chocolate mojo

solve for ex

2009-07-15T19:05:00.004-05:00

i do not know if they serve drinks in hell, but i do know this: it is 7 p.m. and one hundred two degrees outside. and as odd as it seems, it kind of makes sense.

like this statistic from a recent article regarding marriage and infidelity: that three fourths of those who suffer thru such indiscretions maintain their relationship.

for all the discomfort we endure, for all we go thru for that moment in time in which we instinctively seethe and boil, in the end we stay.

we move on, but we don't move away.

. . .

my parents were divorced before i even knew what a marriage looked like. or what a relationship was supposed to encompass. my eight year old brain still imperceptive to anything more dense than pop tarts.

my friends had parents that served as childhood role players. the moms volunteered in the pta and made kool aid so we had something to drink after running around outside. the dads stayed late at work, came home defeated, and wanted to have dinner and a beer in front of the tv and not much else.

perhaps they had deep rooted connections that i was never privy to, or maybe they were too busy fulfilling the demands of being responsible adults, but i don't ever recall my parents, or anyone else's at that time, having shared anything i can recall as emotionally or physically substantive.

what i do remember is this: surface tension. how we all gravitated to the same room to maintain a sense of civility when there was trouble. i remember the silence of angry wives. the occasional slammed door. but not much else.

and i don't think any of it was unusual. not for the time, anyway.

these were the seeds in the soil of the divorce era; the genesis of a blossoming selfishness that would mark the next few decades, and in its wake produce generations of demanding, self important offspring with obsessive compulsive disorders.

. . .

another excerpt from said article: '...the strongest risk factor for infidelity, researchers have found, exists not inside the marriage but outside: opportunity.'

this idea makes my head spin.

it could mean:

your partner (or former partner) is not completely morally corrupt afterall; they simply exist in an environment which affords them more opportunity.

and if you are socially active and still morally solvent, than you must be a saint.

or your company must be decidedly boring and unattractive.

or you must be a troll.

. . .

it was so much easier to think of infidelity as the dividing line between the good, the bad, and the ugly. but this new bit of information turns my brain inside out.

it makes the whole thing more of an equation than a condemnation. and all the people involved just factors in a defined mathematical statement.

if so, the there really is no one to blame.

the people you see on tv.

the people who live down the street.

the people who live in your house.

it's all just a matter of opportunity.

immunity is futile.

everyone is guilty.

everyone is innocent.

rock banned

2009-06-04T21:59:00.011-05:00

i killed a dream with one mindless keystroke.

and that dream was to one day own the more than five hundred songs i had queued up in my 'stuff to buy' folder on itunes; really great, sometimes obscure music i had compiled over the last several years from sources far and wide.

but this buffoon highlighted the wrong item, and when the delete key was hit, instead of losing one song, lost an entire collection.

ugh.

to aid in my recovery, i figured i'd immediately buy a few of the songs i could recollect from my wish list. here's a sample.

• • •

band of horses

the funeral

eerie and haunting with lyrics that can be interpreted to mean just about anything to just about anyone. melodic and triumphant all at the same time without losing its hypnotic rock roots. to see a phenomenal video featuring this song, go here.

the airborne toxic event

sometime around midnight

make sure to listen to the acoustic version which has a little more grit and less polish than the original. the song moves along with a slightly eighties feel, but has a timeless, relatable story. read along with the lyrics, and this song will break you. to see it performed live with a string quartet, follow this linky.

manchester orchestra

i've got friends

sure, it starts carefully enough, but soon builds to an all encompassing, booming passionate plea for attention with piano, multiple choruses, and even some trippy spaceship sound effects. great depth. so who cares if they're not from manchester, or not really an orchestra. to watch them kill this song live on letterman, click here.

coheed and cambria

the suffering

album rock is not dead. and neither are giant afros. this band does both incredibly well, and this song is perhaps their most 'pop' friendly and a good taste of what they do best; large, intricate, dynamic anthems that seamlessly flow from one to the other. for the freaky video featuring mermaids, click this.

the sounds

no one sleeps when i'm awake

a dale bozzio like voice served over a happy beat that has just the right amount of punk bite. plus they're from sweden. what's not to love? watch them get down right here.

superchunk

learned to surf

a crunchy, indie rock tune that's even a bit liberating. a raw anthem that's great for road trips. or just getting stupid. but not for stupid road trips. no video, but you can listen to the tune courtesy of npr.

yeah yeah yeahs

zero

if you mixed one cup of blondie with a half cup of the ting tings, and added a dash of lords of acid, you'd get this song. totally groovy with great lyrical delivery courtesy of lead singer karen o. watch her get all sexy here.

the thermals

now we can see

just a great upbeat tune with great alt/rock energy and a chorus that anyone can sing so long as they've seen an episode or two of sesame street. watch the trio here.

crystal method

drown in the now w/ matisyahu

not since moby's 'alice' has there been such a compelling combination of electronic music fused with hip hop. and in this instance it's matisyahu; an eclectic entity unto himself who helps add dimension to this track. watch the cool black and white video by clicking on this.

in the end

2009-05-11T19:12:00.010-05:00

she'll have a story to tell tonite. because after all, it is friday.

so after she gets home and finishes unloading groceries, she'll unwind for a bit. change into something a little more fun. add a spray of perfume and meet her friends around the corner where they'll catch up on the week and share cheap margaritas and salty one liners.

and at some point she'll mention this trivial anecdote.

she'll mention how she stopped by the store on her way home from work. and as she's pushing her cart down one of the unusually long aisles, she notices a guy doing a poor job of concealing his ogling.

she ignores it for the most part, but just as they're about to cross paths, they catch eyes, and as they do, the creep practically squeals and jumps out of his skin.

she picks up speed, grabs the her last few items, and checks her rearview mirror on the way home.

freakin' weirdo...

and on this they all concur. clink glasses. and quickly move on.

• • •

it's a simmering friday afternoon. been a long week. and all i want to do is get thru this traffic so i can get to the megastore, pick up what i need and officially start the weekend.

they serve frozen yogurt here. i grab a giant cup and begin to roam the air conditioned aisles of discount goods; a sweet relief from the heat outside.

and so i turn the corner, floating in my own little bubble of cool friday delirium, and notice the silhouette of a woman at the far end of the store with a tiny waist and an unusually large top.

an unusually large top retained by an unusually small amount of clothing.

as we slowly approach each other, i play it cool, but my mind is overloaded:

air conditioning. yogurt. bargains. boobies.

air conditioning. yodel. brothel. boobies.

yogurt. conditioning. barbies. boobies.

and just as the stranger and i catch eyes, as we're about to share a sultry moment, a friend who's been stealthily stalking me thru the store quickly grabs me from behind.

caught completely off guard, i practically jump out of my skin and yelp.

i yelp and jump as the attractive woman rolls her cart right by; as if she'd run straight over my toes.

not exactly how i imagined things going in my head...

• • •

but that's sometimes how it happens.

in relationships.

we operate in our own little world; a slow motion, soft focus version of our lives seemingly in harmony with everyone and everything. completely connected.

then something happens that rattles us to the core. something we never saw coming.

in a state of shock, we move on. go our separate ways. try to put the pieces back together.

they have their version of what happened; you have yours.

and in the end, what we share, is that we all have a story to tell.

c o u p l i n g

2009-04-14T19:42:00.007-05:00

she scribbles a few lines on an orange post it note; a list of unambitious requirements, and sticks it directly beneath the monitor in my office.

it is a list of things she would like to have in a mate.

'if you know of anyone, let me know,' she says.

young, attractive, and incredibly outgoing, she has met and dated many eligible bachelors. but at this moment, my female coworker is stifled. un love struck. a talented pitcher throwing strike after strike, just waiting for someone to make contact to keep the game interesting.

i can picture her on the mound, dressed in pinstripes and exhausted from her efforts. standing there in the middle of a crowded ballpark, she's been bringing the heat all day, everyday, for the last fifteen years. she wipes the sweat from her brow before she starts the next windup, all the while thinking: can't someone hit the goddamn ball already?!

• • •

i take a look at what she's written down, at what she's seeking in a potential partner. her list is broken down into two sections.

first the non-negotiables:

male

heterosexual

full set of teeth

single (or married with wife living out of state)

then there were the negotiables:

over six feet tall

under 45 years of age

easy enough i think.

because it's always easy to be on the other side. always easy to be on the outside of a relationship looking in.

when it's your own, that's when things get complicated.

crazy.

incomprehensible.

but this? this is simple. this i can understand.

• • •

i once dated a girl who was obsessed with lists. and it took a while, years actually, but now i am list obsessed as well and generally write down anything that needs to get done. if i don't write it down, it doesn't happen. and when it does, there's a sense of accomplishment in crossing it off and moving on.

but a list for love?

that thought never crossed my mind. not even once.

really important things deserve more than a post it note. they exist in the cloudy ether that we often try to dissect into mental or emotional instinct, when in reality, they're connected to something even more potent; that deep rooted internal part of ourselves we wake with each morning, carry with us thru the day, and put to bed each nite.

• • •

we all envision what an appropriate partner or relationship may be, but too often it comes down to the intangibles; those things that have no measurable value on paper, but are immeasurable when it comes to coexistence.

it is the difference between fortune and failure.

• • •

we're sitting in the theater practically alone, in the wake of a one of the most dynamic, violent, brilliantly schizophrenic films i've even seen. the credits are rolling and i'm lingering in the afterglow of the experience.

my partner has been unusually quiet and still during the screening. we haven't shared a word since the previews, and i'm wondering if this was a bit much; if this pushed that button that led from revelation to revulsion.

i give her some time. then more time. and then a bit more. it's becoming uncomfortable as i try to process my own thoughts and get a read on hers.

then she leans in and says in almost a whisper: 'that director is a f@#*ing genius.'

and i knew right then and there we had something good.

a shared connection beyond anything i could have scribbled on a list.

dis connected

2009-03-29T19:32:00.008-06:00

sitting at the small orange table is a man and his incredibly attractive wife. or girlfriend. or whatever. it doesn't really matter because i am admiring her just the same.

neither are the wiser, since both are completely engaged in anything but my presence, or even each other. they are far too busy texting other people; squinting and thumbing at miniature keyboards, tapping out randomness.

if i could, i would join in and send her something like:

omg u r so hotttt!!!!

or something equally profound and eloquent. but i do not.

because in the last few weeks, i've decided to simplify my life, and in my own kind of way, get off the grid. or at least parts of it.

• • •

i can not say that i invented the internet, but i can say that i was an early adopter before i even knew it.

my first real job was at a university, which meant there was a fair amount of money and resources invested in technology. one day, a team of infotech guys visit. they give us new terminals and hook us up with wubba wubba wubba access.

this was way back in dialup days, before there was enough bandwidth to adequately handle pictures and images. which meant i spent time online visiting various sites consisting of nothing more than text and the occasional stagnant logo.

and then i discovered chat rooms.

during the workday, i'd check in every once in a while to see who was online and what they were doing. there were lots of other young folks like me out there, aimlessly wandering around, most at colleges ranging from minnesota to australia. and that was kind of cool.

so cool, that one day i'm abruptly cut off for exceeding my six hour web limit during my eight hour work day.

only then do i realize that by logging into our crude system each day, that the infotech guys have a full and complete history of everywhere i've been and everything i've done. i also realize that they're pretty tight with the boss and meet with him pretty regularly to update him on the status of this new venture.

that sinking feeling hits.

the same one i feel months later, when i use our electronic messaging system to send a romantic note to a friend, but accidentally forward it to the entire department.

ugh.

• • •

after that premature walk in cyberspace, i'm hesitant to grasp emerging technology. everyone but me has a hotmail account. and when i finally get a cell phone, it takes many months and lots of convincing for me to keep it on full time, and not just power it up every few hours to check messages or make emergency calls.

but after that, i'm off and running. completely accessible at any given moment, and taking it personally if an email is not responded to within twenty four hours. and like everyone else, i become an online entity. i pay my bills, join forums, order gifts and keep in touch through electronic interface.

it is no longer a novelty, as much as it is a standard part of life. electronically checking in is the first thing i do each morning, and the last thing i do each nite.

• • •

at our last family gathering, my nieces and i spend a fair amount of time texting each other silly insults, even though we're all under the same roof.

on a recent road trip, i spend more time looking up things using gps than i do enjoying the scenery or the company of my passenger.

if there's more than one person in line ahead of me at the grocery store, i'm using an app on my phone to check the weather, the latest news, or tinkering with a new game.

i get automatically generated notices about the latest health news, music releases, and updates about my movie queue.

at a breakfast with friends, we all spend time looking up the latest viral videos and hovering over tiny mobile screens.

• • •

in the end, it feels like the cost of being connected to everything inevitably means being more disconnected from everyone.

i don't tweet, and don't have a spacebook or myface page to maintain, but still feel like i have hit my critical mass.

i have become consumed by my consumption. developed an insatiable hunger, and a need to feed on whatever is on my plate.

so now it's time for a change.

• • •

i've lived without the dazzle of my iphone for three weeks, and just yesterday completely zeroed out my inbox. i've unsubscribed from every email list, shut down unnecessary online accounts, and disabled texting from my calling plan.

at a time when everyone seems eager to add even more electronic function to their dysfunction, i have regressed to the point of the modern caveman. and i kind of like it.

i no longer feel the pressure to read the latest headlines, update the software on my phone, review the latest special offers, or add my two cents to an online thread. i've done my best to reduce my cyber footprint to something more reasonable and humane. less distracting.

i interface with people more, and machines less; all in an effort to get back to that place where my life was a little less complicated, and i was a little more happy.

yesterday i had a two hour conversation with a good friend i hadn't talked to in a while.

it was far better than any instant message could have been.

in treatment

2009-03-22T15:33:00.012-06:00

i haven't been the same since therapy.

since the day i made an appointment to unload all the things that had congested my mental and emotional state; revealing myself in a way that i have never been able to with family, friends, or partners.

odd how the anonymity is liberating. you would think the people you know and love the most would serve as a natural release, through some spiritual osmotic kinship. but that doesn't seem to be the way it works for me.

i had to hire a professional.

but there, on the couch, in a simple office on the seventh floor, i felt safe. i could express those thoughts and feelings, say those things that kept me up at nite, and have someone there whose only job was to listen and help.

and for that, my therapy was more than therapeutic. it was that dark room where i could scream; a place to be ugly and honest that i could exit from an hour later, and feel a little less loaded.

after each session, during the elevator ride back down to terra firma, i always felt like i was descending back into myself, leaving parts of me behind that could look out the office window, but never escape.

• • •

selfish as i am, i did not seek out a therapist for me. it was for something far greater; it was for us.

during the course of our treatment, which sometimes involves personal sessions and other times couples counseling, i learn that i am the great void.

as strongly as i feel about things, i lack the ability to verbally express myself emotionally in a way my partner can understand.

i can communicate well about lots of things.

just don't ask me how i feel.

• • •

in all my years of life, i have only seen my father's eyes well up with tears three times.

my mother, by contrast, seems to break down every time i talk to her on the phone.

i am the creation of this collision.

a stoic emotional wreck.

• • •

things work out. we get thru some rough spots. and i at least become more aware of the challenges my existence can create.

it takes time, but i try to be more open. even more open than i already thought i was. and not just with her, but with everything.

it is an uncomfortable role for me. but it is good to share this new dimension.

i always thought of it as weakness to expose yourself emotionally, to tap into that feminine dynamic. but in the end, i realize it's exactly the opposite.

through it all, she has been completely fearless, and i have been the coward.

• • •

it is far too easy to come across a bit of insight and think that the revelation is the cure.

but it is not.

it's just a sign that you've been lost. way off course.

you still have to find your way home.

• • •

this new part of me is still growing. and like a regenerating nerve, there are times when it sits idle and numb, and others where it fires off beyond my control.

last week at work, i hear a radio interview with a veterinarian describing the connection between dogs and their owners; and what it's like to ultimately have to put an animal down.

she describes the process in an incredibly heartfelt way, and with every word, i am transfixed and feel a little piece of my self breaking apart and falling away; leaving me completely raw.

and though it may have been years ago, i remember the day my partner and i had to do the very thing we did not want to do. physically i am at work, amidst the daily commotion. but inside, i am there, in that moment, and it is terribly sad.

a few days later, i come across a hauntingly slow acoustic number i've always liked. this time, the whispery lyrics sting me:

oh my god

i nearly died

when i saw you in that dress

i felt alive for the first time

since i left home

i play the song again and again, reminiscing in those words. every thought and feeling and emotion so vivid i can feel my nose buzz with warmth, the way it does just before my eyes tear up. i have to sit there for a moment and let it all go before i move on.

• • •

before the day i sat on that couch, i don't know if i could connect a song or picture or story to such a strong emotional response.

but now i find that depth in everything around me; randomly flipping on or off when i least expect it.

all the parts are there, but there are still flaws in the circuitry. still ghosts in the machine.

detours

2009-03-13T18:52:00.008-06:00

i do not feel connected to many things, but when i am on two wheels, i feel at home. comfortable. totally in control regardless of circumstance.

so each saturday morning i try to plan a quick bike ride thru the heart of our sleepy metropolis. i run stop lights, chase buses, and generally behave like a hooligan; accompanied only by a fervid soundtrack of my choosing.

i stop off at my favorite coffeehouse for a hot chocolate, take some time to enjoy the scenery, and then head home.

it only takes me a couple hours and offers just enough danger and escapism to make me feel a little more alive.

but as much as i enjoy this routine, i also enjoy change. so i figure i'd try something different this day and join in on a small group ride

there were many lessons learned from this fateful last minute decision. specifically, six.

• • •

lesson one: fat men in lycra

when i first got involved in running and cycling and the like, i dressed like everyone else, which meant i spent an unfortunate amount of time in obnoxiously patterned shorty shorts, gauzey tank tops, beanie caps with giant visors and other buffoonish accessories. then one day while standing in line at the grocery store after a local 5k, i had an epiphany: this is really, really stupid. since then, i've come to the conclusion that there is nothing wrong with black shorts and white t-shirts. but there is an even more devious culprit out there: lycra. and i can steadfastly say that unless you are chiseled from stone, you have no business wearing it. because if you do, you will undoubtedly look like a piece of sausage anxious to burst from it's casing. and you thought muffin tops were bad...

lesson two: mint commodes

you don't really know somebody until you spend some time with them. and since no one else showed up for the group ride, i learn a lot about my fellow cyclist. instead of taking the usual ride south, we head north to swing by a citywide garage sale he heard about. i'm game, and so we make our way through some back roads and onto the other side of town. and though i've lived here most of my life, we travel thru neighborhoods i've never seen. i take mental notes so as to find my way back should we get separated. the crack dealer in the red shirt is on our right. the obese lady on the lawn chair is on the left. once we make it to the yard sale, i learn something else: my compadre is not just a bargain shopper, he's a collector, a packrat, a rummager and scrap metal dealer. and every man's trash is his treasure. he gets excited when we spot three hundred pounds of rusting metal beams; just sitting there on the curb, waiting to be taken. but the showstopper is a toilet. he spots it a full block away and we slowly ride toward its green hue as if pulled by destiny itself. he is beside himself. and i stand there with him. in overwhelming awe of his overwhelming awe.

lesson three: god and cookies

i made the mistake of not eating breakfast, and after puttering around much longer than expected, i'm starving. i keep hoping one of the tables of personal items contains a pizza box with some discarded crusts, but no luck. i convince my riding partner that we're way past chow time, so we leave the neighborhood en route to a restaurant and run directly into a church parking lot abuzz with rummage sale activity. i know we're in trouble when he dismounts and begins to walk his bike. i reluctantly do the same, and that's when i notice the table full of baked goods. i grab as many items as my two bucks can buy and greedily dig in. and then the lady tells me it's a fundraiser for the boyscouts and i just about spit out a large chunk of oatmeal chocolate chip. ugh. the boyscouts. the same group that requires an oath to god and forbids openly gay members. now i am in a dilemma; i am physically hungry, but ethically repulsed. in the end, i choke down my mouthful of sugary sludge. moral turpitude never tasted so delicious.

lesson four: secretaries

we're crossing a major highway intersection via access roads and wrong way signs. my buddy shoots ahead and i'm stuck at a stop sign. a car pulls up and the occupants stare at me blankly. then the passenger speaks, his heavy accent cutting normal words into unusual sounds: 'secadiddy.' what? what did he just say? 'secondtitty.' huh? 'secondary. we're looking for secretary.' i'm completely confused. is secretaries a bar? a place like hooters where the waitresses dress in business casual attire? i'm lost. the driver sees my puzzlement and chimes in: 'secretary. where is secretary. electronic.' what the... wait a second: circuit city! they are looking for circuit city! that's what they're looking for! I smile and mentally congratulate myself for solving the linguistic puzzle, and then realize i have no idea where circuit city actually is.

lesson five: hot chocolate mexican death

we forgo the first two taco houses because they are packed with pickup trucks and loyal customers. we settle for a mexican food joint that was once a convenience store and now serves fish in addition to fixing computers. i know this because it says so on the sign that once displayed the price for unleaded fuel. to say this place is sketchy and a little suspicious is putting it mildly. and while the pictures on the menu are thoroughly engaging in a rorschach test kind of way, after i look around the premises and into the open kitchen, i'm certain that ordering any one of the blotches is certain to kill me. my mate is more adventurous and orders the plato rancho. i try not to touch anything, and against my better judgement ask for hot chocolate even though it's not on the menu. the waitress brings me a cup of hot water that still has a clump of chocolate powder waiting to be mixed in. i drink it begrudgingly, certain that i will have salmonella or botulism or both by days end.

lesson six: home free

the headwind has been killing us on the ride back, draining me of my enthusiasm to be on a bike. the gusts are blowing us all kinds of sideways and dangerously close to the morning traffic. we're nearing a recognizable thoroughfare, and if i bow out now, i can make it home in no time. i thank my companion for the ride, as he rolls on, and i take a hard right. it's quiet now, and the wind is pushing me forward. i jump into the big chainring for the first time all day, and hit that perfect rhythm where cadence and speed and effort all seem to synchronize and overlap with one another. i am a blur down main street. a solitary blur boundless and free.

devil inside

2009-03-02T20:14:00.007-06:00

i am not savvy enough to make it as a full time artist

not yet at least.

so i live this double life. this confused oreo existence of black and white.

i am the hard chocolate cookie to some. the mushy white filling to others. each clearly and distinctly defined by their own unique laws of physics. neither aware the other exists until that moment when they are introduced to each other, mashed on by heavy teeth, and ultimately destroyed. swallowed to provide nourishment for the giants all around.

but it is better than the alternative: an office job. an incandescent desk. a personalized cubicle with generic family pictures, everyone beaming. probably because the photos were taken elsewhere; far from this place. outside of this building. away from the breakroom and its abused microwave.

and those stupid chairs. those stupid wheeled chairs we roll around in like invalids; pantomiming importance. i hate those chairs and that awkward kick-walk lazy people do to get around the office.

• • •

i was hungry.

alright, i was desperate. completely and absolutely desperate for anything and anyone that would pay me a buck and help put me back in place. back onto some path of existence that included money and the liberties and freedoms it affords.

like pants. and protein powder. and other marvels of social and nutritional engineering.

they liked me at the interview; they always like me at interviews.

they call me two days later. can i start monday? you bet your ass i can. and so i did.

• • •

everyone is nice to the new guy. it's like the beginning of a romance. there's lots of smiling and eye contact. everyone and everything is soft and pliable. the single girls are especially friendly. the married ones talk about their husbands, how long they've been married, and the neverending demands and importance of their children.

and then you realize you just moved in together; for eight hours a day. with eighty seven strangers. that's when you get a little nervous.

• • •

i make it a day and a half before i have a breakdown and call the ex from my car in the company parking lot. i have to talk hurriedly and quietly while trying to communicate the full state of my panic, as some of the drones are on their way back in from lunch.

i am impassioned. slightly hysterical. if you didn't know any better. you would think i was getting attacked by a swarm of bees within my very own automobile.

i think i made a mistake, i say. i don't think i can do this. i mean: i can do this, but i just can't do this.

she settles me a bit. tells me it's okay. that i need to do what's best for me, not what's best for them.

but everyone is so nice, i say. there's the 401k to consider. and they have a sweet insurance plan.

i make it til friday, which just happens to be payday. i feel terrible about the whole thing. but reluctantly take the check just the same.

my corporate life is dead and buried deep.

• • •

when it is not full with obligation, stress, and all the drama that comes with helping run a small business, my head is full of colors and words and grandiose visions of future projects.

but by the end of the day, i am dry; pulled from the bone by my duties and drained of the enthusiasm i wake with most mornings.

i am the idiot in need of a recharge. so, i sleep. and wake. and do it again.

and on my better days, i tap into my other half. the mushy white filling that only a small part of the world will ever know or see.

on my better days, i feed the giants. and then i feed myself.

choked

2009-02-19T19:35:00.007-06:00

life was better when i couldn't eat food.

or at least parts of it were a bit more simple. less complicated. mindless.

now, after undergoing a third procedure to fix my troubled esophagus and getting exactly what i want; namely the ability to once again consume solid nutrients after nearly a two year absence, my world is in chaos.

i am cured. but i am also fat, bloated and lethargic. stressed out. sleep deprived. unfulfilled.

i do not know how the two coincided so perfectly. how i slowly drifted away from shore, pulled out to the cold, unfathomable depths.

but i am here now. and i am drowning.

• • •

i've grated on the nerves of at least three family units in the last couple years with the unsettling roar of an industrial blender. it is the first thing they hear in the morning and most likely the last noise of consequence they hear before they turn in for the nite.

it is my kitchen. my prep area. my wet bar. my solitary tool for nourishment.

you know that question people ask about your house being on fire and only being able to save three things? my kitchenaid 5000 with pulse control is one of them.

to say i am addicted to blenders and protein shakes is a lie. i am not addicted. they are my life. they provide me life. in a consistently stale variety of frothy semiliquid.

• • •

when i could swallow no more, i became quite adept at pulverizing nutrient rich foods into sloshy meals. along with various protein powders, spinach, apples, pumpkin, berries and bananas made up virtually my entire food pyramid. I would consume three to five of these frosty drinks a day, and the results were striking.

though i had taken an extended hiatus from any real physical activity, i became quite lean. almost gaunt. i looked like a highly trained endurance athlete though i hadn't run in months.

all the nutrients did wonders for my skin and hair as well. i was blemish free, with thick lustrous locks, and polished nailbeds.

i could fit into every piece of clothing i ever owned. and even had to buy updated skinny jeans. for someone who once came close to three hundred pounds, it was nirvana.

to not workout and be so small was the secret life i imagined everyone else lived. and for a while, i was part of the class; that elite group who never worried about how they looked, because above all else, i was not fat. everything aside from that was trivial.

• • •

the good news:

you never have to worry about what to eat.

you will look amazing.

the bad news:

you will suffer in the winter.

you will panic when the blender breaks.

you will miss taking your girlfriend out to dinner.

you will lose your soul.

you will eventually go crazy.

• • •

it started with applesauce. then oatmeal. and then refried beans; anything soft and mushy that i could swallow without the potential of obstruction. after lying relatively dormant, i had to re-educate the muscles of my esophagus. and it was weird. and uncomfortable. some days better than others.

eventually i worked my way up to energy bars. and that's when the trouble began. because even if it took me a quart of water and thirty minutes to consume a single protein bar, that meant cookies and cake and pie were not far behind. and they weren't.

the junk food came hard and fast, as did a newfound addiction to chocolate and the subsequent extra pounds. at first i just filled out into a normal looking person. and then a normal person with some extra weight. since then, every time i step on the scale, i am stunned. amazed at the trajectory of my personal weight chart.

I have a friend who visits from new york every once in a while. she is one of the nicest people i know. each time she sees me she asks: have you put on some weight? and each time she is right.

i don't even recognize me anymore.

• • •

change is good. but when it comes all at once, it can be overwhelming. my personal, professional and emotional life have all spun out of control.

more often than not, i lay in bed at nite, dizzy from the burden. the responsibility. the failure.

grieving for the loss of me in my own world.

i know he's out there somewhere.

treading wearily thru heavy water.

i will find him.

i will rescue him.

i will bring him to shore.

collisions

2009-02-11T21:49:00.015-06:00

seems everyone i know has lived here, or knows someone who has; my insulated condominium community providing the perfect habitat for upwardly mobile twentysomethings or their retired, decrepit grandparents.

it's been home for a while now, but i still occasionally cross paths with acquaintances whom i never knew were so close; just across the way in another building, or sharing an adjoining wall.

this can be a good thing, or a bad thing. and sometimes, it is both.

• • •

it's unusually humid out, and i am walking home from the grocery store after spending the afternoon laboring on a construction project. i am tired and unshaven; dressed in cargo shorts and a whimsical print tee that becomes all the more ironic in my haggard state. i want to be home. done with the day.

i fumble and shift the plastic bags in my hands and punch in the gate code. gate opens. i am close. focused. anxious to unload.

just ahead is a black luxury sedan slowly rolling my way; the windows dark and anonymous.

it begins to slow down. slowing. steady. steady. stop.

i cut in front and across. the passenger side window glides down.

my name is called.

it's her.

• • •

it wasn't uncommon to have attractive women visit our boutique. most were professional housewives who doubled as socialites.

they carried themselves with a certain sense of entitlement, though they were no different than any other soccer mom. they just had more money. and more plastic surgery.

when she walks in, i am caught off guard by her kindness. her vivaciousness. her beauty. she smells like angels, sex and cotton candy. completely transcendent.

the room stops. my coworkers peer out from the back; watch me float around from the contact high.

and then i notice she is married. with children. to a successful man who looks like he walked out of a ralph lauren catalog.

• • •

I am renting out a bedroom in the back corner of a nondescript house. I have just quit my one and only real job to work in a small specialty shop. i drive a 1986 mazda sedan that has more oxidation than paint. my only focus and purpose in life is running. everything i do, everything i eat; everything is built around this simple function.

she happens to run too.

we begin to train together. our worlds collide.

• • •

we use to wake at four in the morning to train on desolate roads under the glow of the moon. i don't know if i would have done it for anyone else. or if she would have either.

one morning, after a particularly long workout, we stop by a juice bar. we sit and talk for a while. she tells me she's getting divorced.

explosions.

• • •

over time, we begin to lose touch. she eventually remarries, finding comfort in a beautiful mass of muscle that's every bit as physically impressive as herself.

they eventually divorce as well. and as an odd bit of coincidence, i see him around fairly often. he never says a word. when he looks my way, he burns with contempt.

• • •

on this day, more than ten years removed from our first meeting, i am my ordinary self; my disheveled, hairy, sweaty, manchild self.

i am in no condition to meet with anything or anyone extraordinary. but here i am, in the parking lot, hands full of bags, head full of baggage.

i lean in thru the passenger window and her unmistakable scent warps time and practically drops me to my knees.

she looks amazing. pristine. and harbors all the charming characteristics i remember from years ago.

i awkwardly hunch down and take in the cool air circulating thru the cabin; aware of my personal disarray and completely consumed with every one of my countless flaws. but i don't want to lose this moment. this temporary reconnection.

she tells me that she has been busy with work. that things are good. and that she lives around the corner, and has for a while.

i tell her i moved in recently. that i work nearby. that i'm sure i'll see her again soon.

after a while, we say our goodbyes. the window slides up and she rolls away.

i fall back to earth, grab my bags, and walk back toward my ordinary life.

small things

2009-02-05T19:35:00.005-06:00

everything i own is encased in two large duffel bags and two backpacks that i clumsily lug onto the subway. ten hours later, after a train ride, a taxi, and several segmented flights, i arrive home.

my bags and me. and nothing else.

• • •

the abode i am supposed to live in is filthy and overrun with wild. a shelter or crisis center would be a more comforting place to lay my head. which is all i want at the moment. a place to drop my bags; someplace to settle. to have a point from which to start over.

but i am fortunate enough to have family. and my brother and his wife extend their kindness beyond comfortable expectation. in a quick and simple phone call, they allow me into their home.

i sleep in the media room on a plush carpet, my bags pushed up in the corner, and for this i am incredibly grateful. i have a hot shower, full use of the kitchen, and a high speed Internet connection.

what is supposed to be a few weeks turns into several months as i search for employment and direction, while my personal life and love erodes and crumbles.

and not once do they ask me to go. not once do they shame me for my presence, or my present situation. our lives and coexistence are smooth and simple. which is exactly what i need amidst the turmoil.

• • •

i find a condo and a roommate near work, and move slightly closer to a normal existence. i still have all my bags, but have now upgraded to several large rubbermaid containers which also serve as a makeshift computer stand.

i have acquired nothing but a residence, and so on my first nite, lay out the blankets and pillows my ex was thoughtful enough to send along.

it is winter, and the ceramic tiles on the resurfaced floor are hard and cold and unyielding. just as i am about to drift off, the weight of my body and bones against the floor becomes too much, and i must shift and find a new position. once there, i settle in, but just as my personal twilight approaches, gravity takes its toll, and so i must move again.

i repeat the sporadic shifting every fifteen minutes, every nite, until the alarm sounds. then i am off at work and sleep is far from my mind. it's only when i arrive home, just before i retire, that i recall the relentless density of my pallet. i use towels, yoga mats, even extra clothes to help soften the bite. i tell myself it can't possibly be as uncomfortable as it was the evening before. but each nite, it is.

i begin to look at everyday solid objects and envy their softness. wood. freshly paved asphalt. blocks of ice. i could lay on any one of them and surely have a more restful sleep.

but these floors. these floors are killing me.

• • •

three weeks later, i am at the home of another sibling and loading a truck with ordinary furnishings i have long forgotten about. a bookshelf. an old television. a small loveseat. a cd player. coffee table. and a box spring and mattress.

we drive across town and hump the cumbersome goods thru the complex; ingeniously getting in and around tight turns, up and down stairways, small hallways and limited doorways.

i drive him home, and then back across town to my residence. it is late, but everything is out of order and in the center of the room. i stay up to organize things, then get a shower that is long past due.

my body is tired and sore from the move. worn from the concrete insomnia. calloused and hardened from love lost.

but in the corner is a bed. a soft place for me to fall.

i crawl in and lay there enveloped in the pliable warmth. i close my eyes, stretch out, kick my legs around; overwhelmed by the feeling of being cradled. overwhelmed by joy. but mostly overwhelmed by thanks.

i do not know if i have ever slept so well. or if i ever will again.

float on

2009-02-01T09:09:00.004-06:00

what we all share, what we all want, is to have that moment when our ordinary life becomes extraordinary. when who we are or what we do stops the world. if only for a second.

for my brother, it happened on a balmy night in the summer of 1984; at a racetrack on the far outskirts of town. and i know, because i was there.

• • •

i was not a good brother. i was the fat, uncomfortable introvert that happened to be related, and that was good enough to be his full time lackey. It was a role i was happy to take, since it gave me association to coolness.

my brother was tall and fit and good looking. he knew girls. lots of girls. and he raced motorcycles.

he was a rockstar; i was the oafish roadie.

i helped load and unload equipment, grabbed tools when necessary, held things in place while he cursed and broke his knuckles, gassed up the bikes, carried his gear, and even snapped the occasional photo.

i was there all day at the outdoor track when he got ninth and i got sunstroke. i was there at the small arena in houston when he smashed headfirst into the ground, hands still on bars, and i didn't think he'd walk again, let alone drive us home.

and i was there this nite, along with a group of his highschool friends, anxious to see the lanky, funloving guy who strolled the hallways jump atop a machine that still scared me when it screamed to life.

• • •

the track was black and earthy, full of rocky texas soil with sections mixed with heavy sand. the lighting was less than optimal, and exactly what you would expect for a piece of barren land transformed and bulldozed into a motocross track. maintaining speed and control over that surface would be tricky enough, but add in the jumps - doubles and triples, along with several thick, angular washboard sections, and it seemed more an exercise in survival.

plus there were the other nineteen guys lined up elbow to elbow at the gate who wanted nothing more than beat you; to show their friends and themselves that they were the best at something. that they were not afraid. and ultimately, that you were less than you thought you were.

• • •

as a kid, i was generally nervous around new people and new things. the fact that this race was happening in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by darkness was surreal enough; and with plenty of loud, obnoxious personalities in the stands, i could barely take it.

my stomach always dropped at the beginning of a race, and this nite was no different. it was my brother out there. a piece of me riding along with him under all the armor.

some of his friends had volunteered to work the track; to waive caution flags should other riders go down. they would literally be in the middle of the action. we were all there, as closely connected as possible to someone completely alone.

and it's at those moments that i wondered what went thru his head. was he as nervous as i was, or was he calm and fluid, grace under pressure. was he tapping into some deep unreleased aggression. what were his final thoughts before the gate dropped and he could think no more.

we have shared a life together, but i have never asked, and to this day, still do not know.

• • •

the first lap of a twenty lap race is absolute chaos. the roar of twenty bikes revving on the line is like thunder, and when the gate finally drops, everyone plunges forward, throttle wide open. whoever comes out ahead at the first turn is part strategy, part luck, but mostly it's the person who is least afraid. and this nite, it was my brother.

the field is tightly packed as they caterpillar thru a track that turns back and in on itself several times, catapulting off huge berms and directly onto the next obstacle. a quarter of a lap in, he's still holding the lead with two riders rapidly gaining ground and making their way thru the pack. his name and number called out by the drawling race announcer.

i am in the stands. drymouthed. my stomach queasy, my heart fluttering. standing, along with everyone else around me. with the exception of the bikes, it is absolutely silent, everyone keying in on their personal connection. the riders are all on fast forward, while we are all on pause.

at the far end of the track, just after a tight left turn is a large broad jump that flattens across the top before eventually dropping back down to the surface. during practice and thru the other races, riders have been hitting it cautiously, landing at the midpoint, plowing across the top and dropping back down into the track before hitting a hard right berm.

and that's when it happened.

my brother is still out front, but there is a rider hot on his tail; pressuring him thru every turn. they enter the left hander nearly together, but instead of letting off as he approaches the jump, he lets it go and springs off the ramp with an amplitude that carries him up and across the horizon and over the head of his rival to the audible gasps of everyone in the stands.

my heart drops. and the world is frozen and fractured.

the pitch black backdrop. the glow of the moon. rocks and soil. the smell of fuel and hot engines. and my brother floating across the sky, still far away from his apex. as if blown by the wind to slowly drift away until completely out of sight.

there can be no good end to this. and there is not.

he flys over the entire flattop. misses landing on the transition, and practically comes to a stop when he compresses on the exiting berm. the gasps from the crowd turn into a rumble of concern as his body is rocked and his competitor takes the inside line to take the lead.

he stays on the bike though, shakes it off, and manages to ride on, dropping several positions and eventually ending up fifth. when the race is over and we meet up back at the truck, its evident why. the landing not only jarred his body, but blew one of his contacts onto the inside of his goggles and the other halfway out of his eye and stuck on his eyelid.

three years later, he'd have back surgery and retire from racing.

but that nite was a shared experience. he left the earth, and for a moment we all flew with him.

evil doers

2009-01-19T19:53:00.010-06:00

a long time ago, in a grocery store far, far away...

a recovering fat kid strolls by the bakery and discovers cookies.

big, fat sugar cookies slathered with a thick layer of creamy frosting and topped off with festive multicolored sprinkles.

they are:
succulent.
rubenesque.
teat-like.

and thus begins an on again off again affair with the most partially hydrogenated processed fat laden wonderfully synthetic creation that humankind has ever produced.

in short, these cookies are f@#ing amazing.

and while i don't generally retreat to such sophomoric language, no other word perfectly captures the reckless combination of goodness and badness deeply ingrained in these calorie bombs.

it's as if the very word was created specifically to describe them.

and coming from a fat kid, that means a lot, since we're basically the sommeliers of the junk food world.

they are:
go home and close the blinds and lock the door good.
call in sick to work good.
take off all your clothes and slather them on your naked body good.

and that means that they are very, very bad.

so consider this your fair warning.

if you see them in your local bakery, do not make direct eye contact. do not fall prey to their siren song. do not burrow into their soft sugary goodness.

instead, go quietly into the nite. or at least go quietly towards the produce section. or head for the canned goods and pick up some non-threatening broth.

because these things are evil. pure evil.

guns and roses

2008-11-29T15:42:00.006-06:00

this was not the first time i had taken flowers to a gunfight; or more succinctly, what would be the catalyst for the end of a relationship. it was just the most recent episode.

more than a decade ago, in what seemed like another lifetime, a bullet caught me square, sunk in deep; and the lead from that day still flows thru me like mercury.

•••

after almost two years, it was time to move in together. with college behind us, our world was expanding in strange and unfamiliar ways.

the physical move was simple enough. we picked an open weekend in the spring, and had all the hard labor done by saturday afternoon. that monday i started my first real job; the type where my degree was required and i had to wear a tie. by wednesday she had landed a role in a play and would be gone four out of the five hours we usually spent together each evening.

the move, the moving in, our new schedules and our new lives; it all seemed to take a toll on the bond we had built. two weeks in, and our sultry mornings with lingering touches and dreamy conversations were taken over by passionless, poignant slumber.

our undeniable chemistry had brought us this far, and i awoke that morning feeling like everything was going to be okay. the job wasn't so bad. i was making money. we had a new place. our place. together. things were beginning to feel a little more fluid. different, but fluid. we were just going thru flux.

she called me at work that afternoon. i told her things were going well. but there was something in her voice, something in her tone. she sounded agitated. but not specifically at me. it was the kind of frustration that goes beyond ourselves or our partners. it was something more, something deeper.

i hung up the phone and thought about her. i thought about us. I thought about all the stress we'd encountered the last few weeks. I thought I'd buy her flowers.

when you're young and in love, it seems as if everything exists as an obstacle to your salvation; meetings run late, traffic backs up, and all you really want is a clear, direct line to your partner. because in them is your sanctity. your common ground. your only honest breath.

i drive home recklessly, exiting on and off the highway towards any sign of a daisy, or carnation or even a sunflower. twenty dollars later, i am back on course with a bouquet in hand. i am late, but i am on my way. we are on our way.

i am anxious. anxious for us to hit our stride. to talk again. to see her that evening. to provide a pleasant surprise.

when i get home, i tell her this as best i can, as she stands over the sink, rigidly washing dishes. i pour myself out, leave myself unknowingly open. she is taking aim. poised. finger on the trigger.

then bang.

i am raw when her words hit me; staggered and numb, i fall end over end inside myself. this is not what i know. she is not what i know.

'f@#k you' i say, and grab my keys on the way out the door.

but there is no place for me to go. there is no place for us to go.

I walk around for a while then settle for a spot on the third floor that overlooks our complex. i am literally shaking with anger; i am small convulsions and rapid heartbeats. i need to calm down. i need to get myself together.

i sit there for a long time, watching the sun slowly dip into the horizon while i try to settle myself. below me, i hear the door to our apartment open and close. it's time for rehearsal.

i watch her walk out. she has changed into a dark blue pencil skirt and crisp white top. her head held high and clear. she gets into her car, backs out, and drives off.

two weeks later, i do the same; a truck packed with what is mine, the recoil just beginning.

the new pollution

2008-11-24T17:39:00.006-06:00

more obsessions, compulsions and disorders i spend too much time consuming and contemplating...

skinny cow low fat fudge bars

fionna apple's first album

oatmeal w/ bananas, peanut butter and protein powder

wireless keyboards and mouses

clif bars

rice crispy treat bars

protein bars

anything in bar form

digital cameras

trendy office chairs

hiking in colorado

cycling recklessly thru busy city streets

getting adequate sleep

getting lean (again)

getting faster

being immortal

cartoons from when i was a kid

costco

hot chocolate

staying warm

staying healthy

ah ha ha ha staying alive, staying alive

creating the perfect playlist

adding pictures to my iphone contacts

hdtvs

nalgene water bottles

college football

the itunes visualizer

flirting with strangers

flirting with disaster

manscaping

creating

moving forward

making a list and checking it twice

finding out whos naughty and nice

humanatee

2008-10-29T19:38:00.008-06:00

i am spending a lot of my time these days sequestered in the bathroom, and my roommates are beginning to worry.

they may be home from work, preparing an early dinner, only to see me pass by and close the door behind me. an hour or two later, as they swirl a dark digestif, i emerge plainly enough and waddle to my computer where i punch at keys like the well trained ape i am.

over dessert and coffee, i hear them wonder aloud and whisper about my potential heroin addiction, bulimia problem, or troubling masturbation routine, among other things.

'but even if he was digging a secret underground tunnel' i overhear them say, 'do you really think it would take him that long? is he digging it with a goddamn spoon or what?!...'

while their suspicions may be logical and well founded, the reality is this: i am a troll. a hairy, messy, stinky troll whose only chance at passing as normal is to spend a painstaking amount of time covering as many of my inherited flaws as possible.

because if there is one thing i have learned, it is this: that there are three types of people on this earth; the beautiful people, the ugly people, and the miscreations like me who are constantly in transition. on the surface, we may look normal, but it has taken a lifetime of dedication and hours of preparation just to earn the most ordinary of adjectives.

and it is not easy work.

i spend hours combing the health and beauty sections of the finest bargain stores, infinitely searching for the latest balms, conditioners, scents, scrubs and personal devices that will make my manic hygiene routine even more fruitful.

but it doesn't end there.

i use a color coded spreadsheet with a rotating list of personal chores to make sure all my bases are covered. tuesdays are for nail care. wednesdays are for manscaping. and on thursdays? on thursdays i just stare in the mirror at my wretched self and wonder what the f@#k god was thinking when he put me together. there's lots of tears, and sometimes some audible sobbing, which just confuses my suspicious roommates even more.

i am the human platypus. a mixture of misfit parts and features that make no rational sense. and the life i lead is not a pretty one.

i must constantly workout and consume only raw, natural organic matter; not in an effort to look good, but just so i can fit into my fatpants. I must floss and brush constantly, as my crooked teeth have a tendency to collect bits of everything, including a muted yellow haze. i own more tweezers, razors, electric shavers and personal groomers than your average pet boutique. and i have personally burned my scalp raw on numerous occasions with chemical agents designed to tame my unruly hair.

i am jobe's homely brother. a daily battle between good and evil; vanity vs. manatee, and i do not know which side has won just yet, but i will keep fighting.

run dog run

2008-10-13T18:45:00.005-05:00

i expect the ground beneath my feet to rumble and quake
to split open at any moment
tectonic plates huddling close together and shivering
leaving the earth agape with jagged edges

beneath the building
support beams twist and begin to crumble
inside me
around me
twists
and stumbles

we are
pollen caught in circulating air
lifted and drifted
stripped
and bare
floating and falling
further away from

further away from us

my throat is heavy
my heart thick
and my mouth uncooperative

you answer
and the building slowly begins to fall

and inside i say

drop off
check out
transcend

stay far away
or stand with me again

abandon you home
abandon your life
run out hard
full force

run

because the aftermath is coming
our flesh and bone judgement
our existence
tested

and i

i stand there alone

alone with the news

that he is gone

and we are broken

now and later

2008-09-29T19:47:00.005-05:00

it is a simmering friday afternoon. after work. the parking lot full of small sub urban moms driving large suburban vehicles.

it is twilight at the grocery store. the time when the mundane week ends, and the excitement of the weekend creeps in. there is fever on the streets and fervor down every aisle. everyone anxious to put the day to rest.

but first this: they must pick up the spinach artichoke dip which they will undoubtedly serve in a bread bowl. they must purchase the cheap bottle of red wine. the personal lubricant that will make things easier; eliminate the friction completely from their lives.

we want everything, but we want to feel nothing. mute it. lubricate it. caffeinate it. and go on.

i am looking for something different. i am looking for the perfect body wash. the one that will not only clean me, but also cleanse my soul. the one that leaves a scent that says: not only am i clean, but i am also righteous. and clever. and important. and please pay attention to me.

but not in an overpowering kind of way.

and i want it to leave my skin dewy soft.

that is what i want.

i have not found it yet.

i want to pull aside the teenage stock girl and ask her: will any of these personal detergents give me salvation? do you have anything with a frothy lather that will kill personal demons, but leave my skin aglow? will any of these products do that? or is that in another aisle?

she will stare back at me nonplussed. there will be an awkward silence. then she will slowly walk away, occasionally glancing over her shoulder, en route to the manager's office to get the official policy on how to deal with neurotic troglodytes.

she will recite the entire story. he will ask questions. and then, he will refer her to the black three ring binder that is the policy manual. she will look under 'c' for crazy.

there will be paperwork to fill out. and in the end, while a bit confused and uncertain, she will be happy that the entire incident took almost thirty minutes out of her day. thirty minutes out of working at a mundane, nondescript job that she hates; the singular purpose of which is to make her wealthy mom and dad feel like their daughter is a little more connected; a little more appreciative for all she has.

but she does not think about this. she does not dwell on other's inclinations.

when her shift is done and the store closes, she slides into the leather seats of her dad's old bmw, opens the sunroof, and finishes off the last of a lunchtime joint on her drive home.

she will not think of me or the odd request. i will evaporate, at least for a while. until her third year of college, when during a semester abroad, she steps into an old church and the combination of classic architecture and the overpowering smell of rosewater startles her into thinking: this is it. this is what it smells like. and that odd incident will flash in her head. but only for a brief second.

she will return to her group. take pictures. fly back home feeling enriched and impervious. a small dragon tattoo wrapped round her ankle.

fifteen years later, after her first divorce, she will be there. slowly pushing her cart thru the store while her kids pull at her sides. spinach dip and red wine in basket. wandering the aisles. searching for salvation.

e x p o s e d

2008-09-09T17:48:00.003-05:00

if you could stretch and reach
if you could contort
in such a bizarre way
to make contact

if you stuck hand thru mouth
patiently dug down deep

fingers wet
sliding past unfamiliar structure

if you slowly pushed thru
continued moving on

after constriction
would be freedom

and you would find

you would find
that i am full of empty space

a hollow vessel
of thick fragile walls

still
if you grasped at the moisture in the air

closed your fist tight
carefully extracted your disjointed arm

turned your palm up
and slowly opened your fingers

what you would find
is words

black serif letters

thick as ink

sweet as berries

dark as sin

you would find

you would find
me there

my breath in your hands

my secret life

exposed

in the hood

2008-08-26T18:32:00.012-05:00

in my predominately hispanic city, there is a place called alamo heights, gently refereed to by the locals as alamo whites. and in that small, prosperous section of the city, is the place i live; a complex so uptight and pretentious, it even has a french surname.

but don't let the details fool you. it is not safe here. not by a long shot.

so this is your warning: if you are white and wealthy (but mostly just really, really old), do not move in.

because the honkys here are dropping like flys.

first it was our neighbor. then another lady down the hall. and today, this morning, about 5 a.m., more sirens, and yet another casualty.

our conservative gated community seems to draw old people like moths to a flame; they come in happy, but leave crispy.

and the bad news is, there's no end in sight; no rhyme or reason for these completely natural acts of time and age.

as a result, i view my community in a completely different way.

i realize now that i live in compton.

a gentrified, alabaster compton, where liver spots replace tattoos and walkers replace glocks, but compton just the same.

i'm telling you, this place is just plain dangerous...

where i live, every day is a battle. you wake up and pray that you didn't roll over too fast and crack a rib in your sleep. you take a deep breath before you open the door, because if the paper isn't there, right there where you told that godamn hippie paperboy to leave it, you get all testy and your blood pressure goes thru the roof and then you have to take a pill and lay down for a half hour.

yeah, it's like that.

every day.

where i live, we are not one nation under hip hop. we are one nation under hip replacement; the smell of fresh refer replaced by the stale musk of moth balls and ointment.

where i live, everyone is on drugs. they huddle in the far corners of the walkways, dressed in faded robes and pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, and openly talk about lipitor and such. i avoid eye contact and mostly keep my distance; try not to get caught up in the anticholinergic riff raff.

where i live, we have a full staff of property managers and supervisors on site, but the folks who really run the complex are the original geriatrics. they slowly roll over the speedbumps, creeping by in coup de villes and vintage cadillacs, radios blasting to let everyone know what's up, but mostly because they don't hear so good.

what's up?

what?

i said: w h a t ' s u p ?

the who in the what now?

i was just asking-- ah nevermind...

you need a ride?

no no, i was just...

hop in. i'm just headed out to get some slacks.

that's how we roll in my neighborhood. a bunch of confused octogenarians piled in a dated sedan, looking for an early bird special and a good deal on trousers. keeping it real, because you never know which day here will be your last.

ghost in the machine

2008-08-12T20:17:00.004-05:00

even the stars are quiet this far out north. which is to say, not very far at all; forty miles outside the heart of the city.

you're not just alone here, you are completely removed from self; your physical presence, your physical being lost in the heavy darkness.

there's a breath of fog that covers the ground in the early morning; an ethereal blanket that mutes time and space, and gently hides us from the world, while providing the comfort to be absolutely free. free with our emotions and actions. free with ourselves. free to let our minds wander.

i start the engine, make sure to keep the radio off, and take my time navigating the tricky pavement; headlights bouncing off mesquite trees and thick brush. i am moving forward, but i am not going there alone.

• • •

the ghost that sits beside me is a departed companion. he sits there in black and white; eyes intently focused on the mysterious horizon. stoic.

i don't immediately know why he's there; why my mind would conjure up his presence during a midnite commute. but i am suddenly flooded and full, locked into an emotional tug of war with the surreal. a vivid daydream in the hallucinogenic nite.

• • •

three years ago, we put him down. he was my girlfriend's dog. a loyal friend, and our eternally shared responsibility from the day we met.

he'd endured some risky surgeries, but now his kidneys were failing, his body beginning to shut down. and when the time came, i went thru the motions that led us to that place so that she could focus on connecting with him one last time before finally letting go.

on that day, on that quiet day, i drove the car. i drove the car that carried him to his end.

and now he sits beside me.

quiet.

poised ears occasionally flicking to attention.

• • •

we did not get along. at least not well. and as a dog person, that only added to my frustration.

i've always been drawn to canines for their general warmth and outright playfulness. but he was different. he never exhibited those qualities directly. he seemed distant and serious. like there was always something on his mind.

but not chasing cars. or the hot bitch next door. his mind was elsewhere; as if stuck calculating complex algorithms, mentally balancing a heavily diversified stock portfolio, or his next move in an intense game of chess. his demeanor was somber and controlled; far from the carefree tongue wagging which i was accustomed.

because he looked so grim, i took it upon myself to jazz him up, and would occasionally adorn his head and body with stickers from popular household products. some announced that he was indeed an organic chiquita banana, others boldly proclaimed his fresh new scent.

what he lacked in personality, he made up for in patiently advertising his lo carb count, or new and improved buttery taste.

despite the temporary flair, he seemed to me a troubled soul. he was vocal, and incessantly groveled and whined whenever his mother was gone. sometimes it was only a few hours, sometimes it was more than a week. he also had his share of annoying habits; like always walking on sidewalks despite lush grass paths, eating his food in symmetrical patterns, licking his paws til they were raw, and systematically raiding the trash, though he'd been instructed otherwise.

still, his biggest fault, his biggest failure in all his years was simple: it was me.

• • •

on the morning he left us, i did all i could to console my partner, but mostly, i let her be. i spent extra time on my hands and knees comforting our sleepy greyhound; the sole survivor of our family.

the day dragged on, and when it was time for me to retire, i went thru my normal routine before lying in bed. and then i fell apart.

the grief rolled in and over me, my throat felt thick and my eyes began to burn. it was hard. it was terrible to bear witness that day. one second life, and the next...

my emotional compass began to spin out of control. not just for the loss, or the toll it would take on my partner, but for my role in it all; for my role in his life. because i don't think it was good.

i was the insensitive bully. the one easily frustrated by the things i couldn't or didn't know how to control. i was the screaming voice. the sharp grab on the collar. the angry push out the door.

I was the failure in the relationship. i was what was wrong.

and now i am haunted.

• • •

the hum of the engine drones on as we move over the cool morning asphalt. eyes straight ahead, we sit there in unison, absorbing the silence.

i want to lean over, stretch my arm out and scratch behind his ears, as if to say: you're a good boy. i'm glad you're here. thank you for being so loyal. thank you for being there for her for so many years. thank you for being a part of our family.

above all, i want him to know that i'm sorry.

but i'm afraid to move. afraid that if i do anything, we'll lose this moment forever.

u n s o m n i a

2008-07-29T17:45:00.011-05:00

in • som • ni • a - noun - difficulty in falling or staying asleep; sleeplessness

sample: the long-haired sonofabitch next door is giving me insomnia.

• • •

the last few weeks i have been struck by a relatively new obsessive compulsive tendency and it is this: not trouble falling asleep, but waking with a single, unexplainable purpose; a manifestation of psyche that slowly and continuously gains momentum while my body is at rest.

this would be a good thing if these subconscious jolts had some rhyme or reason, but often they don't. they are random, odd and sometimes maddening.

examples?

3:58 a.m., tuesday, july 8 - must cut hair. must shave head. after months of keeping my growing locks in check, i hit my breaking point and realize i was not meant for long hair. it may make other people look like rock stars, but it only makes me look homeless. and not in a cool, hippie, indie artist working at starbucks kind of way, but in a smelly, unemployed, mentally unstable kind of way. i have been thinking about cutting it off for weeks, and wake on this day with the thought freshly branded in my brain. so fresh it's still searing. it can not wait. with my roommate out of town, i grab the clippers and go to work. an hour later, after all the excess has been swept away and removed, i spend some time getting acquainted with my short-haired reflection. 'hello generic haircut guy,' i say, mocking my unremarkable new crop. 'you look like a republican... have you praised jesus today?... would you like some may-o-naise?... the neil diamond records are over there.' i stop my charade when i realize just how fat my face is completely exposed without my unruly mane. this may have been a mistake. this may have been a big mistake.

• • •

1623, anglicized as insomnie. latin. from in 'not'; and somnus 'sleep'

sample: how can you 'somnus' when there are pancakes on the griddle? you must be 'in' sane.

• • •

4:23 a.m., thursday, july 17 - i am shaken awake by a sex dream featuring me and a very large black woman. aside from being woken by an actual partner, it is the most incredibly erotic awakening i have ever experienced. my heart is racing and i'm out of breath and my whole body is vibrating on some wonderful otherworldly frequency. i lay there a full ten minutes in post pseudo-coital bliss, trying to turn down the volume on my senses and recover. i am completely stunned by the whole thing and trying to figure out what the hell happened and why. i rarely dream to begin with, which means sensual dreams comprise an unusually small portion of my cache (though my daydream hard drive is at capacity). i have also never fantasized about having maritals with the super-obese, but in this dream, i was having an incredibly good time. and i don't know if this has anything to do with anything, but the woman i was with bore a striking resemblance to aunt jemima. really. much as i've read about dream analysis, i have never come across any explanation of having sex - raw, incredible, passionate sex - with food icons. could anyone ever go back to sleep after that? this one is going to be on my mind for a while.

• • •

onset insomnia - characterized by difficulty falling asleep, with increased sleep latency. frequently related to anxiety disorders.

middle insomnia - refers to difficulty maintaining sleep, with frequent waking during the nite. may be associated with pain or medical illness.

terminal insomnia - often referenced as early morning waking. frequently associated with major depression.

sample: holy s@#t, you have terminal insomnia! good luck, and don't forget the prozac.

• • •

4:18 a.m., wednesday, july 23 - again i am jolted awake, and again my roommate's absence gives me license to live out my latest overwhelming impulse; the 1992 kris kross pop hit 'jump'. for some reason my brain has decided that listening to this song is an absolute priority. i am trampled into submission until i have to get up, scroll thru itunes, and play the actual song as loud as i can in my conservative gated community at such an early hour. once it's over, i get in the shower, and mentally play the tune as i dry off. as the steam evaporates and the condensation begins to clear from the mirror, i look at the fat faced guy with the short hair staring back at me, confused as ever about this strange new affliction. and then i play the song again.

the five people you meet in hell

2008-07-19T06:57:00.007-05:00

i don't believe in hell. it just seems so cruel and mean to even consider a place so hot and humid. and if it does exist, shouldn't we use all those souls roasting in eternal damnation for something positive, like an alternative energy source?

that aside, i do think there's a cold, stark, desolate place unsavory characters should go, and that place is gate c 37 of the chicago international airport. having been trapped there on more than one occasion, i can personally testify that nothing will break you down faster, and systematically make you more thankful for life's simple pleasures than a nite spent in the continental hub.

it is rehab for the soul. with planes.

so that's it. my version of hell. a cold, fluorescent lit concourse with cheap tile floors. and a chance for redemption.

that being said, here's a few folks who may deserve to spend some time there.

the loud talker
usually most guilty while talking on a cel phone, drinking a latte and driving, walking, or shopping at the same time • have no idea that modern technology makes celphone mics really, really sensitive • flamboyant, spastic gestures confirm they don't understand that when you're on the phone, the other person isn't actually there • unafraid to blatantly voice their opinion about anything, except how annoying loud talkers are • generally not good with secrets or sensitive personal information • thinks everyone is from a foreign country or deaf • have no idea they're making your ears bleed

the skimmer
too busy, self-important, self-absorbed, or selfish to read anything more than the subject line of your email, even if it's about your dying gramma and your dramatic epiphany • may actually have add or adhd, but just come off like an a@#hole • really likes pictures and emoticons • scrolls thru voicemail to see who called, but never listens to messages • owns dvd copy of 6 minute abs, but only got thru the first half • is usually spinning in office chair, looking out the window or watching tv when you're talking • likes texting, short walks on the beach, george bush • stopped reading this about five minutes ago.

the pessimist
believes all music is terrible, everyone is crazy, and crime rates are always on the rise • hates npr • only drinks straight black coffee, preferably strained thru wool socks • writes letters by typewriter • carries the aroma of heavy ointment • once became aroused just thinking about andy rooney • waiting impatiently for death to slowly put them out of their misery • likes egg salad samwiches • will ironically die from salmonella poisoning.

churchys
convinced only they and members of their particular group will be saved when the end is nigh • understand the concept of right and wrong, just not in this instance • have no idea there are about 4200 other spiritual sects, twelve of which are recognized as major world religions • are really bad at math and statistics • have no idea the pope is an animatronic puppet • strongly believe i'm going to hell just for writing this • will have lots of company.

the others...
writers from the last episode of seinfeld • the folks who killed the electric car • everyone involved with the invention of the treadmill • tight pants • darth maul • homophobes • and cats, lots of cats.

d o g t o w n

2008-07-12T12:26:00.005-05:00

stupid sexy dogs.

they do not know that it is 3:51 a.m.

on a saturday morning.

that you were up much too late. that you are dehydrated and tired and suffering the effects of a food hangover. that as you shift from side to side, your belly seems to slosh around a half second behind.

they do not know this.

all they know is that it is close to feeding time. that you, laying there like a bloated mess high atop a soft bed, are useless to them.

and so they must wake you.

• • •

hey!

hey!

it doesn't seem to be working... maybe he can't hear us. what if you go over there.

over here?

yes. you go over there and say something and i'll go over here and say something.

hey!

hey you!

hey-hey!

hmmmm...

maybe you should lead him to where the food is, you know, so he kind of gets the idea.

brilliant! got it.

hey!

hey you!

c'mon, get up and follow me. hey! hey! hey!

ugh. it's not working. he must have meniere disease.

you mean the syndrome first described by french physician prosper meniere in 1861 with symptoms that include tinnitus, vertigo and hearing loss?

that's the one.

but he wasn't deaf yesterday.

i know, but these people, they're weird - they can't hear a thing most of the time, and you already know about their terrible sense of smell. how they get thru the day is beyond me. anyway, i don't know how it happened, but he's obviously deaf now.

or retarded.

right, or retarded. but i'm sure he knows it's close to feeding time so... why don't you commence ramming the bed.

what?

you know, just nudge it a little. brush aside it, slap it with your tail, whatever.

why me?

because you're a bit more stout and porcine

i'm big-boned is all, my mother was part mastiff.

english or tibetan?

spanish, actually.

that bitch was spanish? i never would have guessed... very well then, start the jostling and i'll keep watch and see if he moves.

here goes nothing...

keep going, keep going, again again. hey! hey! hey!

well?...

still nothing... i was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but i'm just going to have to jump up there and give this a go myself.

you know, if he didn't secure our food in the pantry we wouldn't have to go thru any of this.

good point... what i wouldn't give for some prehensile thumbs.

monkeys get all the breaks.

stupid monkeys... i've had it up to here with monkeys.

• • •

jeez, i love this stuff (chomp chomp chomp).

i know, right? (chomp) never gets old does it? (chomp) i mean some days, it seems like it gets even better. like that's even possible (chomp chomp) to make this stuff even better! (chomp) you know, i've never had lucky charms, but this (chomp) this is magically delicious.

it's so good! (chomp chomp chomp) it's like a crunchy little explosion of flavor in every bite! (chomp) i haven't had anything this good since we found those bull testicles...those were most esculent.

esculent indeed... (chomp chomp) now that was a good day. (chomp) a special day to be sure.

alright (chomp) i'm rounding third (chomp)... and i'm done... oh jebus, take me now.

hang on (chomp burp chomp) okay. (chomp) i'm right there with you... good grief that was ambrosial.

ambrosial? wait what?! where'd you get that from?

the other day, the retarded fat guy was online and i dawdle over to see what he's up to and he's like 'oh what a good boy, you're such a good boy' and he's scratching me behind the ears...

yes, i love that.

me too. so, i peek over and he's on word of the day or something and there it was: ambrosial. it means especially pleasing, or especially delicious.

ambrosial... i like that.

me too. been waiting all day just to use it.

well, now you did.

i did.

now what.

i dunno... i figure a good nap would be fitting?

nap? yeah, sure. where you wanna go? the kitchen, the living room, outside on the grass...

you know, in the morning, i like the office. it's quiet, has the thick carpet, and i can see the sunrise out the window.

splendid. we'll nap, watch the sunrise, maybe even stretch a bit - that always makes me feel sonorous... maybe later chase each other around?

sure. that sounds perfect. just perfect.

f i r e w o r k s

2008-07-05T13:23:00.004-05:00

friday
in my simple backpack, i have been carrying around an uncomfortably large amount of cash. it may not be much, but it is everything that i have, so i keep it close, not knowing when i'll find the right circumstance to let it go. for the last two weeks, i've been on a futile quest to find a fair deal on an unencumbered vehicle. another weekend is approaching, and i am anxious to have some mobility. it's late in the evening when i finally strike a deal with a family man and mechanic who offers up a car that's superficially flawless. the paperwork is signed, he hands over the extra key. and as we part ways, i notice the driver side door lock is damaged and inoperable. oh yeah he says, just open it from the passenger side. i begin to get that sinking feeling as he pulls away.

saturday
i'm anxious to explore and experience the world again and begin to run errands around town in my new wheels. along the way, i stop by the grand opening of the new mac store. the lines are full of overweight middle-aged dorks. and a few unfortunate girl friends. not girlfriends. girl. friends. demographically, it's what you may expect from a star trek convention or a dungeons and dragons gathering. pale, pastey, eczema-prone losers all standing in line early on a saturday morning for a free t-shirt. sadly, i am one of those losers. even more sad, the free t-shirts are stagnant and cheap, and look like poor knockoffs produced by unseasoned sweatshop workers. by far the worst thing ever produced with a genuine apple logo. they are embarrassingly bad. i give mine away.

sunday
read paper. do laundry. revel in sloth, gluttony, and reality tv.

monday
for the first time in months, i actually drive (as opposed to ride or walk) to work. but i already know this is not the car for me. there is no bond. no connection. i begin to like it less and less with each passing moment. knowing it's in such good shape cosmetically, my mind begins to run with how quickly i may be able sell it or trade it in for something a little less generic, and a little more me. i spend half the day online scouring for my next fix, and the other half tempering my boss's bipolar outbursts at the new company computer. that evening, i help out with a video project and am up much too late, my head spinning with possibilities.

tuesday
i return from an early morning outing with a client to find my four day old car has just been sideswiped by a delivery truck. property managers and police are on the scene. phones are buzzing and held to ear. everyone is talking to someone else. then my phone begins to tremble - a close friend's brother is fading away after a long bout with cancer. they need someone to watch the house while they catch the next plane. the police want to know if i'm ready to file an official report, until i decide, i can't move my car. the truck driver and the trucking company deny anything happened and reiterate that there are no physical witnesses, just physical evidence. my boss's car happens to be in the shop this morning and he's frantic to borrow mine to go to an important meeting. everyone is waiting on me for a decision all at the same time.

wednesday
i leave work a bit early to make the drive across the city and toward the small town where my friend resides. the traffic is notoriously bad heading north, and the approaching holiday weekend has made it no better. a steady stream of overloaded vehicles pull boats and jet skis toward the lakes and waterside resorts. during my drive, i swear i can feel the transmission begin to slip, and for the first time notice a few small cracks on the windshield. the only supermarket in the area is an extra fifteen minutes away, so i drive past my destination and to the oversaturated store. by the time i make it to the house, the dogs are clumsy with excitement. their energy temporarily blunts my mood and my ongoing dilemma. i find ice cream in the freezer and eat the whole box despite the late hour. i set my alarm to account for the extended commute, but barely sleep in my new surroundings; a head full of sour, a belly full of sweets.

thursday
we have an audit due, and our offsite bookkeeper has been trying to make sense of the random scraps of paper we've collected over the last year. we've been on the phone regularly, and every question begets another complicated inquiry. the reports she emails make no sense. much as i want to build my business knowledge, in this instance, my skills and experience are revealed as infantile. the boss is livid and visibly stressed. he has plans to leave in the morning for a trip with the wife. his car is still at the dealership. a coworker and i take his vehicle to another shop. while there, i get an estimate on the damage to my own vehicle. eight hundred to a thousand dollars they say. but that's just an estimate. on the drive back to work, the stickshift cover breaks off. the audit is due. checks need to be made out for employees. i need to get across the city to take care of the animals. my phone vibrates nonstop.

friday
after another restless nite, i decide to quit fighting it and get up at three thirty. i feed the dogs, take them for a short walk, drive across town, and along the way run as many errands as possible, utilizing 24 hour superstores and automated terminals. i get to work before six. the place is empty the first few hours and i use the time to catch a few breaths and reflect on the week. it's been rich with hostility and stress, financial loss and tedium. somewhere in there is more than i understand. tonite, while the nation celebrates its independence with loud explosions and fireworks, i will make the long drive home, open the door to a small piece of tranquility, and lay awake in a soft bed, while two large dogs slumber nearby.

girl next door

2008-06-24T20:11:00.007-05:00

this is not the story of the wallflower across the street that blossoms into a sultry siren. this is the story of my septuagenarian neighbor. a woman i've shared a common wall with for the past five months, but met only once.

last week she died. and things have not been the same since.

• • •

i have been fortunate enough to keep death on the perimeter of my small world. when i was younger, it was distant relatives that passed. strangers. as i became older, it was my parent's friends, then my siblings acquaintances, until the circle became tighter. and now, people i know or have known have faded into that dark place, sometimes suddenly, and sometimes slowly, painfully drifting away.

still, i've never had death in my house. have never had an ailing relative make the transition while i moved about from room to room. i've not been there for the last breath.

• • •

the corridors of our 1970s complex are infinitely long, and the sparse lighting echos off the pale rose walls. because of my unusual hours, i always seem to wander thru them alone, making several tight turns en route to our doorway. everyone is asleep or still at work. my roommate is out of town, or out on the town. everything is quiet.

odd then, that on this particular day my neighbor and i exit our doors at exactly the same moment and nearly run into each other. she says hello, tells me her name is mary, and we exchange the usual banter that comes with sharing a building. she tells me our mutual neighbor is quite sick and currently in assisted living. that the lady's daughter comes by from time to time to check on the condo that her mother rarely sees.

like most in my community, she is older, but healthy, lively and chatty. a widower with no children, she's lived here a while and likes the place. she is nondescript, her face and posture simple and plain. there are no red flags of what's to come.

• • •

the following friday i get a message from my roommate. and since we rarely interact outside our space, i call her immediately, feeling a bit uneasy.

she tells me the news. that on the way to work this morning, she was greeted by four police officers. that there's an ambulance and a fire truck outside. mary's door is ajar. there's activity inside, but there will be no resurgence.

the packages on her doorstep had been there for a few days. i assumed she had been traveling. but they were the sign. the key that something was askew.

she has no next of kin. there is no one to notify. the end of her life is marked by packages on a doorstep. but when? how long was her body alone while she transcended.

* * *

i arrive home midday, the hallways are still. i make the turn down the last corridor, expecting to see or feel something unusual. but it's the smell that overwhelms me. i fumble with my keys, slip in, and quickly close the door behind me.

it must have been days. maybe a week. maybe the day we met.

• • •

the next few days, i hold my breath and have my keys ready before making the final turn down the hall.

but once inside, i can't get the thought out of my head: death was here. on my doorstep. floating thru the same pale corridors i walk alone.

did we pass each other in the hallway - was that the faint flicker of the lights.

did i brush his shoulder as he floated thru the halls.

did he stand behind me and observe while i fumbled with my keys, a light breath on my neck.

was i on the other side of the wall when he finally pulled her away.

gray noise

2008-06-17T18:48:00.005-05:00

i believe in strangers and strangeness; in that gray area that separates black and white and explains the unexplainable.

it's the reason i'm such an avid fan of the tv show 'lost'; where a polar bear on a tropical island somehow makes sense.

it's also the reason why i enjoy such a wide variety of music, as each piece, in it's own unique genre, seems to fit in someplace exactly right.

that being said, here's a piece i recently put together that has that surrealistic quality. i ran just about everything thru distortion filters (so the blown speaker effect is intentional) which gave it a creepy, melancholy feel.

if anything, it's just plain strange. but for some reason, i kind of like it.

so, take a deep breath, close your eyes, and listen.

hallucinogen.mp3

b u s t e d

2008-06-12T17:43:00.006-05:00

i have flown overseas, taken a train to cali, driven north to south thru the u.s., and have even ridden a bike from city to city. but i have never taken a bus on a major trip. not even once.

until last week.

while other forms of travel have a certain charm (the novelty of flying, the whimsy of a cruise, the deep rooted tradition of a train) traveling by bus has all the appeal of a sleazy motel. sure it's cheap, but it's also a bit trashy and uncertain.

in the travel hierarchy, it is the lowest form, and has absolutely no prestige. why? because you get great stories aboard ocean liners, champagne in the first class lobby of an airliner, or romance in the viewing car of a foreign train.

you know what you get on a bus?

head lice.

only scoundrels travel this way. people recently released from prison. or someone trying to avoid capture. runaways? alcoholics? crazy people? check, check and check.

still, none of this was enough to dissuade me. i was willing to accept it all for the sake of doing something i'd never done before. in the end i figure it's just like dancing with a midget. it may not be pretty, but it would be something i'd never forget.

so how was it?

wait a second. before we go there, we have to go here.

complete social awkwardness.

if going greyhound isn't ostracising enough, try asking someone you know for a ride to the bus station. they'll say:

where?

to the what!?

are you in trouble!?

do you need to borrow some money?

they will not say: cool... where you going?

trip tip number one: do not ask friends or family for a ride to the bus station. take a cab or thumb a ride with a friendly trucker instead. they are much less judgemental.

okay, so the bus station itself. it was everything you'd expect from a bus station: dilapidated, eerily lit, dirty, smelly, chaotic, nomads and vagabonds sitting about the perimeter. it was a little like mexico. actually, it was a lot like mexico, and since i'd been there a few times, it was no big deal.

but then the confusion began. our local bus depot is as big a cracker box, and has a public address system that sounds like a drive thru. there are four departure areas: a, b, c and d which are all directly next to each other, with no defined boundaries. not even a velvet rope. there were also few people who spoke english, which is where it all went wrong.

me and the few other gringos would approach the mob and ask: a? to which the response was always: c. that seemed fine enough until you rolled it over in your head for a second.

was that c, as in departure gate c, or was that si, as in the spanish equivalent for affirmative?

this uncertainty created a constant, unsteady flux in the herd which rumbled with a choir of call letters and miscommunications. a? si. c? si. d? si. b? ok. que? k? what? and so on...

once things were sorted out, we boarded. and there we sat, a busload full of stereotypes. and i certainly won't foster generalizations and say that i was the only honky on the bus. or the only one without neck tattoos. or that i was the only one who wore fragrance and carried a copy of the new york times magazine. but i was.

the ride itself? not bad. much more comfortable seats and more room than an airplane cabin. and i had the whole row to myself, due to some strategies i learned while riding the subways in new york.

trip tip number two: put your backpack in the seat next to you, put on some headphones, look busy reading something, and never, ever make eye contact with boarding passengers. if you do, look as gruff as you can for a fragranced honky without neck tattoos reading a glossy magazine.

finally, we arrived. and to say the bus depot in waxahachie is little more than a rusty gas station in the middle of nowhere would be pushing the truth. it is exactly that. namely, a chevron food mart - so long as you consider long forgotten rotisserie hot dogs and packaged fried pies food.

i stepped off the bus and into the heavy heat radiating from the pavement. saw her there waiting for me. and knew it was all worth it.

warning signs

2008-06-02T19:34:00.004-05:00

if there's one thing i know well, it's how to make mistakes. really dumb, foolish, sometimes life altering mistakes.

example?

when i was a kid, i tried to jar a treasured football free from some powerlines.

using a long aluminum pole.

really.

and while i never did that again, sometimes my transgressions are no less shocking. this last year has been no exception, as i've managed to plant, nourish and cultivate idiocy in a way that would make a seasoned iowa farmer proud. they would take off their john deere hats, slap them against their dusty overalls and perplexingly drawl: "son, if that ain't the greatest crop of horses@#t i ever did witness, well than, i just don't know my horses@#t."

and the thing is, every time i make a mistake - be it romantic, professional, or financial, i'm stunned. surprised. completely taken aback by my rationale, which at the time seemed completely logical. ironclad even.

in retrospect, though, those decisions seem completely dimwitted. completely transparent. just plain stupid. every. single. time.

i am chris farley clumsily falling on the table and smashing it to bits.

falling thru the window while adjusting his pants.

i am the fat guy in the little coat.

and everyone sees it coming with the exception of the actual guy wearing the tiny jacket. the stitching is stressed, but everything seems fine. then comes one seemingly innocuous move and... uh oh.

and the really bad news is that i'm not getting any younger. more handsome and more daring, yes, but not even i can stop the inevitable crawl of chronology. even on a good day.

so, i'm beginning to wonder when the string will end. or if it ever does. or whether i'm just a little too tuned into the fallout.

they say wisdom comes from experience, and that we learn more from failure than from success. if that's true, then i'm on the verge of being an absolute einstein. theory of relativity? please... come back when you can figure out a formula to determine my optimal career path.

but what really surprises me is this: people who wouldn't change a thing about their lives. and i know people who have gone thru some tough stuff: affairs, heart attacks, credit card chaos - all things that could have been avoided with some better decision making.

despite it all, they seem to be content. at peace with their plight. soaking in the greater knowledge of lessons learned.

not me.

there's enough out there you can't control, which is why making mistakes hits me so hard. i'd rather not go thru the additional self-imposed heartache.

i would hope i'd be smart enough to begin with, but i've proven that desire a little too lofty and out of reach at times. so if i had a chance, i'd change it all. every last bit.

until that happens, i have to keep reminding myself:

do not pick up the aluminum pole. do not put on the tiny jacket.

fractured

2008-05-26T17:45:00.004-05:00

this day has been
this week has been
fractured

a muted freefall
into viscous waters
treading heavy toward lucidity

deep folds flipped inside out
passions exposed with powerless clout

moved but not moving
linear unspooling
foolish double downtime spent listless and losing

clouded and hazy
yesterdays maybes
swish and swirl round scattered and shady

this weekend was

full of asphalt curves at moderate speeds
lazy sunday minus cupcakes and beats

looking mississippi and feeling minnesota
wide uncertainty on narrow shoulders

i read the words
watched the show
slept it off and moved slow

syncopated rhythms
decisions indecision
familiar faces in a backdrop of visions

voices carry
voices spoken

rub my eyes
blink
and open

not so fast...

2008-05-14T17:26:00.008-05:00

if you live in the neighborhood and felt the ground rumble this morning accompanied by labored breathing and claps of heavy flesh against heavy flesh, do not be alarmed.

it was not the sound of godzilla making love to a giant manatee.

a group of hippos did not escape the zoo and simultaneously go into labor.

and your mother in law is still safely living several states away.

what you heard and experienced was the sound of a comeback; the sound of me attempting to run again.

to be sure, there is nothing more unattractive than a fat man running.

it is not equivalent in any way to pam anderson's sultry strut across the silky baywatch sand.

it is more like chris farley jumping on a trampoline in slow motion. it is loud and sweaty and hairy, and everyone (including the runner himself) is waiting for the absolute and complete coronary failure which we are all sure is just the next footfall away.

but it wasn't always this way. fifteen years and thirty pounds ago, running really was my life.

it was what i did, where i worked, who i knew. it dictated every meal, every planned hour. it was my treatment, my religion, my family.

it wasn't running then. it was meditation. and i could glide along for hours, literally, and i did.

smooth, lithe and efficient, i was poetry in motion. i was peaceful. grace under pressure.

it was not running. i was not running. it was ethereal. i was ether.

during those transcendental moments, thru the repetition of steps and connection to self, there was overwhelming clarity. calm, soulful, clarity that put the world and my problems within it, in their soft, perfect place.

i did not run for the high, i ran because it was my therapy; the thing that kept me in harmony and balance.

to this day, it's hard to find a street or place in the city that i did not at one time occupy alone, at five in the morning, during one of my sessions. and i still marvel at times at the distances i easily covered while the world slept.

that was a lifetime ago. another chapter in what sometimes seems like a completely different book...

today, the roads are hard, familiar strangers, and every step is an effort. my thoughts are immediate, embarrassing, and trivial. i can't see the forest because i've run face first into the tree.

i am wearing a red shirt and all i can think about is what others must quickly contemplate as i hobble by: look at that big fat giant tomato! it's running!

the tomato hears this.

the tomato knows this.

the tomato feels the words bruise his delicate skin, and uncharacteristically drops his head and plods along.

chocolate mojo: the movie

2008-05-10T21:33:00.002-05:00

here's a promo spot for the sponsor of the blog competition; written, starring and directed by yours truly. i even put together the original soundtrack.

none of which would have been possible without my mac and it's incredibly easy to use suite of software.

steve jobs, you are a genius.

the far side

2008-05-06T18:40:00.002-05:00

i don't know how you do it. i don't know how anybody does it.

balance. moderation. keeping the world steadily afloat.

because right now, my life is in shambles. absolute and complete chaos. there are shimmers of brilliance peeking out from beneath the rubble, but, man, this place is a mess...

if there's one thing i know about myself, it's that i'm an extremist, which is as close as i'll ever get to admitting to be a full blown addict. good or bad, regardless of how trivial or significant, when i'm in, i'm in. and when i'm out, i'm out.

i am the simple light switch that flicks on or off, not the adjustable dimmer that can illuminate a fluid existence.

at the moment, parts of my world are rich and full. i finally finished that script, put together some great photos, have a minor league video project on tap, a new script to read, a graphics challenge on the horizon, a headfull of things to write, and even a little clarity as to what i want the future to hold.

i found a great place to live, got the motorcycle i wanted, a job that gives me enough money to cover the cost of insurance, and enough free time to play, or just play lazy.

and the dark side...

i have completely abandoned my physical self, contemporary decor, and routine haircuts. i am fat and weak, have upgraded from sleeping on the floor to sleeping on a bed on the floor, am surrounded by plastic furniture, bare walls, and a silly mop of hair that makes my fat boyish face seem even more immature.

in the last three months, i have spent more money on chocolate pudding, caramel macchiatos, and whip cream than i have on the new pants i've had to buy to slide my new fat ass into. i spend more time in the gym pushing paper than pushing weights. my sense of fashion and style evaporates everytime i open the hapless rubbermaid locker that stores my clothes.

i am neither here, nor there. i am in pieces, strewn about the sea, floating along while my deeper self sinks. i am hurridly driving down the x axis having forgotten about y. i am desperate for that intersection, the place where it all comes together.

ride the lightning

2008-04-29T20:33:00.005-05:00

i am standing in the shop waiting for my vehicle to be ready, anxiously watching the minutes pass and realizing there is no way i am going to make it back to the office in time for my 10:30 appointment.

i have a damaged wheel, a faulty transmission, and brakes that require a complete overhaul. when the job is complete, the mechanic hands me the bill: thirty seven fifty. not cheap, but things could have been worse, much worse.

especially if this were a typical garage.

. . .

i hand over two $20s, collect my change and pedal back to work as fast as possible. and along the way, as the wind whips thru my doltish helmet, as trucks honk and people go out of their way to express themselves, i realize this:

i am the 40 year old virgin.

i am the middle-aged guy who does not own a car and rides his bike to work.

i am the single guy who lives in a quiet place surrounded by octogenarian neighbors.

i am the geek, the nerd, the sweaty wallflower in the bookstore.

i am the superdork.

and i could not be any happier.

true, life on two wheels does come with its own unique set of challenges. shopping is dictated by what you can fit in your backpack. going out at night or in the rain is impractical, if not dangerous. and your clothing options are dictated by function over fashion.

but without a doubt, every day is an adventure. and that is awesome.

whether i am on my motorcycle, or my bike, my commute is always interesting, and above all, fun. it's actually gratifying to go places, as opposed to grating. after all, lane splitting on a motorcycle is legal in texas, and with a little skill on a mountain bike, there's practically no rules or limits on where you tread - roads are just one of many options.

maybe it's the connection to the environment that makes the experience so liberating, the fact that all your senses are synced up and on high alert, since your survival literally depends on it. daydream in a typical automobile and you may end up in a fender bender. daydream on two wheels and the consequences are far worse.

. . .

in the backseat of the car, on the way to my older brother's high school graduation, we come across an accident. headlights on and engine running, a motorcycle is eerily pinned beneath a truck, along with a student who was supposed to walk the stage that nite.

everyone knows someone, or knows of someone who has died on two wheels, and that was my introduction. maybe that's why there seems to be such a connection among those who ride.

or maybe it's the helmets, and the anonymity they provide. put someone in full gear and they automatically lose their ethnicity, background and social status. they become just another player in the game. and this game is far too interesting and engaging to waste time worrying about anything else.

in the beginning, in the end

2008-04-21T18:51:00.011-05:00

a day after i sell my car, buy a motorcycle, and fully commit to life on two wheels, there's an article in the new york times targeting this very topic with a rather morbid conclusion: motorcycles are the new cocaine - the instrument that men my age use and abuse, and ultimately die from as a result.

based on the statistics cited for the average age of a fatal accident victim, i have about eight months to live.

it's a funny thing in a lot of ways; to strive for a certain connection to self, only to be greeted by such a grim statistic.

i grew up during the video revolution, and as a result closely followed the happenings of the cunningham family on happy days and their suave upstairs tenant. i owned a fonzie t-shirt in elementary school which made me feel a little closer to the cool guy i always wanted to be.

but fat kids with unruly cowlicks and repressed social skills are not cool. even in pseudo leather jackets. they just become sweaty, uncomfortable fat kids with cowlicks and even less social charm.

the best i could do was ride my bicycle and try to hang out with my brothers; cool, long haired rebel rousers who smelled like gas and looked like trouble. they had minibikes and gokarts and eventually, motorcycles.

our house was abuzz with engines, full of makeshift ramps and loud rock and roll, and carried with it the consequences of such adolescent combinations in the form of flesh wounds and other related injuries.

hard working and mechanically inclined, my siblings poured themselves into their motorcycles and carried with them a sense of pride as a result. they were different people. self aware and confident. everything i was not.

i didn't know much, but i always knew i wanted into that world.

years ago, i finally picked up my first motorcycle from the showroom floor. the emotional connection i had with ownership and with riding was instinctual, yet something i had distanced myself from for no good reason.

and now?

the dramatic jump and move to things exclusively on two wheels (motorcycles and bicycles) is for a lot of reasons a reconnection to self; a renewed sense of adventure, a desire for simplicity, and my minor attempt to be a little more earth friendly.

plus there's always the cool factor.

if i achieve any of those in the next eight months, then it was all worth it.

aisle be there for you

2008-04-15T20:30:00.005-05:00

i am on foot, wandering the streets aimlessly, drifting back and forth from curb to curb like a drunken pinball, with a cell phone pressed to my ear, in a conversation that has gone on so long that i'm beginning to feel the initial stages of sunburn, delirium, and dehydration.

i move like fluid down a driveway, flowing erratic and insensitive to my surroundings, which include busy streets and large strings of vehicles crowded with families, all anxious to get home so that each and every one can finally retreat to their personal space and take a reprieve from the day and from each other.

it's all i can do to head in the general direction of home, my heart and mind spinning from the dialogue; the inevitable breakdown of communication that happens when you've spent eight years together with someone and then decide to part ways.

it has been six months since we entered this new era of us, and two weeks since we had our last unsettling conversation; we are in that place that is a little bit uncomfortable, but more than anything uncertain; two seasoned fighters and lovers circling each other, desperately trying to find the right space, the right spacing, the right combination of emotional connection and disconnection to show that we are still unified, yet separate.

today the blows are straight and solid, a few come from unexpected angles, and there's a tone set early that drives us thru flashbacks and flashforwards, what was and wasn't said, what could be, and what is known as right now; a circle of grief we seem desperate to run on til complete and total collapse.

beaten and bruised and wandering the streets in a daze of purgatory, erratically talking in personal code to someone only i can hear, i am the picture of senility; a wanderer, a nomad, with a phone to his ear that passersby must regard as cover for my distraught existence.

but the words and the conversation i'm enveloped in is more real than the world around me; at this moment, i keep my steps one in front of the other to give my body motion, since my heart is stuck somewhere 300 miles away, unable to catch up, every step toward a landscape i don't want to acknowledge, i float gingerly on the soil, never quite making solid contact with the earth.

after forty minutes i make it to a department store that's only twenty minutes away. sit outside on one of the benches that seem to have been placed their for weary souls like mine. take in the last few breaths of her words, and mourn the part of us that seems to have lost its way.

i am unsettled and restless, grieving, and walking wounded when i enter the store and am blown by the crisp recycled air that smells like plastic. and as i step thru the doors, as if on cue, i hear the intro of a classic song by the five stairsteps; you know the one:

ooh child
things are gonna get easier
ooh child
things'll get brighter
ooh child
things are gonna get easier
ooh child
things'll get brighter

i walk thru the store, delirious and confused. broken, but occasionally laughing aloud at the incredible circumstance that is this very moment; carrying my red basket thru aisle after aisle, staring up at the speakers like they are a novelty from another planet, certain that whatever deity is running the world, they undoubtedly have a sense of humor and an uncanny sense of timing.

some day, yeah
we'll get it together and we'll get it all done
some day
when your head is much lighter
some day, yeah
we'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun
some day
when the world is much brighter

she's upset and doesn't want to hear from me now, but i call back anyway and hold my phone in the air. the shoppers around me are confused by the frazzled man circling the store with arm outstretched, staring at the ceiling, having a nervous breakdown and smiling all at the same time. concerned employees peek at me around displays of cornflakes and spaghetti sauce, all are unaware of who i am, where i've been and what's transpired in the last forty five minutes. the only thing we know for sure, is that we are all in our own way, truly sharing a moment.

special of the day

2008-04-04T07:59:00.008-06:00

it's not everyday that a complete stranger in a supermarket walks up to you and says 'oh my god!'

at least not to me.

and it's in that fuzzy moment that seems to stretch on forever, that every conceivable scenario plays out in my head as to exactly who this person is, why they are pointing at me, and at the same time referencing a deity.

this person has no context in my brain, so i don't know if this is a good 'oh my god!' or a bad 'oh my god!', so for a brief second within this brief second, my brain is stuck on complete and total ' . . . ' - the black screen before the reboot kicks in.

and that moment within a moment leads me to this: who are we and what will we ultimately be remembered for?

if you suddenly went 'poof' what would people learn or discover in your absence (besides a small porn collection hidden in the back corner of the closet).

credit and debit cards are a good place to start, since what you buy, where you buy, and even when you buy can pretty much tell a tale of it's own.

my last statement would reveal a pretty sad story. there are no donations to charitable organizations, but there are almost daily $4 contributions to starbucks. there's also an unusually suspicious and regimented purchase of a certain chocolate pudding i've been addicted to lately. plus several hundred dollars in charges to an out of state company called biotest (alarming as the name may appear, they make nothing more toxic than protein powder).

this all flashed in my head because the woman approaching me did so with the gritty purpose and intent of a disturbed, psychopathic killer.

hands full of groceries, unable to defend myself, all i could think was:

'pudding. i'm going to be remembered for pudding. f@#k!'

fortunately, she did not have a cleaver stashed anywhere on her person, and her enthusiasm and gesturing had nothing to do with me. it had to do with my shirt - a souvenir from a small tourist attraction in paris. turns out she had been to the exact same place at almost the exact same time.

hmmmm....

we chatted for a second. compared our experiences abroad. then went our separate ways.

she'll remember me for a t-shirt. i'll remember her as my transcontinental stalker.

what you don't know

2008-03-23T19:05:00.004-06:00

• i have an ongoing list of my weight that goes back to 1994

• the first car i ever bought i put on a credit card

• i have never personally owned a cat

• favorite sandwich as a kid was butter and sugar on wonderbread

• i scream 'f@#k' at the top of my lungs when i'm driving alone and miss an exit

• i've never ordered coffee at a restaurant

• i'm a monopoly grand champion

• drank motor oil as a kid and had to have my stomach pumped

• never been on ice skates

• have been asked to leave a church

• once met a billionaire heiress

• started taking diet pills in fourth grade

• survived a jolt of 10,000 volts

• sold my first painting two years ago

• have never owned an american car

• had my nose broken by a dog

• drove from north dakota to south texas for a girl

• have seen every episode of sex and the city at least once

• carry antibacterial handwipes everywhere i go

• still haven't finished that script

• am cuckoo for cocoa puffs

vital signs

2008-03-06T20:07:00.009-06:00

a friend of mine is sick and in the hospital, complications from a simple procedure turning into an arduous, heartwrenching ordeal. and though we are still very much in that dangerous gray area, i have no doubt that she will recover fully and completely, and revert back into the person i recognize and know. the stakes are simply too high to consider anything else.

last year another friend, the closest incarnation of superman i know, was struck by a severe and sudden jolt of mortality. i went to his bedside, like i did hers, and stood by in complete and absolute disbelief.

• • •

my head spins and i’m awash in emotion during the solitary elevator ride back down to earth. the doors open, and i’m completely lost inside myself as to where to go, what to do, and ultimately, what it means.

i am flooded with hope. hope that everyone and everything will be okay. hope for her family and friends. clear, pure, focused hope, that i carry with me like an aura, til it is inevitably broken by the buzz of a cel phone.

i carry around the events of the day; through work, the grocery store, and mundane chores until i make it home and have some time and space to collect my thoughts. i try to make sense of it all, and have to pull hard to come away with whatever it is i’m supposed to learn from the experience.

a few simple words begin to reverberate and echo in my mind, until they’re just there, flashing on and off and floating in my personal cyberspace: wake up.

wake up.

wake up.

wake up.

i want to scream it at my friend who lays listless in bed, to rouse her back to life. but there’s more to it than that.

i am a witness to her state for a reason. and the words are for me, and the countless people i know, who sometimes sleepwalk thru life, and hang our heart, soul and happiness on tomorrow.

the words are my responsibility. my deliverance.

do not go quietly into the nite. do not save it for a rainy day. do not carry anger or regret.

tell that person that you love them.

or lust them.

or both.

quit your job.

write that book.

buy the sportscar.

call in sick when you’re feeling well.

spend more time with friends and family.

double down.

start your journey.

whatever it is, do it today.

wake up.

wake up.

wake up.

kids at play

2008-03-01T22:27:00.005-06:00

with football season over, my appetite for reckless abandon has been spent ingesting the increasingly interesting political buffet. my addiction to the nfl network has been replaced by cnn; john madden by wolf blitzer; tightly controlled spirals by tightly controlled spin.

it is cheap methadone for a haughty heroin addict. made all the more perplexing by the fact that i don’t vote, and probably never will.

well, that's not entirely true.

back in third grade, i distinctly remember voting for rebecca stanky for room leader over the much more popular (and in my opinion, underqualified) jessica chavez. eyes closed, heads pressed tightly against folded arms on our desks, the teacher would say each girls name, and we silently and anonymously voted by raising our hands.

simple as it was, our system was a true democracy in action; an at-large popular vote with no electoral college or superdelegates to speak of.

campaigns were short and efficient. each candidate had two well-timed minutes to address the class. no money was raised, no contributions were accepted.

not everyone could vote, and not everyone wanted to. joey cantolli was in timeout with his desk facing the back corner and wasn't allowed to participate, which was probably not a bad idea, because he was kind of dumb.

other kids didn't raise their hands when the names were announced because they had fallen asleep or didn't particularly care for jessica or rebecca, and that was okay too.

as far as i know, neither girl had handlers, publicists, strategist, or even stylists to prepare for the big day, and neither even knew they would be considered. primaries were announced and held that morning via an open, super-secret write-in ballot (notebook paper tightly folded and put in a jar); with the general election held after recess based on the top nominees.

things have certainly changed a bit since then, especailly when it comes to national politics. the modern day electoral process has become not just the elephant in the room, but the monster of democracy itself, and as a result, i've never really been able to move forward.

what i would give to have that old, simplified elementary system back, so that i could finally vote and move on. rest my head on my desk, and drift off in optimistic wonder about the future.

the o.c.d.

2008-02-29T18:57:00.011-06:00

current addictions and obsessions:

kozy shack chocolate pudding in the 22 oz. tub

motorcycles and motorcycle gear

checking ebay, amazon and craigslist for the above

ical

ordering my starbucks drinks 'upside-down'

podcasts

politics and election coverage

that girl on fox news

manjamas

fat free sweetened condensed milk

dj rekha’s basement bhangra cd

home decorating shows

lazy sundays

stretching

making lists

crossing things off list

saving money

checking my cell phone minutes

tracking orders online

google.com/trends

washing my hands

wondering if other people washed their hands

four cheese instant mashed potatoes

big puffy chairs

the health of my friends and family

bed frames

thick fuzzy blankets

my uncooperative hairline

deleting stuff

costco soft-serve frozen yogurt

fine point pens

the color red

raw unprocessed honey

single speed bikes

christ-crossed

2008-02-28T19:31:00.009-06:00

irreverence. blasphemy. sacrilege. if there’s a topic more demanding of satire and general mockery than religion, god knows i haven’t found it.

thetans? joseph smith? immaculate conception?

really?

no wonder it's such a target...

which leads me to this: kathy griffin. yes, i know she’s incredibly annoying, but her irksome attributes are easily outshined by her sharp, quick wit, which is pretty much unmatched by any modern day comedian.

even better, she’s not afraid to cross the line. so if you’re a churchy, you should probably stay the hell away from her. or at least her emmy award acceptance speech, which went something like this:

“now look, a lot of people come up here, and they thank jesus for this award. but I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than jesus - he didn’t help me a bit. if it were up to him, cesar millan would be up here with that damn dog. so all I can say is ‘suck it, jesus! this award is my god now!’”

amen to that, you crazy nymph.

it's what makes her attractive - absolute and sincere fearlessness. it’s hard to find, since most of us spend our time playing it safe, eeking out just enough of ourselves to seem original and homogenous at the same time.

it’s why tiger woods never really comments on anything and is sewn into our culture as an icon, and why mark cuban madly raves about everything and is generally regarded as an a@#hole.

woods is still in the process of building his world, and realizes that each precarious step could mean millions. he treads lightly, a deer in the racial headlights, slowly, gracefully, slipping away without incident.

cuban, on the other hand, has already conquered the world, and is free to froth and stomp around like godzilla thru tokyo. loud and brash and unapologetic with nothing to lose, he is the embodiment of freedom. and for that, if nothing else, you may not like him, but you could do far worse than to be more like him.

so to hell with taking it slow. well rehearsed speeches. choreographed presentations. antiquated formalities. traditions. conservatism and censorship.

here’s to shaking the foundation, and the creative, honest and savvy derelicts who keep the world interesting.

now hear this

2008-02-27T19:26:00.006-06:00

there’s nothing better than discovering a new song and getting caught by its gravity if only for a few minutes. here then are ten tunes you won’t hear on the radio, but can easily download and discover nonetheless.

crank that • travis barker remix
nothing is worse than the expletive filled nursery rhymes that comprise mainstream rap music. shameful that's it's even considered a musical genre when there are plenty of talented artists our there who actually learned to play musical instruments. so thank the stars for folks like travis barker. who the heck is travis barker? former drummer of blink-182 who adds enough rock and roll credibility to this song (via live drums) that it actually becomes acceptable.

oh yeah • the cliks
i love this band. and the more i listen, the more i’m drawn into their hypnotic, dark, robust sound (not to mention their interesting back story). just like a cup of coffee, you may not like the bitterness right off, but you’ll inevitably go back for another cup. then another. and another. until finally, you’re hooked and singing this song at the top of your lungs.

first date • the fleshtones
vintage, raw, passionate and fun – what’s not to like here? twangy surf guitar and even a hint of harmonica served over a melodic little organ. and it jumps off the plate immediately. the only disappointment is that the song is so short, it’s more an appetizer than a entree. but what a way to get the meal started. yummy.

the news • carbon/silicon
you’re speeding down the highway, the top is down, the sky is blue, and this is the song you have playing at full blast. kind of dancey, certifiably simple and catchy, with just enough guitar to maintain some punk sensibility. if you can’t have fun to this, you just can’t have fun at all.

like u crazy – mates of state
here’s the simple, mellow, lazy love song of the bunch – piano, drums, voice and a heartfelt message sung by a duo who, in actuality, are a romantic duo as well. beautiful, complicated, lyrical sincerity.

don’t give up • noisettes
you can tell from the puckered guitar and raspy voice at the intro that something big is coming, and when it does, it’s like a scene from a tarantino movie: full throttle in black leather with flames and broken tequila bottles left in its wake. thick, heavy, and jumpy with plenty of screech and attitude. a sledgehammer when you’re sick of using a rubber mallet.

ears ring • rainer maria
fuzzy, buzzy, full bodied rock song with a driving baseline and enough tempo and timing changes to sound fresh every time. has all the ingredients to easily be three separate songs but mixes well enough together to sound original and satisfying.

umbrella • travis barker remix
you’ve heard this rihana song a million times already, but never like this. amazing what live instruments played by real musicians can do to a tired, overplayed, overproduced song. thanks again for saving the music, travis.

all grown up • the gore gore girls
this is the song that i imagine is running thru my teenage nieces heads each and every day; a raw, unified, anthemic response to authority (much to my siblings dismay). and why the hell not? responsibility isn’t fun, but this kooky song certainly is.

kill the dj • leroy smokes
“put you hands up, f@#k that put ‘em down; cause there’s too many bullshit records spinning around.” if there’s a better, more honest chorus floating around out there, i haven’t heard it. absolutely addictive. a liberating, hip hop fusion of music and truth.

by the numbers

2008-02-26T18:26:00.005-06:00

276 • highest number i’ve ever registered on a scale

151 • lowest number i’ve ever registered on a scale

165 • current number i register on a scale

…

1800 • number of calories i consume in a typical day

5000 • number of calories i consumed this sunday (overfeed day)

11 • difference in pounds between my weight on overfeed morning vs. overfeed nite

…

459 • number of days since i’ve eaten a solid meal

4 • number of protein shakes i consume each day

165 • amount of money i spend on protein powder each month

3 • number of blenders i’ve gone thru in the last year

2 • number of endoscopys i’ve had

…

4 • number of addresses in the last year

5 • number of jobs i’ve had in the same time span

1 • number of couches slept on

1• number of floors slept on

4 • number of blankets it takes to make a floor feel more like a couch

…

0 • amount of debt i have

0 • number of credit card accounts

0 • current credit score

0 • amount bank will loan me as a result of the above

…

218 • amount i pay each month for health insurance

56 • amount i pay each month for car insurance

0 • amount i pay for quality assurance

…

1 • number of times i jumped out of a plane

7 • number of marathons i’ve run

5 • number of years it took to finish undergraduate degree

2 • number of scripts i’m working on

17 • most powerbars eaten in a day

4 • number of weeks it takes me to read the sunday new york times

12 • number of times I’ve seen nacho libre

4 • pair of sneakers in my closet

0 • number of suits i own

watch this

2008-02-25T17:27:00.006-06:00

there are lots of movies out there, but few are actually good enough to warrant your time and attention. here's a list of ten documentaries worthy of such a personal investment.

the first year
follow five rookie teachers as they selflessly trudge through the los angeles public school system in an effort to save and educate the next generation. their stories and acts of kindness will make you wish all educators shared their passion and spirit. and we tip these people with apples?

dust to glory
ihe journey of 1000 miles begins a single step - or a super-charged dune buggy. the baja 1000 challenges all makes of man and machine through wild, body-jarring terrain which director dana brown captures with a keen eye. you may not be a motorsports fan, but phenomenal footage and a hero named mouse mccoy will keep you entertained until the end.

supersize me
where would we be without morgan spurlock? twenty pounds heavier and with ldls through the roof, perhaps. check out the film that made the fast food industry take notice, and put the spotlight back on independent documentaries. or just grab another handful of fries, gordo.

grizzly man
naturalist tim treadwell rides the line between insanity and genius living among grizzly bears in alaska. just when you think you have him figured out, the story turns bizarre, and eventually macabre. werner herzog’s film has a resonance that’s honest, sometimes even uncomfortable, but certainly interesting.

the endurance
think you have it rough? this film about ernest shackelton’s seemingly cursed antarctic voyage is a compelling testament of perseverance and human spirit. you’ll marvel at the crew’s incredible grit and strength (they didn’t even have performance fleece!), and wonder how we’ve seemingly become so weak and shallow. a great wake-up call for folks who can’t make a trip to the grocery store without a slackberry, gps and ipod.

long way round
you know that ewan mcgregor is an accomplished actor, but what you probably don’t know is that he grew up as a motorcycle enthusiast who dreamed of one day circumnavigating the globe. this two-disc, seven hour epic chronicles that journey with friend charley boorman and details their remarkable four-month odyssey through 12 countries, countless cultures, and plenty of trials and tribulations.

one day in september
thirty years before 9/11, there was the tragedy that enveloped the olympic games in germany. for those too young to remember the calamity, this in-depth chronicle of the event is both riveting and heart-breaking.

go tigers
it’s friday night lights meets two-a-days, with the small town of massillon providing the backdrop. the film reveals the impact a top-ranked high school football team can have on a community, and the pressure that comes with being one of its players. the biggest shocker: this is in ohio, not texas. really.

control room
if war is hell, than what about the job of spinning the war? chaotic, confusing, dangerous at times, and perhaps more bizarre than the war itself. jehane noujaim, who also directed the noteworthy startup.com, gives us an interesting look at the iraq conflict and the voices involved in telling the story.

hell house
a look into the controversial haunted house sponsored by the trinity assembly of god church in dallas, which uses actors and short sketches to graphically depict sins as horror. if the scare rooms don’t frighten you, the religious politics surely will. sheesh, all I wanted was some candy.