'm not swamped by any stretch of the imagination, but I am being utilized.

I had some very weird dreams last night. The first one I remembered this morning was that Airport Security found a dead girl in the trunk of my new car. Strangely enough, that dream was less frightening and more interesting (I didn't kill the girl) than the next dream I had which involved advanced mathematics. That dream stressed the hell out of me.

For some reason, Angelique is on my mind a bit today. She pops into my head every now and again. Angelique is an ex-girlfriend from about 7 years ago, and she's also my most persistent ghost. I treated her poorly and the relationship ended badly. We have not spoken since 1999, at her request, and for some reason the relationship is still not "closed" in my mind. To be more clear, I have a lot of guilt about my behavior and immaturity when we dated and have a fairly large load of regret. I would do just about anything to apologize, to know she's well, to see her smile and know it's genuine. I don't want to interfere, I don't want to open any old wounds of hers that have healed.

About 5 weeks ago I called her house when no one was home. I got to hear her voice (on her answering machine) for the first time in 6 years, and she sounded so happy and well. She is married with a child that I can tell she adores. Of course, I left no message. And I haven't called since.

The GOOD news about me thinking about Angelique today is that I've been thinking about that brief call a while back. Of course, you can't tell how someone really is doing by an outgoing answering maching greeting but I know she's alive, is married, and has a daughter that loves her. On days like today that's just enough "closure" for me.

That's all the time I have right now. I will try to write a fun and creative personal history-based short story a little later. I'm installing WiFi in my apartment tonight, so I'll be able to blog from the couch at home if I so desire.

Until next time

J

Everything I need to know I learned on vacation

2005-03-29T14:12:00.000-08:00

Vacations (pt. 1)
Every summer when I was growing up my family would go on a one or two week vacation. I always looked forward to it, no matter the destination. I was always excited about the destination, usually because it was somewhere I’d never been before. But really, it was the idea of traveling, of camping, of having adventures away from home that meant the most to me.
Robert Fulghum wrote a long time ago that everything he needed to know he learned in kindergarten. Like him, I learned a lot in kindergarten. But some of the most important lessons I ever learned were learned through vacations with my family, and they are lessons that serve me well today. Here are a few of them.

Don’t count on things going the way you planned.

It wouldn’t have been a family vacation if something didn’t go terribly wrong at some point. It’s good to plan, and good planning goes a long way towards success. But you can’t always anticipate that the water pump on your Suburban is going to fail in BFE, Kansas. Sitting in an un-air-conditioned service station in the middle of July for 8 hours may not be what you originally planned for the day, but it is now part of the trip so you might as well embrace it as best you can.

No matter what, there’s no reason to panic.

There’s a tornado heading for your pop-top camper? No problem…just get on the floor to hold the camper down. (not a good idea, fyi). The tent your children are sleeping in is about to be blown into the lake by high winds and driving rain? Don’t panic, get back out there and pound the tent stakes back into the ground (also not a good idea)! Your husband just cantered on a horse into a tree trunk? OK, panic a little. And then get him to the hospital.
Everything can be done more efficiently as a team.

There was more than one occasion when the slowly sprinkling sky was threatening to open up into a downpour within the next five minutes. A four-member family that each knows their jobs when putting up the camper will have time to spare in this situation.

You may not be able to choose the other passengers in your car on this road of life, but you can still treat them with respect, tolerance, and love.
This one is a good lesson but not an easy lesson. My sister and I were about as different as oil and water and we mixed just about as well. But things between us always went a lot smoother when we each were practicing a measure of respect and tolerance.

The stranger the adventure, the better the memories and stories that come from it.

Life is boring without some risks and a healthy adventure every now and again. What are you going to tell your grandkids when they ask for a story? What about the other people in the nursing home, when you’re old and boney? Would they rather hear about the hours spent in a cubicle answering e-mails under florescent lights or about the time you had to ditch the canoe because you were trapped in some fast water and were heading directly for the low-hanging tree with a thicket of branches that threatened to knock your head off and break every bone in your body?

Two good men

2005-03-25T15:19:00.000-08:00

Two good men

I found this story on a diamond website I looked at after posting that "ziamond" comment earlier today. It's from The Diamond Guy's website. A lot of good info. This story made me tear up at work, which is always a little awkward. Here's the story...

Story III: The Shoe Box

Mr. Schwartz stood all of 5 feet 4 inches tall. By the age of 64, he had been married 42 years, had two daughters and four grand children. He had been an industrial engineer (garbage collector) since he dropped out of high school to marry his childhood sweetheart that would soon be having their first child. I still remember the first day I met him. I commented on his "Members Only" jacket that had been all the rage in the 70s.

"Oh, this old thing, you'd be surprised what people throw away. Sylvia, that's my wife, just sewed up a torn pocket and bada bing, bada boom, good as new."

The second thing that I noticed was an old tan shoe box under his arm. When he laid it down on my desk, I saw scribbled in pencil on the top were the words "rainbows end."

"You're wondering what's inside aren't ya son?"

"Maybe a little bit," I replied.

"Well let me tell you, it's the vacation we never took, the fancy meals we passed up and a lifetime of bottles and cans that these two hands drug home. That there is the 1ct diamond ring I told her she would get someday."
"Go ahead count it up and be quick about it, my wife's waited long enough for her diamond rainbow."

A new 1ct good quality diamond those days was going for over $6,000. This box must be filled with thousands, more than enough for Sylvia's dream diamond. As I started counting the cash there were more $10s than $20s and more $1s than $5s. And at the end of my count there was exactly $2,231.55. He was short, there would be no 1ct diamond, not with what was in the box. Maybe in the late 1950s this would be more than enough for the diamond of their dreams, but not in today's market. The best they could get would be a 1/2ct.

"Well son, do I have enough? When can I pick up my 1ct diamond ring?"

"Let's see, $2,231.55, that will just cover it, you can pick up the ring tomorrow."

Summary:

A good man keeps his promises even if it takes a lifetime and if you're ever in the position to save a dream do it.