No particular reason to put metaphorical pen to paper tonight, just felt the need to move forward with my blogging even if it is in infinitesimal amounts. Maybe going forward is all there is.
Had a very nice Thanksgiving with my friends, Steve and Carolyn. We watched "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving," which Carolyn had never seen before and then I introduced them to "Castle." I think they're hooked. I feel like I've spread the Gospel. It was a lovely time and I was very grateful they had invited me.
In one week's time I'll be back in Huntsville. I'm very excited at the prospect, yet a bit leery of not being able to access everything in cyberspace there that I'm used to from my desk here. Will I be able to blog? Will I have access to Face book? I'm appalled and amazed that I ever thought these would be serious questions that I would have. It just goes to show how much I've embraced web technology ... as least in as far as I understand it.
I'm tentatively planning on staying Alabama until the middle of January or so. Of course, my planning may be moot if I land a job in the next four weeks. It'll be nice to see some of my old friends. I'm disappointed that Ronnie will be away this Christmas, visiting his wife's relatives in California. I'm used to always having him there for Christmas Eve dinner. Oh well, things change.
My sister and brother-in-law have been in India since November 19th and while I've enjoyed the privacy and solitude, I'm ready for them to come home. I know Titan is. He misses his mom and dad and gets antsy at not having more play time during the day. Well, perhaps more accurately, he misses not having multiple playmates. He's my buddy and I'll miss him greatly while I'm gone.
I bought a book on plot development that looks very promising. I'm hoping it'll help kick-start my writing. With any luck I might have to buy a small notebook to write in for the trip home. I'm looking forward to studying the book in the coming days.
Okay, that's enough for now. Sleepy.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Superheroes...
Tonight I just feel the need to write. Which, I guess, is a good sign if I take it to mean that I'm slowly making my writing a habit. (If I ever hope to actually finish writing the pulp serial I have in mind this will obviously be crucial.)
It's all about the discipline.
Now that I put the pieces together I can see a metaphorical pattern uncloak in front of me. Self-discipline; what my father has, preached, and habitually pointed out to me that I lacked. And, in hindsight he was right. If I'd had more self-discipline I'd have graduated school on time with better grades. I'd have a good career by now... I guess I just chose to exercise my will in other directions.
I'm pleased to say that I *did* come through in some cases though. After being kicked out of school I reapplied and graduated with a 3.87 in my major. I proved to myself that with an iron will I could go on a sphincter-tightening diet for 10 weeks and lose close to 30 pounds. I would suppose that the problem is that I only picked and chose which battles to see through.
Odd, now that I think about it: my strong desire to write manifesting itself in idea for a series of connected pulp-style adventure stories set in the 1920's. But, those who know me well know I've always had a soft spot for the classic superheroes or mystery men. "The Shadow," "Batman," "Doc Savage," "John Carter," "Solomon Kane," Phillip Marlowe. There was purity about them despite their human flaws. A sense of purpose and a code of conduct that I can relate to and admire. "Down these mean streets a man must go..."
I'm sure that, by today's standards, they'd be considered archaic and quaint to the point of absurdity (well, not Batman, Frank Miller saw to that) but that's why I see them and their breed as timeless archetypes for the knight errant. Especially Solomon Kane; if ever there was smoke in search in fire it was him.
* For those not familiar with Robert E. Howard's character, Solomon Kane, here's a primer to help illustrate my point. Howard biographer writes, "Kane is an Elizabethan Englishman, adventurer, privateer, swordsman, duelist, soldier-of-fortune, world-traveler, explorer, religious fanatic. He is a strange, sinister, mysterious figure; tall, lean, dour, ascetic, garbed all in black. His quests constantly involve with rescues and vengeance, and his stage is the world -- often remote and fantastic. He is the contemporary and friend of Francis Drake, of Walter Raleigh, of Richard Grenville, of Henry of Navarre.
Kane is known far and wide as 'God's angry man.' ..."
Glen Lord adds, "A Puritan, he has a penchant for righting of wrongs done to others. His superhuman efforts and energies and successes are related directly to his fanaticism. Howard paints him as a sombre, black-clad swordsman, searching for something he may never find."
My favorite Kane story is entitled, "Red Shadows," and I can think of no better way to both introduce and explain Solomon Kane than by reprinting part of the first chapter:
Kane comes upon a small French village that has been looted and burned. While investigating, he finds the body of a young woman, not quite dead.
" 'The fires of hades!' he murmured. 'A girl! What has harmed you, child? Be not afraid of me.' The girl looked up at him, her face like a dim white rose in the dark.
'You -- who are -- you?' her words came in gasps.
'Naught but a wanderer, a landless man, but a friend to all in need.' The gentle voice sounded somehow incongruous, coming from the man.
The girl sought to prop herself up on her elbow, and instantly he knelt and raised her to a sitting position, her head resting against his shoulder. His hand touched her breast and came away red and wet. 'Tell me.' His voice was soft, soothing, as one speaks to a babe.
'Le Loup,' she gasped, her voice swiftly growing weaker. 'He and his men -- descended upon our village -- a mile up the valley. They robbed --slew -- burned--'
'That, then, was the smoke I scented,' muttered the man, 'Go on, child.'
'I ran. He, the Wolf, pursued me -- and -- caught me --' The words died away in a shuddering silence.
'I understand, child. Then --?'
'Then -- he -- stabbed me -- with his dagger -- oh, blessed saints! -- mercy--'
Suddenly the slim form went limp. The man eased her to the earth, and touched her brow lightly.
'Dead!' he muttered.
Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oaths by saints or devils.
'Men shall die for this,' he said coldly. "
Now THAT is a sense of purpose. He didn't have to check his PDA to see if he could squeeze vengeance into his schedule. He didn't worry or wonder if it was the right thing to do or whether he should get involved; he simply chose and acted upon it without hesitation.
Things were simpler. I grant that this is a work of fiction, but you see my point: the heroes from the pulp era knew right from wrong and did the right thing. They had a code of conduct that they lived and died by. The sad thing is, my father raised me with a very similar code. He was raised by an old Texas Ranger and taught to shoot from the hip by an old gunslinger. Both these men imparted "the code" to my father, who passed it along to me.
The problem is that it does not fit into today's society. It's antiquated. Archaic. Like the code of Bushido, not only misunderstood by a great part of Western society, but laughed at by the ignorant: You try and behave with honor and discretion at all times. You protect the weak, avenge the abused, help those in need, take advantage of no one, stand by your friends and always, ALWAYS honor your word.
It and being a man were synonymous.
My sister calls my version of this Code "a knight complex." Smoke in search of fire. I think she feels I'm naively trying to fit the 21st century world around a 19th century system of behavior. It's certainly been pointed out to me many times before that I'm a "Superhero wannabe." It's true: I'd love to be "The Shadow," or "Doc Savage," with a simple purpose of righting wrongs and helping those in need. I've never tolerated bullies well. I've been punched out more than once while attempting to protect those victims who were weaker than I was. But the important thing, the crucial thing was that SOMEONE had to stand against the "bad guys." Even if you were outnumbered and outgunned, the getting back up was what mattered.
So, I guess, I'm Don Quixote and will have to live with it.
Anyway. It all serves to drive home the point that I need to get back to some self-discipline. The gym, my diet, getting my business off the ground, writing my serial.
Okay, I feel a bit better. Cathartic.
Time for bed.
It's all about the discipline.
Now that I put the pieces together I can see a metaphorical pattern uncloak in front of me. Self-discipline; what my father has, preached, and habitually pointed out to me that I lacked. And, in hindsight he was right. If I'd had more self-discipline I'd have graduated school on time with better grades. I'd have a good career by now... I guess I just chose to exercise my will in other directions.
I'm pleased to say that I *did* come through in some cases though. After being kicked out of school I reapplied and graduated with a 3.87 in my major. I proved to myself that with an iron will I could go on a sphincter-tightening diet for 10 weeks and lose close to 30 pounds. I would suppose that the problem is that I only picked and chose which battles to see through.
Odd, now that I think about it: my strong desire to write manifesting itself in idea for a series of connected pulp-style adventure stories set in the 1920's. But, those who know me well know I've always had a soft spot for the classic superheroes or mystery men. "The Shadow," "Batman," "Doc Savage," "John Carter," "Solomon Kane," Phillip Marlowe. There was purity about them despite their human flaws. A sense of purpose and a code of conduct that I can relate to and admire. "Down these mean streets a man must go..."
I'm sure that, by today's standards, they'd be considered archaic and quaint to the point of absurdity (well, not Batman, Frank Miller saw to that) but that's why I see them and their breed as timeless archetypes for the knight errant. Especially Solomon Kane; if ever there was smoke in search in fire it was him.
* For those not familiar with Robert E. Howard's character, Solomon Kane, here's a primer to help illustrate my point. Howard biographer writes, "Kane is an Elizabethan Englishman, adventurer, privateer, swordsman, duelist, soldier-of-fortune, world-traveler, explorer, religious fanatic. He is a strange, sinister, mysterious figure; tall, lean, dour, ascetic, garbed all in black. His quests constantly involve with rescues and vengeance, and his stage is the world -- often remote and fantastic. He is the contemporary and friend of Francis Drake, of Walter Raleigh, of Richard Grenville, of Henry of Navarre.
Kane is known far and wide as 'God's angry man.' ..."
Glen Lord adds, "A Puritan, he has a penchant for righting of wrongs done to others. His superhuman efforts and energies and successes are related directly to his fanaticism. Howard paints him as a sombre, black-clad swordsman, searching for something he may never find."
My favorite Kane story is entitled, "Red Shadows," and I can think of no better way to both introduce and explain Solomon Kane than by reprinting part of the first chapter:
Kane comes upon a small French village that has been looted and burned. While investigating, he finds the body of a young woman, not quite dead.
" 'The fires of hades!' he murmured. 'A girl! What has harmed you, child? Be not afraid of me.' The girl looked up at him, her face like a dim white rose in the dark.
'You -- who are -- you?' her words came in gasps.
'Naught but a wanderer, a landless man, but a friend to all in need.' The gentle voice sounded somehow incongruous, coming from the man.
The girl sought to prop herself up on her elbow, and instantly he knelt and raised her to a sitting position, her head resting against his shoulder. His hand touched her breast and came away red and wet. 'Tell me.' His voice was soft, soothing, as one speaks to a babe.
'Le Loup,' she gasped, her voice swiftly growing weaker. 'He and his men -- descended upon our village -- a mile up the valley. They robbed --slew -- burned--'
'That, then, was the smoke I scented,' muttered the man, 'Go on, child.'
'I ran. He, the Wolf, pursued me -- and -- caught me --' The words died away in a shuddering silence.
'I understand, child. Then --?'
'Then -- he -- stabbed me -- with his dagger -- oh, blessed saints! -- mercy--'
Suddenly the slim form went limp. The man eased her to the earth, and touched her brow lightly.
'Dead!' he muttered.
Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oaths by saints or devils.
'Men shall die for this,' he said coldly. "
Now THAT is a sense of purpose. He didn't have to check his PDA to see if he could squeeze vengeance into his schedule. He didn't worry or wonder if it was the right thing to do or whether he should get involved; he simply chose and acted upon it without hesitation.
Things were simpler. I grant that this is a work of fiction, but you see my point: the heroes from the pulp era knew right from wrong and did the right thing. They had a code of conduct that they lived and died by. The sad thing is, my father raised me with a very similar code. He was raised by an old Texas Ranger and taught to shoot from the hip by an old gunslinger. Both these men imparted "the code" to my father, who passed it along to me.
The problem is that it does not fit into today's society. It's antiquated. Archaic. Like the code of Bushido, not only misunderstood by a great part of Western society, but laughed at by the ignorant: You try and behave with honor and discretion at all times. You protect the weak, avenge the abused, help those in need, take advantage of no one, stand by your friends and always, ALWAYS honor your word.
It and being a man were synonymous.
My sister calls my version of this Code "a knight complex." Smoke in search of fire. I think she feels I'm naively trying to fit the 21st century world around a 19th century system of behavior. It's certainly been pointed out to me many times before that I'm a "Superhero wannabe." It's true: I'd love to be "The Shadow," or "Doc Savage," with a simple purpose of righting wrongs and helping those in need. I've never tolerated bullies well. I've been punched out more than once while attempting to protect those victims who were weaker than I was. But the important thing, the crucial thing was that SOMEONE had to stand against the "bad guys." Even if you were outnumbered and outgunned, the getting back up was what mattered.
So, I guess, I'm Don Quixote and will have to live with it.
Anyway. It all serves to drive home the point that I need to get back to some self-discipline. The gym, my diet, getting my business off the ground, writing my serial.
Okay, I feel a bit better. Cathartic.
Time for bed.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
An Old Conundrum...
So, I'm musing over the age-old question: why do bad things happen to good people? This was brought sharply to mind after chatting with an old and dear friend online yesterday and I learned of all the tribulations she and her family are going through.
If I was simply cynical, I could say that s#it happens and that's life. I could say that if she (my friend) were the average person. But she's not; she's remarkable and one of the finest human beings its ever been my privilege to have known. To use the highest compliment that Dr. Hugh Black could ever bestow upon someone, "she's a good person."
She's a Chaplain at a hospital who truly believes that she's doing the work that God has set before her: offering guidance, comfort, support and encouragement to people who are (by virtue of being in a hospital) the very definition of people in need of someone who can help provide all these things. She loves what she does even when some weeks seem to be nothing but sadness and loss. She feels like she helps even when she makes the briefest of connections.
She's a moral and upright person who always has time for her friends, is devoted to her family and even adopted a child despite already having two of her own. It might sound cliche, but she honestly has that much love to spare. I'm not trying to say she's perfect or the reincarnation of Mother Teresa, but she's a good and honest human being.
And yet, in a manner of weeks, she and her family are visited by a host of troubles: possible MS, heart problems, I could go on but won't out of respect for her privacy. So she not only has to deal with other people's pain and problems every day but her own to compound things.
Now, I know that EVERY body has personal problems as well as those that stem from work. That *is* life. But here I'm talking about the average person.
It almost seems to me that God has a new Job in my friend. And, I'm sure there are thousands of other people in the world who feel that despite their best efforts to live a good and moral life that they too are Excretus Est Ex Altitudine. *
I don't pretend to be another C.S. Lewis and really theologically "throw down" on topics like this, but the story of Job does leap to mind. For all the petty people there are in the world, why do bad things keep happening to those who spend their lives trying to do the right thing? People who thrive on business might tell you that there are no "problems," only opportunities.
Balls.
It's one thing to see a new merchandising direction because your old one failed miserably, but this comparison fails to stand up under the Halogen light of real life. Angioplasty is not simply another chance to lose weight.
It seems terribly childish of me to look heavenward and yell that it's not fair. Here I can all-too-easily hear my Father telling me that life is NOT fair. But, to be even-handed, he's also fond of saying that A) things generally work out the way they're supposed to, and B) what comes around goes around. Both viable points, but the key word there is "generally." I associate "generally" with "average." So, to my mind, this rules out the truly good people who repeatedly have cosmic deuces dropped in their lap.
Okay, I admit this was a cathartic posting; I don't pretend to have unraveled the fathomless mysteries of the Cosmos, just throwing my metaphorical hat into the ever-widening ring of people who ponder old conundrums like these ... and I scratch my head.
* ("Shat upon from a great height.")
If I was simply cynical, I could say that s#it happens and that's life. I could say that if she (my friend) were the average person. But she's not; she's remarkable and one of the finest human beings its ever been my privilege to have known. To use the highest compliment that Dr. Hugh Black could ever bestow upon someone, "she's a good person."
She's a Chaplain at a hospital who truly believes that she's doing the work that God has set before her: offering guidance, comfort, support and encouragement to people who are (by virtue of being in a hospital) the very definition of people in need of someone who can help provide all these things. She loves what she does even when some weeks seem to be nothing but sadness and loss. She feels like she helps even when she makes the briefest of connections.
She's a moral and upright person who always has time for her friends, is devoted to her family and even adopted a child despite already having two of her own. It might sound cliche, but she honestly has that much love to spare. I'm not trying to say she's perfect or the reincarnation of Mother Teresa, but she's a good and honest human being.
And yet, in a manner of weeks, she and her family are visited by a host of troubles: possible MS, heart problems, I could go on but won't out of respect for her privacy. So she not only has to deal with other people's pain and problems every day but her own to compound things.
Now, I know that EVERY body has personal problems as well as those that stem from work. That *is* life. But here I'm talking about the average person.
It almost seems to me that God has a new Job in my friend. And, I'm sure there are thousands of other people in the world who feel that despite their best efforts to live a good and moral life that they too are Excretus Est Ex Altitudine. *
I don't pretend to be another C.S. Lewis and really theologically "throw down" on topics like this, but the story of Job does leap to mind. For all the petty people there are in the world, why do bad things keep happening to those who spend their lives trying to do the right thing? People who thrive on business might tell you that there are no "problems," only opportunities.
Balls.
It's one thing to see a new merchandising direction because your old one failed miserably, but this comparison fails to stand up under the Halogen light of real life. Angioplasty is not simply another chance to lose weight.
It seems terribly childish of me to look heavenward and yell that it's not fair. Here I can all-too-easily hear my Father telling me that life is NOT fair. But, to be even-handed, he's also fond of saying that A) things generally work out the way they're supposed to, and B) what comes around goes around. Both viable points, but the key word there is "generally." I associate "generally" with "average." So, to my mind, this rules out the truly good people who repeatedly have cosmic deuces dropped in their lap.
Okay, I admit this was a cathartic posting; I don't pretend to have unraveled the fathomless mysteries of the Cosmos, just throwing my metaphorical hat into the ever-widening ring of people who ponder old conundrums like these ... and I scratch my head.
* ("Shat upon from a great height.")
Monday, October 26, 2009
Definitely Fall...
Well, as usual, I've fallen back into sloppy behavior and have been remiss in keeping up with my journal. I'll try and do better but it soon becomes a case of is what I'm going to write interesting and/or cathartic enough for me to make the effort and for people to want to read? I guess I'll focus on cathartic for the time being and let "interesting" take care of itself. A fair amount has happened since I last put metaphorical pen to paper:
My friends, Carolyn and Steve, got married this past weekend. October 24th to be precise. They were kind enough to invite me to a very intimate reception with some of their closest friends. I was a bit shy at first since I only knew Allison, but once we got on the topic of books I relaxed and opened up. To tell the truth I wish now that I hadn't been quite as chatty as I was; I feel like I drew attention away from the newlyweds. Carolyn was gracious enough to say that it was just fine with her, and Steve is the very definition of quiet anyway.
Carolyn was, I think, still reeling from all that happened to her within the last two weeks: she lost her father and had to finalize her wedding plans all the same. I can only imagine how traumatic it must have been for her. She's amazingly resilient though and will be fine in time, I know. I say all that not to idly toss around Carolyn's personal business but to try and explain why I think she was glad to let me be the center of attention for awhile. It was good to see Alison again and meet the hosts of the reception too. Delightful time all the way around.
Fall is definitely here. It's cold and the leaves have gone from crackling as they shift and die in windblown Brownian motions to being sodden multi-hued masses on the curbs and driveways. It does make the fireplace that Julie and Scott had installed last year that much nicer though. Its lovely to come in from taking Titan outside to, as my sister puts it, "check his peemail," and have the fire to warm both of us up. Titan is getting a lot of mileage out his "bed" in front of the fireplace as well.
Halloween is fast upon us and Thanksgiving Day will be here before you know it. The end of the year seems to happen sooner and sooner as I grow older. Of course, the department stores are no help. They have their Holiday items out earlier and earlier every year. This year, our local Fred Meyer had theirs out in late September. Good Lord! What does that say to consumers? School's back in session ... for God's sake, do your Christmas shopping NOW before EVERY THING'S gone?!!
Last Sunday, we were invited to a celebration to honor Yussef, the newborn son of our friends Mo and Mariam. It was lovely to be invited, see all our friends, and take part in the feast and fun but I saw the pictures from that Sunday yesterday and I cannot BELIEVE how amazingly FAT I've become since the operation!! I had lost 25 pounds!!! Now I'm terrified to weigh myself for fear of what it'll do to my blood pressure. And the scales.
I had great plans to go to the gym today and start the long, hard, crawl back to some loose form of fitness, but I felt under the weather today. Maybe tomorrow. I have simply GOT to get back to the discipline. Even starting out at 10-15 minutes on the stationary bike will be a nice start. I don't want to over do it and spend MORE down time letting this mystery pain in my abdomen keep me from exercising.
Julie and Scott's trip to India draws ever nearer and I'll be alone on Thanksgiving again. I have mixed feelings about that: It'd be nice to have them there with me, but having been alone for two Christmases before this pales by comparison to no big deal. Maybe I'll buy a small turkey breast and make myself a nice lunch and not worry about the weight for one day. I'll see how it goes.
Finally have an idea for my pulp story. I'm going to try and write it as a serial. Who knows, there might be a magazine interested in it. One step at a time though; have to actually get a coherent picture from all my years of notes and create a story from the endlessly retooled opening that I have. I'm going to follow ("Doc Savage" creator) Lester Dent's formula for writing a pulp story and see if those are the parameters that will give me the guidance to see this through.
Okay, that's enough for tonight. If I'm not careful I'll get maudlin about my love life. Time to finish the latest Spenser novel and fall asleep...
My friends, Carolyn and Steve, got married this past weekend. October 24th to be precise. They were kind enough to invite me to a very intimate reception with some of their closest friends. I was a bit shy at first since I only knew Allison, but once we got on the topic of books I relaxed and opened up. To tell the truth I wish now that I hadn't been quite as chatty as I was; I feel like I drew attention away from the newlyweds. Carolyn was gracious enough to say that it was just fine with her, and Steve is the very definition of quiet anyway.
Carolyn was, I think, still reeling from all that happened to her within the last two weeks: she lost her father and had to finalize her wedding plans all the same. I can only imagine how traumatic it must have been for her. She's amazingly resilient though and will be fine in time, I know. I say all that not to idly toss around Carolyn's personal business but to try and explain why I think she was glad to let me be the center of attention for awhile. It was good to see Alison again and meet the hosts of the reception too. Delightful time all the way around.
Fall is definitely here. It's cold and the leaves have gone from crackling as they shift and die in windblown Brownian motions to being sodden multi-hued masses on the curbs and driveways. It does make the fireplace that Julie and Scott had installed last year that much nicer though. Its lovely to come in from taking Titan outside to, as my sister puts it, "check his peemail," and have the fire to warm both of us up. Titan is getting a lot of mileage out his "bed" in front of the fireplace as well.
Halloween is fast upon us and Thanksgiving Day will be here before you know it. The end of the year seems to happen sooner and sooner as I grow older. Of course, the department stores are no help. They have their Holiday items out earlier and earlier every year. This year, our local Fred Meyer had theirs out in late September. Good Lord! What does that say to consumers? School's back in session ... for God's sake, do your Christmas shopping NOW before EVERY THING'S gone?!!
Last Sunday, we were invited to a celebration to honor Yussef, the newborn son of our friends Mo and Mariam. It was lovely to be invited, see all our friends, and take part in the feast and fun but I saw the pictures from that Sunday yesterday and I cannot BELIEVE how amazingly FAT I've become since the operation!! I had lost 25 pounds!!! Now I'm terrified to weigh myself for fear of what it'll do to my blood pressure. And the scales.
I had great plans to go to the gym today and start the long, hard, crawl back to some loose form of fitness, but I felt under the weather today. Maybe tomorrow. I have simply GOT to get back to the discipline. Even starting out at 10-15 minutes on the stationary bike will be a nice start. I don't want to over do it and spend MORE down time letting this mystery pain in my abdomen keep me from exercising.
Julie and Scott's trip to India draws ever nearer and I'll be alone on Thanksgiving again. I have mixed feelings about that: It'd be nice to have them there with me, but having been alone for two Christmases before this pales by comparison to no big deal. Maybe I'll buy a small turkey breast and make myself a nice lunch and not worry about the weight for one day. I'll see how it goes.
Finally have an idea for my pulp story. I'm going to try and write it as a serial. Who knows, there might be a magazine interested in it. One step at a time though; have to actually get a coherent picture from all my years of notes and create a story from the endlessly retooled opening that I have. I'm going to follow ("Doc Savage" creator) Lester Dent's formula for writing a pulp story and see if those are the parameters that will give me the guidance to see this through.
Okay, that's enough for tonight. If I'm not careful I'll get maudlin about my love life. Time to finish the latest Spenser novel and fall asleep...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Faith or Dodging Responsibility?
As I've gotten older I've come to realize that I'm taking more and more comfort from either "Faith" or "Fate." I'm not sure how to classify it.
Take relationships. It's so easy now to say, "If it's meant to be it'll happen." To stop stressing and leave it to chance, fate, or God. To say, if the woman doesn't turn out to be all I thought she was that it's in my favor and "wasn't meant to be." That I dodged a bullet. And I've dodged a lot of "bullets" in my time.
But is this relying on faith or simply avoiding facing an ugly truth that the common denominator is me? I mean, at what point does one draw the line between letting nature take it's course and using that as an excuse to avoid putting all their emotional eggs into one precarious basket?
I realize that "hindsight is always 20/20," and that's certainly true. I believe that, just because we don't see an explanation for why something went pear-shaped on us right away or soon after it doesn't mean that there's not one. It may be much later that we can look back and say, "ah, I see now. That had to happen so that this could happen." (Admittedly, it may never take the sting out of an unhappy memory. I've had several broken bones and cuts in my life and nothing has ever hurt me like watching your fiance pull off her engagement ring, handing it to you, and saying "I don't want to marry you.")
Fifteen years ago, my friend, Bill Barnett, once said a very insightful thing to me when we were at work (WBHL) discussing relationships: "I'll be alone before I marry stupid." To me that was brilliant and I've tried to remember that as I get older. Not to settle out of fear of growing old and, ultimately, dying alone. I've got a few friends whom I'm convinced have done this and as they get older I see the telltale cracks in the facade. Is it worth it? To have someone to come home to and give/receive affection even if you're not "happy" in the truest sense of the word? Is it worth it? I have to believe that it's not; that its lying to someone just for the sake of not being alone.
Of course, on the other hand, does this mean that I've set my sights impossibly high simply to avoid being hurt again? To convince myself that just because a relationship doesn't work out that I'm better off? Is that fair? I've been told countless times that its better to risk being hurt for the possibility of a great and consuming love. I don't mean to whine, but I'm having a tough time accepting this at 43 years of age. Does emotional safety justify being alone? It reminds me of a line from RUSH'S "Limelight" (Moving Pictures) "One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact."
But is that being "fair" and open? Or is it little more than daring someone to have feelings for you? To have them jump through hoops before you decide to trust them? At my age, I have to honestly wonder if, due to being hurt so many times before, I'd ever trust a woman again. THAT'S not the healthiest way to enter into a relationship, is it?
Okay, I can see I'm belaboring the point: is it leaving relationships to faith or avoiding the work needed to make one succeed?
When someone figures it out, please let me know, huh?
Take relationships. It's so easy now to say, "If it's meant to be it'll happen." To stop stressing and leave it to chance, fate, or God. To say, if the woman doesn't turn out to be all I thought she was that it's in my favor and "wasn't meant to be." That I dodged a bullet. And I've dodged a lot of "bullets" in my time.
But is this relying on faith or simply avoiding facing an ugly truth that the common denominator is me? I mean, at what point does one draw the line between letting nature take it's course and using that as an excuse to avoid putting all their emotional eggs into one precarious basket?
I realize that "hindsight is always 20/20," and that's certainly true. I believe that, just because we don't see an explanation for why something went pear-shaped on us right away or soon after it doesn't mean that there's not one. It may be much later that we can look back and say, "ah, I see now. That had to happen so that this could happen." (Admittedly, it may never take the sting out of an unhappy memory. I've had several broken bones and cuts in my life and nothing has ever hurt me like watching your fiance pull off her engagement ring, handing it to you, and saying "I don't want to marry you.")
Fifteen years ago, my friend, Bill Barnett, once said a very insightful thing to me when we were at work (WBHL) discussing relationships: "I'll be alone before I marry stupid." To me that was brilliant and I've tried to remember that as I get older. Not to settle out of fear of growing old and, ultimately, dying alone. I've got a few friends whom I'm convinced have done this and as they get older I see the telltale cracks in the facade. Is it worth it? To have someone to come home to and give/receive affection even if you're not "happy" in the truest sense of the word? Is it worth it? I have to believe that it's not; that its lying to someone just for the sake of not being alone.
Of course, on the other hand, does this mean that I've set my sights impossibly high simply to avoid being hurt again? To convince myself that just because a relationship doesn't work out that I'm better off? Is that fair? I've been told countless times that its better to risk being hurt for the possibility of a great and consuming love. I don't mean to whine, but I'm having a tough time accepting this at 43 years of age. Does emotional safety justify being alone? It reminds me of a line from RUSH'S "Limelight" (Moving Pictures) "One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact."
But is that being "fair" and open? Or is it little more than daring someone to have feelings for you? To have them jump through hoops before you decide to trust them? At my age, I have to honestly wonder if, due to being hurt so many times before, I'd ever trust a woman again. THAT'S not the healthiest way to enter into a relationship, is it?
Okay, I can see I'm belaboring the point: is it leaving relationships to faith or avoiding the work needed to make one succeed?
When someone figures it out, please let me know, huh?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Another From the Vaults... (04/16/99)
(The following takes places when I was living with my old friend, Bill Barnett, who was kind enough to not only let me move into his one-bedroom apartment with him when I had no where else to go, but also taught me to be a copywriter and got me a job at WOWL/WHDF-TV. This particular anecdote is about going to a strip club with "the guys" and what an eye-opener it turned out to be for me.)
April 16th
Slept late. Odd dreams again. Got the called from [WOWL-TV Production Manager] David Yancey at noon today. I'm FINALLY HIRED!! That's right, after two weeks of frustration, I start this coming Monday. Admittedly, it's only part time to start, and It'll be minimum wage ... but it's a place to start. My foot will be in the proverbial door at last.
As I'm so fond of saying: one step at a time.
(5:00 that afternoon)
Bill called to ask if I wanted to have dinner with him and Keith Davis [a salesman at the station.] As I understand it, the plan is to have steak and then go to a strip club in Huntsville. (Maybe 'Visions'?) I'll hold off closing today's entry until I get back from this little outing...
(11:00 that night)
Well, all-in-all, I had a very nice evening. Bill, Keith Davis, Luther [station cameraman], and I wound up going to 'Visions' in Huntsville, where I blew about 9 of the $15 I walked in with. I'm very proud to say that *I* spent NO money on women, only on the cover charge and a drink. Bill and Keith played Daddy Warbucks with the 'dancers' while Luther and I (much amused) looked on, greatly amused.
Sad to say, but I liken the whole event to getting drunk: do it once to see what it's like, then do it again later to make sure you didn't miss anything. Then you make a decision as to whether you'll ever do it again. I have. I won't be going back to any more strip clubs.
Simply put: to me, it was vulgar. I mean, I understood what the place was going in and I enjoy the naked female form as much or more than most guys. But there was no love nor warmth in that place. Only ... greed. And smoke. (Did I mention the smoke? LOTS of smoke!) Call me naive if you must, but why would a sensible man go to a place where he was neither welcome nor appreciated for his company? Oh sure, they were glad to see you, as long as you had money to burn. What kind of environment is that? Why throw your hard-earned money at something you can't have? What do you gain?
These women were, for the most part, attractive and sexy but their eyes haunt me. I know a great many women love to be 'exotic dancers' and not only find it empowering and heady, but make quite a nice living off it. (I know for a fact that some of the dancers at Atlanta's 'Cheetah 3' drive Porsche's and other high-end cars.) But the eyes of these women were dead. No mirth, no enjoyment, no ... LIFE was echoed in their eyes. When they were on stage their little eyes shone like cocaine on an ebony table and that's how they make their money. But, once they come offstage their eyes were flat and listless again. It was almost like a self-preservation technique. And, I guess for a lot of them it is. I would suppose that way they don't have to open up to what they don't want to see.
I don't mean to sound all melodramatic, but I felt ... dirty when I left that place, and it wasn't just from the smoke. I wanted to get home and take a bath, to somehow make amends for being a witness to all that debauchery. Strangest of all, I felt an overwhelming desire to apologize to someone. (NO, not my Mom and Dad.) But to women in general. Bizarre, I know, but the desire for atonement was amazingly strong.
I did enjoy the company of Bill and my co-workers, let me hasten to add THAT. They were a lot of fun and made my night enjoyable: Bill, sitting ringside and all but folding dollar bills into origami shapes for the dancers, Luther, sitting at our table with his arms folded as if daring the place to impress him, scowling and occasionally muttering his catchphrase, 'Shit. Sucks.' (He did smile one time after I bought him a beer.) Then there was Keith. Sweaty Keith, with his comb-over and his clip on tie draped sadly partway across his bulging stomach. Keith seemed to know most of the women (servers too!) by name. Sad really how much Keith enjoyed himself.
Okay, lest I pontificate overly much, I'll close here for tonight.
April 16th
Slept late. Odd dreams again. Got the called from [WOWL-TV Production Manager] David Yancey at noon today. I'm FINALLY HIRED!! That's right, after two weeks of frustration, I start this coming Monday. Admittedly, it's only part time to start, and It'll be minimum wage ... but it's a place to start. My foot will be in the proverbial door at last.
As I'm so fond of saying: one step at a time.
(5:00 that afternoon)
Bill called to ask if I wanted to have dinner with him and Keith Davis [a salesman at the station.] As I understand it, the plan is to have steak and then go to a strip club in Huntsville. (Maybe 'Visions'?) I'll hold off closing today's entry until I get back from this little outing...
(11:00 that night)
Well, all-in-all, I had a very nice evening. Bill, Keith Davis, Luther [station cameraman], and I wound up going to 'Visions' in Huntsville, where I blew about 9 of the $15 I walked in with. I'm very proud to say that *I* spent NO money on women, only on the cover charge and a drink. Bill and Keith played Daddy Warbucks with the 'dancers' while Luther and I (much amused) looked on, greatly amused.
Sad to say, but I liken the whole event to getting drunk: do it once to see what it's like, then do it again later to make sure you didn't miss anything. Then you make a decision as to whether you'll ever do it again. I have. I won't be going back to any more strip clubs.
Simply put: to me, it was vulgar. I mean, I understood what the place was going in and I enjoy the naked female form as much or more than most guys. But there was no love nor warmth in that place. Only ... greed. And smoke. (Did I mention the smoke? LOTS of smoke!) Call me naive if you must, but why would a sensible man go to a place where he was neither welcome nor appreciated for his company? Oh sure, they were glad to see you, as long as you had money to burn. What kind of environment is that? Why throw your hard-earned money at something you can't have? What do you gain?
These women were, for the most part, attractive and sexy but their eyes haunt me. I know a great many women love to be 'exotic dancers' and not only find it empowering and heady, but make quite a nice living off it. (I know for a fact that some of the dancers at Atlanta's 'Cheetah 3' drive Porsche's and other high-end cars.) But the eyes of these women were dead. No mirth, no enjoyment, no ... LIFE was echoed in their eyes. When they were on stage their little eyes shone like cocaine on an ebony table and that's how they make their money. But, once they come offstage their eyes were flat and listless again. It was almost like a self-preservation technique. And, I guess for a lot of them it is. I would suppose that way they don't have to open up to what they don't want to see.
I don't mean to sound all melodramatic, but I felt ... dirty when I left that place, and it wasn't just from the smoke. I wanted to get home and take a bath, to somehow make amends for being a witness to all that debauchery. Strangest of all, I felt an overwhelming desire to apologize to someone. (NO, not my Mom and Dad.) But to women in general. Bizarre, I know, but the desire for atonement was amazingly strong.
I did enjoy the company of Bill and my co-workers, let me hasten to add THAT. They were a lot of fun and made my night enjoyable: Bill, sitting ringside and all but folding dollar bills into origami shapes for the dancers, Luther, sitting at our table with his arms folded as if daring the place to impress him, scowling and occasionally muttering his catchphrase, 'Shit. Sucks.' (He did smile one time after I bought him a beer.) Then there was Keith. Sweaty Keith, with his comb-over and his clip on tie draped sadly partway across his bulging stomach. Keith seemed to know most of the women (servers too!) by name. Sad really how much Keith enjoyed himself.
Okay, lest I pontificate overly much, I'll close here for tonight.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
From the Vaults (10/30/98)
As promised (if a few days late), here is the first of some old writings from my original journal from a decade or so ago.
This was written the day I was flying out of Seattle to return to Huntsville, Alabama after an unsuccessful 7 month stay:
"(Singing) I'm sittin' in an airport station, got a ticket for my destination... (Sorry, couldn't help myself.)
Didn't get much sleep last night but then, I never do before a trip. Just lucky that way I guess. Got an hour to wait until my flight boards. I'm flying Southwest Airlines (motto" "Maybe you'll get there!!) Talk about the bottom of the food chain! I hope they have real pilots; I dread getting seated with the rest of the herd and seeing flight attendant in the pilot's seat due to cutbacks.
(This reminds me that I have not had a new will created. Moot point I guess.)
I've got my Walkman, tapes, a book, two magazines, extra batteries, Dramamine, and enough food to feed the flight.
Not that I'm going to.
Unless there's a cute flight attendant that's willing to trade sex for for Rice Krispie treats. (Fingers crossed.)
Overcast this morning. Pretty typical of late. Cold this morning too. Coldest yet; frost on the ground and rooftops. Somber.
I didn't know that that the airport terminal had CNN piped in on closed-circuit television. Progress. The guy next to me has his headphones on but they "leak" enough for me to mentally sing along with Arosmith's "Sweet Emotion." I hope they don't have a problem with my Walkman.
The opening scene from Macbeth is sitting across from me in the waiting area:
Act I, Scene I (An open place)
1st Woman: "When shall we three meet again?"
2nd Woman: "When the boarding does begin, when the waiting line is thin."
3rd Woman: "Does this sweater make me look fat?"
Sadly, that last line was a direct quote. (Sigh) With my karma, they'll be surrounding me on the plane.
Thirty minutes to go.
A couple of guys are already trying to jockey for position to be the first in line for my flight.
Amazing. The three women I alluded to a few minutes ago just paused for a collective breath. Scary.
Great, it's going to be a cattle call: take a number, fight for a seat. Could be panic. I hope I don't have to hurt anyone.
As I'm getting ready to leave, I'm seeing the true Seattle "Grunge look." Lots of pasty white males between 18-30 with long, nanky hair/beards, nappy clothes sporting coffee cups. Freaks.
The waiting area is starting to get filled to capacity. My stress is slowly starting to increase. I REALLY hope my carry on hang up bag will fit in the test-thingy so it'll be able to go on. It did get out here, but this is a different airline. (See previous page.)
With a little bit of luck (and a well-placed elbow) I ought to have a pretty low boarding number. I guess we'll see.
Better move now, the cattle are starting to trudge to the ticket-trough. More later.
10:50 and I was number three in line. looks good so far. Still a little concerned about the garment bag. I may have to do some creative cramming. Maybe it won't be a problem.
Finally starting to get hungry. About time too. I've got all sorts of food but no drinks. I'll wait until I get dizzy, then I can blame it on the pilot.
Older crowd for my flight. Fine with me, as long as no one bugs me. Still overcast. I suppose there would be some poetic justice if I didn't see sunshine until I get into the South.
Boy! Lots of "fashion emergencies" around here. (Yellow tie with grey pants?! PLEASE!) Oh well, like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands of this place. I'm not going to look at it as though I lost; I'm going to look at it as though I walked away to fight again later.
Wish I could "catnap." No way. Too many unknowns and only one me. I'll stay paranoid, thanks.
Had a nice talk with Julie last night. After 32 years I finally realized that, despite her temper, she's a really good human being. I think we made a lot of progress in our new relationship as adults.
Fifty minutes until the herd will be allowed to scramble for their seats. Right now it doesn't look like overcrowding will be a problem. Hope not. Jesus, lots of kids. This scares me worse than terrorists. At least they have an agenda; babies take NO prisoners.
Need to remember that I'm on flight 1578 to Los Angeles.
From what I can tell, the weather is clear in the South. this suits me right down to the ground. So to speak.
More and more people. they look like the villagers in a post-apocalyptic movie.
I'm rambling. I'm sleepy. More later."
That was all from that day. I'll peruse the journal and see if there are any other tidbits that I think are worth posting.
This was written the day I was flying out of Seattle to return to Huntsville, Alabama after an unsuccessful 7 month stay:
"(Singing) I'm sittin' in an airport station, got a ticket for my destination... (Sorry, couldn't help myself.)
Didn't get much sleep last night but then, I never do before a trip. Just lucky that way I guess. Got an hour to wait until my flight boards. I'm flying Southwest Airlines (motto" "Maybe you'll get there!!) Talk about the bottom of the food chain! I hope they have real pilots; I dread getting seated with the rest of the herd and seeing flight attendant in the pilot's seat due to cutbacks.
(This reminds me that I have not had a new will created. Moot point I guess.)
I've got my Walkman, tapes, a book, two magazines, extra batteries, Dramamine, and enough food to feed the flight.
Not that I'm going to.
Unless there's a cute flight attendant that's willing to trade sex for for Rice Krispie treats. (Fingers crossed.)
Overcast this morning. Pretty typical of late. Cold this morning too. Coldest yet; frost on the ground and rooftops. Somber.
I didn't know that that the airport terminal had CNN piped in on closed-circuit television. Progress. The guy next to me has his headphones on but they "leak" enough for me to mentally sing along with Arosmith's "Sweet Emotion." I hope they don't have a problem with my Walkman.
The opening scene from Macbeth is sitting across from me in the waiting area:
Act I, Scene I (An open place)
1st Woman: "When shall we three meet again?"
2nd Woman: "When the boarding does begin, when the waiting line is thin."
3rd Woman: "Does this sweater make me look fat?"
Sadly, that last line was a direct quote. (Sigh) With my karma, they'll be surrounding me on the plane.
Thirty minutes to go.
A couple of guys are already trying to jockey for position to be the first in line for my flight.
Amazing. The three women I alluded to a few minutes ago just paused for a collective breath. Scary.
Great, it's going to be a cattle call: take a number, fight for a seat. Could be panic. I hope I don't have to hurt anyone.
As I'm getting ready to leave, I'm seeing the true Seattle "Grunge look." Lots of pasty white males between 18-30 with long, nanky hair/beards, nappy clothes sporting coffee cups. Freaks.
The waiting area is starting to get filled to capacity. My stress is slowly starting to increase. I REALLY hope my carry on hang up bag will fit in the test-thingy so it'll be able to go on. It did get out here, but this is a different airline. (See previous page.)
With a little bit of luck (and a well-placed elbow) I ought to have a pretty low boarding number. I guess we'll see.
Better move now, the cattle are starting to trudge to the ticket-trough. More later.
10:50 and I was number three in line. looks good so far. Still a little concerned about the garment bag. I may have to do some creative cramming. Maybe it won't be a problem.
Finally starting to get hungry. About time too. I've got all sorts of food but no drinks. I'll wait until I get dizzy, then I can blame it on the pilot.
Older crowd for my flight. Fine with me, as long as no one bugs me. Still overcast. I suppose there would be some poetic justice if I didn't see sunshine until I get into the South.
Boy! Lots of "fashion emergencies" around here. (Yellow tie with grey pants?! PLEASE!) Oh well, like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands of this place. I'm not going to look at it as though I lost; I'm going to look at it as though I walked away to fight again later.
Wish I could "catnap." No way. Too many unknowns and only one me. I'll stay paranoid, thanks.
Had a nice talk with Julie last night. After 32 years I finally realized that, despite her temper, she's a really good human being. I think we made a lot of progress in our new relationship as adults.
Fifty minutes until the herd will be allowed to scramble for their seats. Right now it doesn't look like overcrowding will be a problem. Hope not. Jesus, lots of kids. This scares me worse than terrorists. At least they have an agenda; babies take NO prisoners.
Need to remember that I'm on flight 1578 to Los Angeles.
From what I can tell, the weather is clear in the South. this suits me right down to the ground. So to speak.
More and more people. they look like the villagers in a post-apocalyptic movie.
I'm rambling. I'm sleepy. More later."
That was all from that day. I'll peruse the journal and see if there are any other tidbits that I think are worth posting.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Another Grillin' Day
Shamefully, I just haven't felt much like writing these past several days. The irony is: I'd really like to be a serious author. I simply don't have the self-discipline to make it. I've read numerous works by famous/prolific authors who all claim that endeavoring authors should write every single day. Doesn't matter what you write so long as you get into the habit.
That makes sense actually. I was able to do the unthinkable two years ago and go to the gym (with very little failure) every other day for about 4 months solid. It became more than just a habit at that point. While I can't honestly claim that my body began to crave the workouts, I did keenly feel the need to go exercise. (At one point it had snowed about 5 inches and rather than think, "Oh cool, I'm going to make a snow fort!" I thought, "Damn. How am I supposed to get to the gym now?")
Pretty amazing, huh?
I guess it would be easier for me to podcast than type. Then, in theory at least, I could say what I wanted to and edit ipso facto. Oh well, one step at a time. I need to finish the basic concepts of Garage Band 2009 before I tackle the advanced stuff.
So, I learned that my old friend from UNA days, Mark Webb, has been divorced for a few years now. I learned this from Bill Barnett who wasn't sure if there were any truth to the story, and asked me if I knew. I contacted Diane DuBois who was kind enough to let me know that, not only had Mark and Jane been divorced for three years, Mark's younger brother, Shaun, did a few days ago.
Wow. I knew that Mark was a very private person, but I can't help but feel a bit hurt that he hadn't mentioned the divorce to me before now. Of course, I realize that I'm basing another person's behavior on my system. That's not only unfair, it's flat out wrong. If I'd learned to be cognizant of that innate ability in me I might have saved myself some hurt friends in the past.
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
No promises, but tomorrow I'm going to attempt to find my old journal from a decade ago and see if I can't transpose some of the better writings in it to my blog.
Today, was another beautiful "grillin' day." Cerulean skies with just a hint of a crisp breeze blowing the cherry wood smoke over the back deck. Three pounds of lean ground beef and two packets of Lipton's Beefy Onion Soup Mix later and I had an awesome baker's dozen of fresh hamburger patties. Thank you, Ronnie Colvin for teaching me how to make these bowel-shattering bits of beef. (Not that I'll make hamburgers out of them per Se; I'm back on my 90%+ protein only diet and just need the pure protein.)
Okay, after a bit of digging I found my old journal. Looks like the first date in it is from July 9Th, 1998. Jeez, just glancing through this thing has got me blushing and embarrassed. So, I'll be skipping the more whiny and self-absorbed parts.
Promise.
That makes sense actually. I was able to do the unthinkable two years ago and go to the gym (with very little failure) every other day for about 4 months solid. It became more than just a habit at that point. While I can't honestly claim that my body began to crave the workouts, I did keenly feel the need to go exercise. (At one point it had snowed about 5 inches and rather than think, "Oh cool, I'm going to make a snow fort!" I thought, "Damn. How am I supposed to get to the gym now?")
Pretty amazing, huh?
I guess it would be easier for me to podcast than type. Then, in theory at least, I could say what I wanted to and edit ipso facto. Oh well, one step at a time. I need to finish the basic concepts of Garage Band 2009 before I tackle the advanced stuff.
So, I learned that my old friend from UNA days, Mark Webb, has been divorced for a few years now. I learned this from Bill Barnett who wasn't sure if there were any truth to the story, and asked me if I knew. I contacted Diane DuBois who was kind enough to let me know that, not only had Mark and Jane been divorced for three years, Mark's younger brother, Shaun, did a few days ago.
Wow. I knew that Mark was a very private person, but I can't help but feel a bit hurt that he hadn't mentioned the divorce to me before now. Of course, I realize that I'm basing another person's behavior on my system. That's not only unfair, it's flat out wrong. If I'd learned to be cognizant of that innate ability in me I might have saved myself some hurt friends in the past.
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
No promises, but tomorrow I'm going to attempt to find my old journal from a decade ago and see if I can't transpose some of the better writings in it to my blog.
Today, was another beautiful "grillin' day." Cerulean skies with just a hint of a crisp breeze blowing the cherry wood smoke over the back deck. Three pounds of lean ground beef and two packets of Lipton's Beefy Onion Soup Mix later and I had an awesome baker's dozen of fresh hamburger patties. Thank you, Ronnie Colvin for teaching me how to make these bowel-shattering bits of beef. (Not that I'll make hamburgers out of them per Se; I'm back on my 90%+ protein only diet and just need the pure protein.)
Okay, after a bit of digging I found my old journal. Looks like the first date in it is from July 9Th, 1998. Jeez, just glancing through this thing has got me blushing and embarrassed. So, I'll be skipping the more whiny and self-absorbed parts.
Promise.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Climbing on the packed-to-capacity bandwagon...
Okay, I'm going to weigh in on the Kanye West thing. I wish that Taylor Swift hadn't been so caught off guard that she was able to ream West's cognac-swilling @ss a new one. That would have been the perfect medium. As to whether it was all a PR stunt by West to heighten his "bad boy" image I can't say. What I can say about Kanye West is this:
(Warning extreme vulgarity follows. If you're squeamish, please skip the next sentence.)
After seeing all the crap that Kanye West has pulled in public for years now, I'm wholeheartedly of the opinion that his father should have pulled out and shot him on the wall.
Welcome back! Let's leave that sad commentary where it is. And speaking of sad news, Patrick Swayze died today. I was never a fan of his movies (although, let's face it, "Road House" was a special kinda bad) but he seemed like a genuinely good guy and I'm sorry that he's gone.
Not much else to mention today.
(Warning extreme vulgarity follows. If you're squeamish, please skip the next sentence.)
After seeing all the crap that Kanye West has pulled in public for years now, I'm wholeheartedly of the opinion that his father should have pulled out and shot him on the wall.
Welcome back! Let's leave that sad commentary where it is. And speaking of sad news, Patrick Swayze died today. I was never a fan of his movies (although, let's face it, "Road House" was a special kinda bad) but he seemed like a genuinely good guy and I'm sorry that he's gone.
Not much else to mention today.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Grillin' Day
Lovely day today: bright, sunny, breezy and hovered around the high 60's low 70's. A perfect day for grilling. Which I did. Ground beef, turkey patties, and soy-hamburger patties. That ought to tide me over for my protein for awhile.
Had a lovely online chat with a dear old friend today which caused me to ruminate on something I wrote on my first or second post last week. I mentioned that I'd been engaged twice, but I realized this evening that it's all a matter of perspective: I think it's probably more realistic to say one and a half times. I'm being coy, but I recall that, without a ring to accompany the proposal, she saw it in a different light.
Okay, enough about that. To say that the point is moot is a vast understatement.
Amusing anecdote: yesterday the phone rang and it was our next door neighbor, Geri. She called us to say that she and her husband were on their way to Boise, Idaho for a craft fair (Geri has a small crafts business) and she wondered if they'd locked their front door. Well, we keep a spare key to feed her cat while they're away, so I got the key and assured Geri that it'd be no problem.
"I've got the spare key, so I'll just go over right now and check. If you did leave it unlocked, I'll call to let you know." I could FEEL Geri's bafflement before she spoke slowly, as if to a nephew with learning difficulties, "No ... just lock the door." I stared at the spare key in my hand and replied, "well, yeah, I wouldn't ... I mean, of course I'll lo- ... have a safe trip to Boise!"
It has been a puzzlement to me for most of my life why people assume I'm slow-witted. Possessing a genius-level IQ, I can only conclude that I have a rare gift for NOT communicating my thoughts well at ALL. People tend to jump to conclusions based on what I say and what I'm doing at the time.
Hypothetical example: I could be cleaning my pistol and casually ask friends around me if anyone would like to go to Burger King for lunch. Instantly, SOMEone will make the leap of logic that I'm going to shoot people at a Burger King out of anger or frustration. it's actually ALL coincidence.
You see what I mean?
Or, I could have walked in the house after a baseball game on a Sunday afternoon with band friends holding a ball bat. I might say, "I need to remember to fix my sticking bedroom door." My father would automatically assume I was going to hammer the door with the ball bat. I could understand him drawing the conclusion that I was going to use the bat, but rather than ask how I was going to attempt the door repair he'd just assume what was obvious to him. A great many people do not think to ask me what my intentions are, they just expect the worst.
Story of my life.
One of my favorite theatre stories to tell is of an early rehearsal of Julius Caesar. I was in the opening scene, and our director, Jim Davis, was trying to teach us "old school" acting: every move poised and accented by a hand gesture etc to really drive home the point. Very over-the-top. After watching him take some actors hands and move them into precisely the position he wanted for them to deliver the line, he walked over to me and gave me my directions to enter and place myself upstage.
I stupidly asked, "what should I do with my hands?" Since everyone else had his ministrations, I wondered if he'd forgotten me. Mister Davis chuckled in his deep, baritone voice and from the darkness of the house seats, I heard him drawl, "they'll dangle very nicely at the ends of your arms."
Instant hilarity. EVERYONE laughed to the point of concern over strokes and audible flatulentence.
I looked like a rank amateur and it was, I still feel, a very legitimate question. It's gone down in the annals of history at UNA's Norton Auditorium.
Frustrating to be misunderstood. I like to think that my brain's just working so fast that other's can't keep up with me and get confused. Of course, I am a Leo. I would think that.
Okay, enough on that topic.
I watched one of my favorite "Dr. Who" episodes today. David Tennant is the MAN. I'll be sorry to see him move on. To be fair, of course, I didn't think ANYone could replace Christopher Eccleston's Doctor and David Tennant made me a believer in short order. I'll be very curious to see how the new, younger actor does in his stint as the last of the time lords.
Come to think of it, I was very sad to see Pierce Brosnan no longer be James Bond (despite how badly the second half of "Die Another Day" sucked.) I was very against Daniel Craig taking over the franchise and came out of "Casino Royale" as a huge fan. (We won't talk about how inane most of "Quantum of Solace" was.) I still think Gerard Butler would have been a great Bond, but that's just me.
Right. Enough for one day. Sleepy time.
Had a lovely online chat with a dear old friend today which caused me to ruminate on something I wrote on my first or second post last week. I mentioned that I'd been engaged twice, but I realized this evening that it's all a matter of perspective: I think it's probably more realistic to say one and a half times. I'm being coy, but I recall that, without a ring to accompany the proposal, she saw it in a different light.
Okay, enough about that. To say that the point is moot is a vast understatement.
Amusing anecdote: yesterday the phone rang and it was our next door neighbor, Geri. She called us to say that she and her husband were on their way to Boise, Idaho for a craft fair (Geri has a small crafts business) and she wondered if they'd locked their front door. Well, we keep a spare key to feed her cat while they're away, so I got the key and assured Geri that it'd be no problem.
"I've got the spare key, so I'll just go over right now and check. If you did leave it unlocked, I'll call to let you know." I could FEEL Geri's bafflement before she spoke slowly, as if to a nephew with learning difficulties, "No ... just lock the door." I stared at the spare key in my hand and replied, "well, yeah, I wouldn't ... I mean, of course I'll lo- ... have a safe trip to Boise!"
It has been a puzzlement to me for most of my life why people assume I'm slow-witted. Possessing a genius-level IQ, I can only conclude that I have a rare gift for NOT communicating my thoughts well at ALL. People tend to jump to conclusions based on what I say and what I'm doing at the time.
Hypothetical example: I could be cleaning my pistol and casually ask friends around me if anyone would like to go to Burger King for lunch. Instantly, SOMEone will make the leap of logic that I'm going to shoot people at a Burger King out of anger or frustration. it's actually ALL coincidence.
You see what I mean?
Or, I could have walked in the house after a baseball game on a Sunday afternoon with band friends holding a ball bat. I might say, "I need to remember to fix my sticking bedroom door." My father would automatically assume I was going to hammer the door with the ball bat. I could understand him drawing the conclusion that I was going to use the bat, but rather than ask how I was going to attempt the door repair he'd just assume what was obvious to him. A great many people do not think to ask me what my intentions are, they just expect the worst.
Story of my life.
One of my favorite theatre stories to tell is of an early rehearsal of Julius Caesar. I was in the opening scene, and our director, Jim Davis, was trying to teach us "old school" acting: every move poised and accented by a hand gesture etc to really drive home the point. Very over-the-top. After watching him take some actors hands and move them into precisely the position he wanted for them to deliver the line, he walked over to me and gave me my directions to enter and place myself upstage.
I stupidly asked, "what should I do with my hands?" Since everyone else had his ministrations, I wondered if he'd forgotten me. Mister Davis chuckled in his deep, baritone voice and from the darkness of the house seats, I heard him drawl, "they'll dangle very nicely at the ends of your arms."
Instant hilarity. EVERYONE laughed to the point of concern over strokes and audible flatulentence.
I looked like a rank amateur and it was, I still feel, a very legitimate question. It's gone down in the annals of history at UNA's Norton Auditorium.
Frustrating to be misunderstood. I like to think that my brain's just working so fast that other's can't keep up with me and get confused. Of course, I am a Leo. I would think that.
Okay, enough on that topic.
I watched one of my favorite "Dr. Who" episodes today. David Tennant is the MAN. I'll be sorry to see him move on. To be fair, of course, I didn't think ANYone could replace Christopher Eccleston's Doctor and David Tennant made me a believer in short order. I'll be very curious to see how the new, younger actor does in his stint as the last of the time lords.
Come to think of it, I was very sad to see Pierce Brosnan no longer be James Bond (despite how badly the second half of "Die Another Day" sucked.) I was very against Daniel Craig taking over the franchise and came out of "Casino Royale" as a huge fan. (We won't talk about how inane most of "Quantum of Solace" was.) I still think Gerard Butler would have been a great Bond, but that's just me.
Right. Enough for one day. Sleepy time.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
09/09/09
Well, it's the ninth day in the ninth month of the ninth year of the new millenium and I suppose all I need to really cap the day off is to be listening "Revolution #9. Since I was never fond of that ... oh let's be generous and call it "song," I'll probably just listen to Beethovan's "Ode to Joy" Symphony and call it good.
Still, it is kind of cool to be able to say that I've seen this day since it'll be 1000 years before it comes around again.
Well the job interview at Goodwill did not titillate me. I definitely got mixed signals. The general manager and her assistant manager co-interviewed me for about 45 minutes and, other than my blathering at times and blushing furiously, I thought it went rather well. However, towards the end of the interview the manager explained that they had a lot of people to interview and that the entire Goodwill Organization was always looking for talented people. Further, that if I didn't get hired there that my skills would be put forth and that another Goodwill store might decide that we were a good fit for each other. I took this to mean that she wasn't impressed but would send forth my name into the ether to see if anyone was interested in me. At least that was positive.
Then she said to call her in "a few weeks to see what was going on." Now, I've been brushed off by companies and beautiful women too numerous to count and I've developed a sixth sense as to when I'm being politely (if inexorably) being shown the door. This is what that felt like. maybe I'm being paranoid ... it's certainly not the first time.
In other news, I'm fighting off a brand new cold that Julie and Scott picked up from their forced confinement with their ... acquaintance (?) Veronica during the Labor Day Weekend. (Sigh.) Like I wasn't still getting over the last chest cold. Oh well, not their fault. They'll just pull a Typhoid Mary and hand it off to me.
Did NOT accomplish much today: cleaned some in the kitchen and my room. Bought some groceries and more anti-candida medicine. It seems to REALLY help quash the cravings for carbs and sweets. That's going to be imperative if I'm to get back on track to drop more of this weight. Very frustrating to have lost 20+ pounds only to gain 8 of it back 2 weeks after surgery.
Had a very nice Labor Day weekend despite the cold rain. Nice to have some quiet time around the house with Julie and Scott gone. Spent a lovely afternoon with my friends, Carolyn and Steve, having an early dinner at The Olive Garden and then going to Half-Price Books in Redmond. I picked up several tasty items that I'm looking forward to reading sometime soon.
Speaking of looking forward to something: I'm most anxious for Windows 7 to come out in October. It's not that I've embraced computers at last, it's just that I currently have the beta version of 7 on my machine at present and there are few compatibility bugs that crop up from time to time. Most notably while I'm playing "Bioshock." (For those who aren't familar with this game, it is undoubtedly one of the top three creepiest games I've EVER played. [The other two being "7Th Guest," and "The Undying."] The premise s that you're the sole survivor of a small plane crash in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in 1960. By some miracle you notice a concrete structure jutting up from the depths and realize its a stairway that leads to a bathysphere that takes you down MANY leagues under water to a fantastic city that was built in secret in the 1940's-50's. The city was created and built by a genius who wanted the freedom to continue with genetic experiments to "upgrade" people via mutation. So, you have untold hundreds of crazed mutated "splicers" wandering around muttering to themselves in the gloom of this dying city and trying to kill you. Your objective is to find this one man named "Atlas" who says he'll help you escape if you help him find his family. The only problem there is that "Atlas" is just a voice on a P.A. system that guides you through. You find weapons and money to buy upgrades and inject yourself with DNA-altering chemicals to gain super powers to help keep you alive. While all this is going on, eerie, 1940's-50's music is playing in the background like a lonely jukebox. Creepy but very cool and compelling game.)
Right. That's all the news for now. More as events warrant.
Still, it is kind of cool to be able to say that I've seen this day since it'll be 1000 years before it comes around again.
Well the job interview at Goodwill did not titillate me. I definitely got mixed signals. The general manager and her assistant manager co-interviewed me for about 45 minutes and, other than my blathering at times and blushing furiously, I thought it went rather well. However, towards the end of the interview the manager explained that they had a lot of people to interview and that the entire Goodwill Organization was always looking for talented people. Further, that if I didn't get hired there that my skills would be put forth and that another Goodwill store might decide that we were a good fit for each other. I took this to mean that she wasn't impressed but would send forth my name into the ether to see if anyone was interested in me. At least that was positive.
Then she said to call her in "a few weeks to see what was going on." Now, I've been brushed off by companies and beautiful women too numerous to count and I've developed a sixth sense as to when I'm being politely (if inexorably) being shown the door. This is what that felt like. maybe I'm being paranoid ... it's certainly not the first time.
In other news, I'm fighting off a brand new cold that Julie and Scott picked up from their forced confinement with their ... acquaintance (?) Veronica during the Labor Day Weekend. (Sigh.) Like I wasn't still getting over the last chest cold. Oh well, not their fault. They'll just pull a Typhoid Mary and hand it off to me.
Did NOT accomplish much today: cleaned some in the kitchen and my room. Bought some groceries and more anti-candida medicine. It seems to REALLY help quash the cravings for carbs and sweets. That's going to be imperative if I'm to get back on track to drop more of this weight. Very frustrating to have lost 20+ pounds only to gain 8 of it back 2 weeks after surgery.
Had a very nice Labor Day weekend despite the cold rain. Nice to have some quiet time around the house with Julie and Scott gone. Spent a lovely afternoon with my friends, Carolyn and Steve, having an early dinner at The Olive Garden and then going to Half-Price Books in Redmond. I picked up several tasty items that I'm looking forward to reading sometime soon.
Speaking of looking forward to something: I'm most anxious for Windows 7 to come out in October. It's not that I've embraced computers at last, it's just that I currently have the beta version of 7 on my machine at present and there are few compatibility bugs that crop up from time to time. Most notably while I'm playing "Bioshock." (For those who aren't familar with this game, it is undoubtedly one of the top three creepiest games I've EVER played. [The other two being "7Th Guest," and "The Undying."] The premise s that you're the sole survivor of a small plane crash in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in 1960. By some miracle you notice a concrete structure jutting up from the depths and realize its a stairway that leads to a bathysphere that takes you down MANY leagues under water to a fantastic city that was built in secret in the 1940's-50's. The city was created and built by a genius who wanted the freedom to continue with genetic experiments to "upgrade" people via mutation. So, you have untold hundreds of crazed mutated "splicers" wandering around muttering to themselves in the gloom of this dying city and trying to kill you. Your objective is to find this one man named "Atlas" who says he'll help you escape if you help him find his family. The only problem there is that "Atlas" is just a voice on a P.A. system that guides you through. You find weapons and money to buy upgrades and inject yourself with DNA-altering chemicals to gain super powers to help keep you alive. While all this is going on, eerie, 1940's-50's music is playing in the background like a lonely jukebox. Creepy but very cool and compelling game.)
Right. That's all the news for now. More as events warrant.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Bad Dream
Had a very disturbing dream last night: for whatever reason, the country was operating on a personal I.D. that was tatooed onto every person's wrist. those with no tatoo were rounded up and being "reeducated."
My old high school friend, Tom Moseley, was at our house in Huntsville, and noticing we had no I.D. marks, was going to notify the authorities. Grabbing the first weapon I could find, a fork, I cut open Tom's throat and held him down while thrashed around bleeding out. My sister threw a towel over him to mask the sight, but I can still "feel" Tom's death throes as I held him down until he lay still.
I woke up and lept out of bed with tears in my eyes and PROFOUNDLY shaken. It felt absolutely real, and I'm bothered by how quickly I made the decision to kill. I can only mitigate that decision by saying that A) my whole family's lives lay in the balance and B) it was a hydrocodone/methocarbamol-induced dream.
That doesn't make it any less frightening for me though.
My old high school friend, Tom Moseley, was at our house in Huntsville, and noticing we had no I.D. marks, was going to notify the authorities. Grabbing the first weapon I could find, a fork, I cut open Tom's throat and held him down while thrashed around bleeding out. My sister threw a towel over him to mask the sight, but I can still "feel" Tom's death throes as I held him down until he lay still.
I woke up and lept out of bed with tears in my eyes and PROFOUNDLY shaken. It felt absolutely real, and I'm bothered by how quickly I made the decision to kill. I can only mitigate that decision by saying that A) my whole family's lives lay in the balance and B) it was a hydrocodone/methocarbamol-induced dream.
That doesn't make it any less frightening for me though.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
09/04/09
I've been remiss these past few days in logging what's going on. I guess I've been a bit concerned about this pain in my right lower abdomen.
Dr. Perrin, the surgeon, say that it is either A) a pulled/torn muscle or B) [if the pain persiste for more than 4 weeks] a hiatal hernia. Joy. Bottom line is I'm no closer to the gym than I was prior to the gallbladder being removed on 8/13/09. I'll just see what happens and take ibuprofen or pain meds as necessary.
I shaved my head today. Of course that's a misnomer; I didn't actually shave it, I buzzed it down to almost nothing with an electric trimmer. Rather than Yul Brenner, think Bruce Willis with a head having "5 o'clock shadow." I like it this way, it's MUCH easier to care for and saves on shampoos and conditioners. (Of course, I still condition my beard, but I digress.)
My sister, Julie, and brother-in-law, Scott leave tomorrow for a long Labor Day weekend on Whidbey Island, about 50 miles from our house. They're going to split the cost of renting a house with a (I'm convinced) psychopath named Veronica. Why? I have no idea. I suppose the thought is just to enjoy the change of scenery and to try and ignore her nonstop ravings. Fine with me. Gives me some time to myself. And Titan. Mustn't forget the faithful black lab.
I have a job interview next Tuesday for an assistant manager position at the Goodwill in Tukwila. (Tukwila [pronounced "tuk-willa"] is a township just on the other side of Renton, which is on the other side of where we live.) I have no feel for how much they might pay and what sort of benefits might be involved, but I have a good feeling about it. We'll see how it goes.
Ibuprofen (600 mgs) is kicking in. Sleepy. Bed time.
Dr. Perrin, the surgeon, say that it is either A) a pulled/torn muscle or B) [if the pain persiste for more than 4 weeks] a hiatal hernia. Joy. Bottom line is I'm no closer to the gym than I was prior to the gallbladder being removed on 8/13/09. I'll just see what happens and take ibuprofen or pain meds as necessary.
I shaved my head today. Of course that's a misnomer; I didn't actually shave it, I buzzed it down to almost nothing with an electric trimmer. Rather than Yul Brenner, think Bruce Willis with a head having "5 o'clock shadow." I like it this way, it's MUCH easier to care for and saves on shampoos and conditioners. (Of course, I still condition my beard, but I digress.)
My sister, Julie, and brother-in-law, Scott leave tomorrow for a long Labor Day weekend on Whidbey Island, about 50 miles from our house. They're going to split the cost of renting a house with a (I'm convinced) psychopath named Veronica. Why? I have no idea. I suppose the thought is just to enjoy the change of scenery and to try and ignore her nonstop ravings. Fine with me. Gives me some time to myself. And Titan. Mustn't forget the faithful black lab.
I have a job interview next Tuesday for an assistant manager position at the Goodwill in Tukwila. (Tukwila [pronounced "tuk-willa"] is a township just on the other side of Renton, which is on the other side of where we live.) I have no feel for how much they might pay and what sort of benefits might be involved, but I have a good feeling about it. We'll see how it goes.
Ibuprofen (600 mgs) is kicking in. Sleepy. Bed time.
Monday, August 31, 2009
"Once more into the breach..."
Summer is over.
Call me pressimistic, but it's the last day of August, 2009 and while the sun is shining and the sky is a shy shade of blue it's still the early days of Fall. The beginning of the rainy season and six months of gloom and fog. Admittedly, we can kiss the Summer temperatures that historians here in Seattle will etch in the annals of time, and those of us that were here for them will tell our heirs that we survived the "Great Heat of ought-nine." Summer slips away before us like the LED readout on a gasoline pump, but I have to say that I'm looking forward to Fall. I always do.
Autumn in Huntsville, Alabama, is/was always spectacular: foliage as far as the eye can see in glorious hues of red, amber, and gold. There is the smell of chimneys in the crisp evening air as the football season progresses and the dry, satisfying crunch of dead leaves that seem to swarm your feet like curious puppies. I miss it.
So, here I am, taking metaphorical pen to per once more in an attempt to ... I don't know ... catalog my life? Tell a story to whomever will listen? Amuse an audience? That's probably closest to the truth.
I do know that this is Stephen Fry's fault though. If I hadn't been listening to his audio narrative of a collection of his memoirs entitled, Rescuing the Spectacled Bear, and being so enraptured with his wordsmithing then I probably would have left well enough alone. Oh well, so be it.
For those who came in late...
I celebrated my third anniversary of living in Seattle in the early days of this month. This time around I'm enjoying it. I think it's the combination of having my own car, friends, and somewhat of a life that's made the difference from almost ten years ago when I tried this before. (One day, I'm going to have to transpose my handwritten journal of the year before and after the seven months I lasted the first time. Some of it was quite good.)
You know, for all the fact that I'm a direhard Leo and love being the center of attention, I absolutely hate telling my life story in any form. There just doesn't seem to be that much to tell. And yet, I've traveled a great deal of the world, I've met some famous people, had many adventures (which, at the time, I didn't catagorize under the heading "adventure," they were catagorized as, at worst, "near-death situations," or at best, "pains in the ass.") I suppose that hindsight not only lets us see with rose-colored glasses that bare a striking resembalance to Groucho Marx.
Just for giggles, I'm going to try and recall some of these. Let's see, in no particular order, I came within inches of falling off the side of a mountain in the Rockies, I met a world-class magician who stayed up until the small hours doing magic tricks for a friend and me, I walked a few miles in London by myself long after the tube had closed at 11 pm. What else? I've been friends with a licensed bounty hunter, studied martial arts under a sifu ("master") who trained with the Shaolin priests (and once held the world's record for fastest punch), I've been on television and radio and engaged but only head-over-heels in love once.
And how many people can honestly say that they've known the right woman? Just because she just didn't end up with me doesn't diminish the fact.
Okay, I'll stop here. It just sounds like I'm bragging.
This is good though. Cathartic. I'll do it again soon.
Call me pressimistic, but it's the last day of August, 2009 and while the sun is shining and the sky is a shy shade of blue it's still the early days of Fall. The beginning of the rainy season and six months of gloom and fog. Admittedly, we can kiss the Summer temperatures that historians here in Seattle will etch in the annals of time, and those of us that were here for them will tell our heirs that we survived the "Great Heat of ought-nine." Summer slips away before us like the LED readout on a gasoline pump, but I have to say that I'm looking forward to Fall. I always do.
Autumn in Huntsville, Alabama, is/was always spectacular: foliage as far as the eye can see in glorious hues of red, amber, and gold. There is the smell of chimneys in the crisp evening air as the football season progresses and the dry, satisfying crunch of dead leaves that seem to swarm your feet like curious puppies. I miss it.
So, here I am, taking metaphorical pen to per once more in an attempt to ... I don't know ... catalog my life? Tell a story to whomever will listen? Amuse an audience? That's probably closest to the truth.
I do know that this is Stephen Fry's fault though. If I hadn't been listening to his audio narrative of a collection of his memoirs entitled, Rescuing the Spectacled Bear, and being so enraptured with his wordsmithing then I probably would have left well enough alone. Oh well, so be it.
For those who came in late...
I celebrated my third anniversary of living in Seattle in the early days of this month. This time around I'm enjoying it. I think it's the combination of having my own car, friends, and somewhat of a life that's made the difference from almost ten years ago when I tried this before. (One day, I'm going to have to transpose my handwritten journal of the year before and after the seven months I lasted the first time. Some of it was quite good.)
You know, for all the fact that I'm a direhard Leo and love being the center of attention, I absolutely hate telling my life story in any form. There just doesn't seem to be that much to tell. And yet, I've traveled a great deal of the world, I've met some famous people, had many adventures (which, at the time, I didn't catagorize under the heading "adventure," they were catagorized as, at worst, "near-death situations," or at best, "pains in the ass.") I suppose that hindsight not only lets us see with rose-colored glasses that bare a striking resembalance to Groucho Marx.
Just for giggles, I'm going to try and recall some of these. Let's see, in no particular order, I came within inches of falling off the side of a mountain in the Rockies, I met a world-class magician who stayed up until the small hours doing magic tricks for a friend and me, I walked a few miles in London by myself long after the tube had closed at 11 pm. What else? I've been friends with a licensed bounty hunter, studied martial arts under a sifu ("master") who trained with the Shaolin priests (and once held the world's record for fastest punch), I've been on television and radio and engaged but only head-over-heels in love once.
And how many people can honestly say that they've known the right woman? Just because she just didn't end up with me doesn't diminish the fact.
Okay, I'll stop here. It just sounds like I'm bragging.
This is good though. Cathartic. I'll do it again soon.
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