Imagine waking up one day and realizing, in the eyes of God, you no longer exist.

In the world of the world wide web, there’s no questiton who pulls the strings. No matter whether you avoid worshipping false idols, there is no denying the power of Google.

While I’m still investigating the actual cause, the long and the short of it is, Google no longer recognizes Rapid Eye Reality. I’m not here. For that matter, neither is my sister site Up For Poker. In the eyes of Google, I’m not even dead. I simply never existed.

My friends in the industry believe it probably has nothing to do with me and more with an underground war between one of the companies advertising on the right and one of its competitors. I am collateral damage.

Hopefully there is a solution. The money I make from the ads on the right isn’t even walking around cash. Regardless, as I sit here in Vegas blogging for a living, getting erased from Google is pretty damned depressing.

In the past seven days, I have seen two people throw up in public.

The first time, I was leaving my house. A crew of high school cross country runners were out for a morning jog. The pack was at my street when I pulled out of the house. Two streets down, I saw the runt of the litter stop, bend over, and hurl. I’m no athlete, but back when I pretended to be one, I never stopped to puke. I kept running and just turned my head to the outside lane. This kid is destined for something other than a track scholarship. Hopefully, he knows how to play chess.

The second time was just a few hours ago. I was on my way for a 32-ounce water and six California rolls (my lunch for the past five days). This guy was about 50% bigger than me and was obviously up drinking all night before coming to play cards today. With 20 people standing around him, he stood over a 55-gallon trash can and gave more than a few good upchucks. I trust big guys to be able to hold their liquor until it is out of their system. I guess there’s a chance he got some bad sushi, but I think if that were the case, he would’ve found a more proper place to lose his lunch.

It’s coming up on 2am here in Vegas and I’m considering heading back to the room. Work is all but done here. I made the smart decision to schedule my team in shifts. The only problem is, out of fairness to us all, I’ve staggered the shifts in such a way that getting on a decent sleeping schedule is well nigh impossible. As such, I’ve not even been awake 14 hours and I’m not at all sleepy. Worse, I scheduled myself for the early shift tomorrow.

This doesn’t bode well.

I have never really cottoned to that whole Theory of Relativity thing.  Einstein was a weird cat and I think probably a closet prankster.  Nobody wears his hair like that unless he is up to something. 

I’m supposed to believe that the faster I move, the slower time goes.  That does nothing to explain how I worked at my fastest yesterday and somehow 8:30am turned into 6:00am the next day in a blink.  It also doesn’t explain how, at the end of this monster shift, I tossed and turned in bed until finally giving up on sleep at 10:15.  Einstein was a cheeky cat, and I’m not entirely sure he’s not still alive and opening my hotel room curtains.  Somebody has to be doing it, and it’s certainly not me.

I’m not usually afflicted with jet lag.  Hop and skip to Monte Carlo and I get back on sleeping track within a day.  Usually, after 24 hours in Vegas, I have fixed my body to understand it is unseemly to wake up before noon.   This trip, however, I can neither go to sleep or—if I manage to doze—stay that way for very long. 

I don’t know why I question it.  It seems counterintuitive to believe anyone can sleep in this environment.  For the love of all that’s holy, Jerry Buss is walking around here with a comb-over that, if I could sleep, would give me nightmares.  How anyone can keep a red-dyed marmoset so still on their head is beyond me.

Of course, by late afternoon, to quote Henry Rollins, I feel like Billy Idol himself.  There are no white weddings in Vegas, however, so nice day or not, I’m not entirely sure who I am.

And so I busy myself with the fun sleep depravation provides.  All senses, except the ones that matter, are heightened.  There’s a guy nearby with a bag of weed that smells like it came straight out of a skunk’s hindquarters.  The tats on the waitress’ arm dance like a Japanese cartoon.  I actually am conscious of the blood moving from my heart to my hands.  I don’t know why people get off on drugs so much.  Go two days without decent sleep and the trip is hoo-haw happy.

I think maybe that’s what Einstein was getting at with the whole relativity thing.  Given a decent time-tweak, everybody seems like your brother, grandmother, or future child.  This little family reunion goes on for a few more weeks.  I only hope I come out of it with my hair looking less like ol’ Albert and more like the guy I would dream of being, if I could only sleep.

Somewhere along the line, I got fat.

Hard to say exactly what happened. Normally I can count on my sedentary lifestyle to not otherwise affect my shape. Ever since I gave up sugary sodas about seven years ago, I have been able to maintain a weight that I didn’t mind announcing.

Upon my arrival in Las Vegas, I stepped into my suite, such as it is, and got ready for bed. Note this: all things in Las Vegas are designed to make you think you are better than you really are. The mirrors are included in this ruse. Usually, I can look in a Las Vegas mirror and think, “I am quite a specimen.” Last night, however, the mirror failed. I spent five minutes looking at myself from different angles. The only one that didn’t disgust me was when I was turned away from the mirror, and thus, was unable to see myself. When a Vegas mirror doesn’t make me love myself, I know I have crossed the threshold from merely undesirable to lard ass.

I mentioned my weight gain to my ever-slimming wife a few days ago.

“Maybe you just reached that age,” she said, somewhat proudly. She’s been waiting for my weight to catch up with me for years. She doesn’t understand how I can eat the things I do and maintain a reasonable weight. “I hit mine when I was 25.”

Elvis got fat in Las Vegas, so it’s not entirely unreasonable to think my time in this foul city has finally caught up with me. Elvis, however, was all messed up on pharmies during his latter years. Apart from the occasional contact high of sitting in media row, I am able to avoid drugs, so I can’t blame it on that.

No, I am just fat for no particular reason. I eat relatively well and don’t drink a fraction of what I did in my slimmer days. It is, without question, a frightening prospect. What? Yes, the idea of exercise and planned eating scares the hell out of me.

This year, I’m staying at the Palms instead of the Rio. That means I either have to walk 15 minutes in 100 degree heat carrying 30 pounds of gear, or I can take a cab. This morning, I chose the walk. By the time I reached media row, I was a sweaty mess, but felt better about myself. So far, I’ve only eaten six California rolls and a power bar. We’ll see how long this lasts.

In the meantime, I’m going to ask if I can try out one of my buddies’ mirrors to see if my reflection looks any better there. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask for a room change. My self-worth is already at dangerous levels, so a nightly reminder of what a fat ass I am is not what the doctor ordered.

What kind of father am I? 

With just a couple of days before I leave for a three-weak run in Vegas, I should be teaching my son how to build a house, or at the very least, fire a shotgun.  These are useful skills that, in the event of my unfortunate demise in Sin City, my son could use to defend our home from intruders and revenuers. 

I did not do this.  Instead, I spent my Saturday morning with my son at a bastion of cultural significance: Frankie’s Fun Park.  Where else can a man show his child he loves him 50 cents at a time?  I even did my part to save the world and helped steer him away from the first-person-shooter games.   We grabbed a plastic triceratops from a crane machine, played whack-a-gator, and missed every shot at a basketball game.  Outside, we avoided the line for the miniature golf course and instead opted for bumper boats and go-carts. 

The boy loves go-carts, because he loves most anything that involves speed and danger.  The Frankie’s Fun Park track is fast, full of hairpin turns, and has double-seat carts for, say, father and son.  I’d be lying if I said I hated doing this.  I, too, always had Richard Petty fantasies.  That hat…

Anyway. 

We started off one off the pole.  Ahead of us, another father and son team (who I prefer to think of as The Losers) were revved up and ready to go.  The boy and I got off to a slow start.  His role was to sit in the left seat, hold a faux steering wheel, and wave to his mom every time we made a lap.  My role was to show that joke of a father in the pole position that he should be embarrassed to call himself “Daddy” in front of me.

The first lap saw Joke Father maintaining his lead and giving me the stink-eye that said, “I don’t care if I make my son cry.”

Joke Father underestimated my love for my child.  He didn’t know that I really, truly love my boy and that the only way to really show my affection is to prove to him that the bad man in the lead car was really a loser who would fail at any sort of competition.  You know, turn Joke Father into a sissy.

I discovered that simply mashing down on the accelerator wasn’t going to be enough this time.  Taking the lead—for my son!—was going to mean shaving the turns, hugging the inside, and never once letting off the gas.  I could tell how much son loved me when we took the lead.  His white knuckles and grim stare into the oblivion were heart-warming. 

When we passed Joke Daddy, I gave him a look that said, “Sorry, I had to make you my bitch, but I really do love my son.  This is for him.”

Firmly in first place, my son and I did the noble, sportsmanlike thing and drove as fast and hard as we could.  My son raised his hand in a very cute, terrified wave to my wife.  It was the stuff she’ll put in a baby book one day.  As we entered the third lap, my peripheral vision noted something disturbing.  Team Sissy wasn’t giving up.  Joke Daddy was trying to make a move on the outside.

I looked at my son with a comforting, paternal gaze.  It said all it needed to.  “I will not, son, let these panty-wearers defeat us.”

I shaved the edges tighter than before.  I drove as fast and hard as I could.  For my son.

Midway through lap three, it happened.  The explosion was followed immediately by something hitting me in the face.

My first thought was, “The Joke is shooting at us!”

Before I could finish my thought, I discovered that I couldn’t steer.  Normally, this is not a huge problem.  At top speed in a curve, however, it sucks.  The wall came faster than I thought it would.  So did the question from my son.

“Daddy,” he said, as Joke Father smirked by on our left, “what happened?”

I shook my head and looked at the right front side of our cart.

"It’s called a blowout, buddy.”

We limped onto pit road where the teenage workers looked at me like I’d just dropped my pants in church. 

My boy and I declined the new cart and two free laps.  I led him off the track and toward his mother.  Pride forced me to find some lesson for my son, something with which he can remember me if I catch rickets or Ebola in Vegas. 

“Tires are the most important thing in any race, son.  Don’t you ever forget that."

Packing for a three-week trip to Las Vegas is an extended process.  Make no mistake, the actual act of putting clothes and equipment in a big only takes an hour or so.  I’m experienced in that area and if you told me I had to go on the road for a month right now, I could be wheels up in half an hour if need be.  The other packing, though, takes several days. 

So begins the five day process of packing up enough family/friend good times and memories to last me over several weeks away from home.  I had a fantastic afternoon with the family yesterday.  I plan to spend this afternoon and evening with my local and not-so local buddies in a battle of mixed drinks, beer, cards, and common sense.  Tomorrow is date night with my ever-understanding wife.  Sunday is family day.  Then I spend Monday running errands and, well, actually packing my bags for the Tuesday morning flight.

I don’t foresee much writing between now and the time I make it Vegas.  With that in mind, here are a few things that I’ve found entertaining recently.

Robot 365

A local blogger and photojournalist, Little Lost Robot, has started a Flickr 365 project based on his robot collection.  LLR is a geek in the best sense of the word and is talented beyond my wildest dreams in a wide variety of media.  Here’s one that suits my current mood.

I couldn’t decide which of his photos I liked the best, so go check it out yourself HERE.

Mouth of the Brazos

The Fat Guy is one of my older Internet Friends.  Though we disagree on a lot of political matters, we agree on the important stuff like music and beer.  He recently linked to one of his local bloggers.  JD from Mouth of the Brazos speaks with a tongue that may not be the best example for the young’uns, but he’s honest.  If you head over, prepare to see some words you might not use at cocktail parties.  That said, he’s an interesting Texas voice who pulls off the regular turn of phrase that will make some of you smile.  Take, for instance, this reflection on regret as he got ready to go in for major heart surgery.

I think pussy and bird hunting and fishing were about the only things my old man ever considered worth his time. The order being relative to the one he’d most recently done. Like almost all of us guys, once he got his nut, he started in thinking about fishing if it was summer, bird hunting if it was winter.

And, from my dad’s perspective, bird hunting = quail hunting and fishing = catfishing. Pussy, conversely, means pretty much any pussy. He was not a picky man when he found himself needing some of that old sweet roll.

Archive.org

If you are a live music lover, you already know about archive.org.  It’s been a time-waster for me for many years.  Recently, my buddy G-Rob and I have been in a debate about whether the site is a wormhole or black hole.  Either way, if you are a live music fan, you can spend hours searching through the database for something fun.

My most recent download is this show from Robert Randolph and the Family Band, live in Beaver Creek, CO last year.

Oh, and special to G-Vegas Eddie From Ohio fans who remember the old Handlebar:  G-Rob found THIS show from March 2000.  It’s Robbie solo in the old mill.  The songs themselves are hit or miss.  The cool thing about it is, midway through the first set, Robbie reveals he wrote the next song on his way up from Atlanta that day. Turned out to be “Number 6 Driver.”  Midway through the song, he says something like, “This is where the bridge will go.  Add your own words, if you like.”

With that, it’s time to pound on some work and get on with the weekend.  If I poke my head up any time soon, it will likely be from Vegas.

Take care, y’all.

“Holy, hell, I know I’m tired, but that looks like my stomach.”

I was laying on my side with a straw in my mouth and sucking on the worst shake I’ve had in my life. I remember some huckster giving me a cement-mixer in college (Baileys and lime juice in a static snot ball). This shake was much the same thing, but tasted more like Mrs. Maples’ erasers. Chalk dust torture, indeed.

A few minutes earlier, Dr. Hmrahnnah (at least, that’s what it sounded like when the nurse introduced him to your hero, a man who has been up all night for one reason or another for the past week or so) had shoved a plastic shot glass in my hand. It was full of clear Pop Rocks.

“Swallow those as fast as you can,” Dr. Hmrahnnah said. “And try to keep the gas in your stomach.”

We’ve just met and the doctor is talking to me about gas. I don’t have a gas problem, I wanted to say. I just can’t swallow chicken.

“So I shouldn’t burp, then?” I asked.

Dr. Hmrahnnah gave me a look like he thought I was trying to be funny. “No, please.”

Over the next ten minutes, I felt like a tired, used up whore. Turn this way. Roll that way. Put this in your mouth. Don’t burp.

I can pretty much stomach anything. I’ve seen more dead people than I’ve seen films with Kevin Bacon. Bartenders from Hawaii to Monte Carlo will tell you I can drink just about anything and usually do. The barium shake and Alka Seltzer pop rocks were a little much. My gag reflex is not as controlled as I thought. Rather than asking, “So I shouldn’t burp?” I should’ve been asking, “Is it going to be a problem if I upchuck on your nurse?”

The payoff was worth it though, despite what I’m sure was about ten years worth of radiation in ten minutes. As I propped myself on my side and took deep breaths, I was told to suck down my third shake and watch the monitor. And there, in living black and white, was my esophagus, stomach, and, hey, my intestines! The only thing that would’ve made it better (aside from maybe a shot of bourbon) would’ve been having a recording I could put on You Tube. I thought about telling the doc about the Keno Crayon Incident and decided he wouldn’t understand the value of $400. Doctors never do.

“There’s your bowels,” he said.

So, there’s where I put my car keys, I thought.

All of this because I couldn’t choke down some cold cuts one day. Or, to be fair, several days over the course of the last few months. Solid foods–usually meat–felt like they were getting lodged in my throat. The wife, Madame Hypochondriac By Proxy, insisted I go see the doctor. The doctor did his job, which was to poke me a couple of times, grunt, throw some sample meds at me, and send me out the door with a referral for Dr. Hmrahnnah.

Dr. Google pretty much solved this mystery for me a couple of weeks ago. Dr. Google knows everything, including the fact that my throat is fine and I just have a fairly chronic case of heartburn. Dr. Hmrahnnah confirmed that this morning, for all intents and purposes, over shakes and Pop Rocks.

Last night I played poker with two guys who are recovering from testicular cancer. My cousin has a child going through chemo. So does a good friend of mine from college. Another friend of mine just told me today that her mother has breast cancer. These folks have lived through countless hours of prodding and poking from doctors. The fortitude it must take to deal with it is something beyond my comprehension. Despite the fact I feel like I’m falling apart on most days, I’m fairly healthy and I couldn’t feel any luckier than I do.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see if I can find me a good 18-year-aged Barium to take the edge off.

I’m told it’s an acquired taste.

I woke to my boy’s face smiling proudly.  He held a box as big as his head.  Inside was a new, fancy Garmin GPS system.  Breakfast was ready and the only thing standing between the family and the road.  An hour later, we were in the hills and in search of the only covered bridge left in South Carolina.  From there, we headed to a century-old stone bridge in another part of the county.  Back home, it was fresh shrimp, fresh corn, some grilled meats and vegetables, and dessert—homemade blackberry cobbler and homemade strawberry ice cream with fresh berries in both.  I’m now fat, tired, and happy.

I really wasn’t searching for a metaphor today, but found one anyway.  See, the distance between two points is sometimes impossible to cross, despite how small the actual mileage between the two is.  Bridges fix that problem.

Life as a father can be exhausting and at times infuriating.  Today was one of those days that made me forget about the bad times.  Today was a bridge I really needed.  I’m going to do my best not to cross back over for a while.

More photos from the past few days at my Flickr account.

I’d like to think journalism won’t die with him, but Tim Russert was capital “J” journalism’s face and voice.    I still believe in journalism, but it will be a lot harder without Russert at the helm.

So, yesterday, I spent a couple of hours tooling around with the Windows Live Writer program and its map function.  This morning, I woke up to read Random Connections and discovered my little burg has been visited by the Google Street view folks.  In fact, Google apparently stopped by my cul-de-sac sometime last winter.  On a Friday morning.  Before 9am. 

Friday morning, eh?  Well, yeah.  You’ll see the recycling bins and trash can on the curb.  Those go out Thursday night and are emptied Friday morning.  We bring them in as soon as we can.  It’s still morning, though, because both of our cars are still in the driveway.  It’s certainly March or earlier because that big ol’ sweetgum in the front yard has no leaves.   From other angles, I can also determine the Google Drive-by happened sometime in the last year or so, due to some different paint colors and the lack of bushes on the curb (thanks, UPS!)

Thanks to Random Connections for the heads up.  I’m really going to have to stop walking around naked if this continues.