Once returned from Las Vegas, the everyday activity between waking and sleeping seems quite ordinary. This is the way it happens every time. There is relief at being home, followed by latent endorphin withdrawal, followed by sense of contentment at the normal things in life.

And it is quite normal. Friday night was a ridiculous evening of bar hopping with my fellow thirty-something married male friends. Saturday night was date night with the wife (Portafino's chicken marsala was good, "I Am Legend" was about what you'd expect). Sunday was making ziti, taking the kid to "Alvin and the Chipmunks," and then watching "Good Night, and Good Luck."

You know, normal.

In fact, apart watching my wife jump out of her seat during "I Am Legend," the most significant event of the weekend was the arrival of my first-ever Netflix DVDs. Sure, I know I'm late to the game. In the past, I had a hard time justifying the cost of the service. Even I couldn't understand my resistance to the service. I mean, I spent $20 in a jukebox battle on Friday night, but 'm not going to spend $15 a month to get unlimited movies? I didn't make sense.

A few nights ago, however, I figured it all out.

I have had HBO for as long as I have been an adult. With DirecTV, HBO cost me $13 a month. The wife and I also spend about $12-15 a month renting DVDs. Once "The Sopranos" went off for good, I realized that HBO had nothing more to offer me but Inside the NFL and Real Sports. I decided I could live without those shows, canceled HBO, and signed up with Netflix.

The decision turned out to be pretty easy. I signed up for the plan that gives me unlimited DVDs (two at a time) and unlimited streaming movies on my laptop. Within a week, the subscription has already paid for itself. I've been a little giddy over the service and spent more than a little time setting up my queue of films. Any recommendations?

Normal life is a pretty comfortable thing. It rarely lasts as long as I'd like, but when it happens, I tend to enjoy it. If my calculations are right, this normalcy should last about two weeks before life gets odd again.

I'll take it while I can get it.

Labels: Film, Mental Massage, Mt. Otis

Despite the fact this blog began six years ago as a dream diary of sorts--an experiment that didn't last but a week or so--I don't like to write about dreams. They are like pets and kids--only interesting to the people to whom they belong. However, as I'm now back into recurring dream land, I need to purge. The past two nights have been on the same dreamscape, followed the same themes, and have been as vivid as any dream I've had in months, if not years.

The hardest part was the waiting.

We were barracked in a long, skinny industrial dorm. The concept of "we" was loose, in that our unit was no more than a ragtag band of novice soldiers--professionals, laborers, slackers, and pretty lesbians. The only real military men among us were the commanders, a surly collection of impatient and tired mercenaries.

A volunteer army it was not. While we were all sure of the coming invasion, we were conscripts, forced to leave our families, and laboring under the assumption that there was no way we could win the inevitable war. I spent my hours wandering the complex and trying to find a way to get in touch with my wife. I had a phone card and managed to find a payphone in a dark hallway.

The phone rang and I heard her voice say, "Hello."

The Soma-calm that came with the sound of her voice was short and cut off by an operator telling me the phone card was out of minutes. I had no money, no more phone cards, no cell phone, no way to get home. I was trapped inside a dark and wet building, surrounded by a razor wire fence, and under a blanket of such fear and doom that no amount of sunshine could set optimism alight.

Men and women were housed together here. The unmarried soldiers in the group were treating their confinement like a doomsday party. On my many walks, I wandered by the group showers and found my fellow American service men and women naked, groping each other, and fucking their way to oblivion. They knew we weren't going to win. They knew how it was going to end.

The commanders turned a blind eye to it all. I learned after a while that they were only responsible for keeping us in one place. They didn't care that the lesbians had started a Dorm B fantasy camp, removed their bunks from the wall and started sleeping in a mass of naked flesh on the floor. The officers didn't care that I spent most of my time huddled in a small lower-tier bunk wondering if I could escape, and, if so, how.

The enemy was the oddly-named Caspians. Their uniforms were blue and fashioned much like the Russians in the old video game Rush 'N Attack. When they landed--much like a scene of out Red Dawn--we didn't have any guns. There was no shooting. The commanding officers disappeared. If it wasn't clear before, it quickly became so. We weren't meant to fight.

As we were all rounded up and put on a caravan of buses, I wondered about my wife and child. There was nothing I could do for them. I'd held out hope that we might fight and win, that I could someday return to my family.

I don't know where they were taking us. It's a looped scene that changes in the exposition but ends the same every time. The Caspian is firm but not violent as he leads me by the arm onto the bus. His face is emotionless and he doesn't say a word. I don't struggle. Instead, I let myself be put into an aisle seat on the bus. I can't see out the window and don't bother looking to see who is on the bus with me. It's clear that while the dream will start over at some point, it will never really end. Isolation and defeat are all I know until I force myself awake.

Labels: Mental Massage

My Internet footprint is bigger than it should be. I write regularly on three blogs. I have Flickr, Buzznet, and Twitter accounts. I have a MySpace and Facebook pages (both, grudgingly). All of that, combined with an increasingly active offline life, means I sometimes neglect this, my oldest and favorite place to hide on the Internet.

The past week has seen me writing a lot more on Up For Poker. Recent events, not the least of which was yet another poker game robbery here in G-Vegas have kept me pretty busy.

The last couple of weeks have been exactly what I needed on the offline front. I've seen a ton of live music, including Tony Trischka, Fishbone, Michael Franti, and the Black Crowes. Tonight I'm going to see They Might Be Giants for the first time in nearly a decade.

I also am planning a post with the working title of "Get in my pants" which I'm sure everyone is just dying to read. Or something.

A weekend as a single dad, followed by a personal/work project in the following week, followed by Thanksgiving, a trip to Vegas, the holidays, the Bahamas, and a wedding trip to Louisiana should make for a lot of good blogging fodder in the next few months.

If I can only find the time to sit down and write about it all.

Labels: Mental Massage

Well, I sure needed that.



More to come when I again start thinking like a person from the real world.

Labels: Mental Massage

There are two hard things about the Lake Eden Arts Festival.

The first hard thing is the getting there. The actual road trip is easy. From where I sit, it's only an hour and half drive, most of it on interstates. Camp Rockmont (which, despite the sound of its name, is not a place where people are regularly massacred by serial killers or a place where 18 year-old girls in white cotton panties experiment with some crazy new interests) is a simple little place on a simple little mountain lake.

The hard part is the anticipation of getting there and then fear of not getting a prime spot next to the lake. That is my job today. The wife and I are the first wave of The Advance Team. The job we have chosen to accept is that of scout and flag-planter. I should remember that in nine years of LEAF-ing, we have never failed to get a good camp site for this four-day event. Yet, I always worry. I'm sick with it right now. I'm leaving two hours before I really should in some false hope that it will make me feel better. When we get there, it will be a mad dash over a split-wood fence and to the lake. There, we will begin forming the Tent City U for a party of around 20 people (a small year in comparison to the 32 we had last year). Within a few hours, we will be joined by the rest of The Advance Team, Jane, T, and Ted. They will help us build Tent City and make it our weekend home. By 8pm, we will be finished and drinking beer. The hard part will be over.

The other hard part is the leaving. Sunday morning, we will all wake up up. More than half of our group will be hung over. Everyone will be tired. No one will want to spend three hours breaking down Tent City and cleaning up our site to leave the land as we found it. But everyone does.

Those are the two parts of LEAF that I hate. If those were the only things I knew about LEAF, I most certainly would never go. Thing is, everything else in the middle of those two times is easy. Beyond easy, really. A picture T took last year pretty much sums up LEAF in October.



I could spend a couple hours writing about how much I enjoy this weekend, but I don't think most people would get it. I've spent years trying to convince people why it's fun, and nobody has understood it...until they have joined me. I think in our group's LEAF history (which pre-dates the Otis clan by several years), only two people have joined us at LEAF and not liked it. Dozens of others have vowed to come back as often as possible. And they have.

So, it's off the grid for me this weekend. I'm not simply setting an away message on my computer. I'm turning the damned thing off.

I've never been one to run away, but this weekend, I'm retreating and not feeling the least bit bad about it.

Seeya next week.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music

I know, I know. The Mental Massage is supposed to happen on Fridays. I mean, who goes for a mental rubdown on Wednesday? Well, as I mentioned before, this week and the next few are going to be a little odd and more than a little busy for me. At the time I should be mentally massaging on Friday, I'm likely going to be somewhere on I-44. So, just in case I can't make it back to the blogging machine, here's a quickie.

Devon Epps--I really expected to wake up this morning and see a lengthy piece in the Greenville News about Devon Epps. Today marks the one-month mark since the seven-year-old Greenville County boy was asphyxiated. While his mother, Amanda Smith, maintains a knife-wielding maniac sprang from the shadows, forced her from her car, and smothered her son with a pillow, there have been no arrests and no suspects publicly identified. Of course, the one-month mark is rather arbitrary, and in the investigative process means absolutely nothing. However, I think it does serve as a reminder to everybody that this case is still open.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

September 11th--Also missing, I felt, from this week's news at large was much news coverage of the sixth anniversary. Again, anniversaries are little more than a date. However, every time the date 9/11 comes up, I can't help but think that September 11th should receive some sort of recognition. There is no date in my life that holds greater significance and I think that's even more true for many, many more people. Am I wrong to think there should be some nationally recognized day on 9/11? I hesitate to call it a holiday, because it is not a day of celebration. However, if we're going to take a day off to recognize our Presidents, Columbus, and the day or day declared its independence, we might consider federally marking the day the America changed forever.

Truckin'--I simply don't promote my buddy Pauly's literary 'zine here enough. He's been running this thing for what seems like forever and has been kind enough to ask me to write for him. I should be promoting it every month, and not just the months he publishes something I wrote. But, since he published something I wrote...well, here's this month's Truckin' (my piece is a typo-ridden and comma-splicey rumination on why airports sell condoms in their bathrooms).

1. Monk's Siberian Dream by Paul McGuire
Brain dead. Deep into the sixth day of a foggy bender, I had forgotten the day of the week. Frisatursunday? I’d successfully lost time. The demoralizing result was that my conversational skills had dwindled down to a few muttering sentences... More

2. The Rubber-less Traveler by Brad "Otis" Willis
Breathless, confused, and sick to my stomach, I arrived at the British Airways gate and looked at the departure board. The flight was delayed for an hour. This is how I travel. I run to nowhere to fly to somewhere where I see little, do much, and find myself asking questions like, "Why do they sell condoms in airport bathrooms?" ... More

3. It's Not Like I'm Dishonest; Honest by May B. Yesno
I'm a private investigator. A damn good private investigator. I have a wife, a very expensive wife. She likes the good things in life. We're matched. I like good things too... More

4. Coming Home by B Kemp
Some of my former friends think that she is using me for my money. It doesn't seem right to them that a man my age would "throw it all away," leaving my career for a life of unpredictability and adventure. My old friends are naturally suspicious of younger women wanting to spend their money, rightfully so I suppose... More

5. The Confetti of Life by Sean A. Donahue
I read the love letters that my grandfather sent to his wife. I could see the tears in my grandmother's eyes as she read them, touched them for one last link to him. I shed many a tear today, ones that no one saw, because I left the room before they fell... More

Roadie--Not sure what, if any, excitement the pending road trip will offer. Anything of note, interesting or not, will appear in the Twitter and Buzznet feeds. Oh, and because I've turned into a guy who has to be connected 95% of the time, I have outfitted the gas guzzling family mover into a mobile office. I could conceivably travel 100% of the time and never be away from work.

Now, there, friends, is an idea.

Labels: Devon Epps, Mental Massage, Travel, Writing

Some Fridays are a deep-tissue, slow massage that leaves you feeling relaxed. Today's is one of those choppy-choppy make-you-sound-like-a-outboard-motor massages. So, hold on and get ready to get beat up.

Find Fossett--It will not be a great tragedy of searchers don't find adventurer Steve Fossett, because he is a man who has set himself on a course that will eventually end in some sort of rather spectacular demise. If it wasn't going to be his balloon crashing into the Taj Mahal, it was going to be something similar to what we're seeing right now. Still, I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time hoping Fossett is found sunburned and dehydrated, but alive and well. Far too few people (me included) spend their time and money pushing the envelope. Hell, too few people even lick the envelope anymore. Find Fossett and find him alive.

Fiddy's Fibbing--Psssst. This whole 50-Cent vs. Kanye West album sales battle? Yeah, it's a marketing gimmick. I don't advocate pirating music, but if you're going to steal anything, make it these guys' albums. If you can't see them sitting in a hot tub full of money together, drinking Cristal, and laughing at all of the people who believe they really hate each other, then you deserve to spend the money on both albums. There's a reason the word "frenemy" has made it into the marketing industry lexicon and these guys are posing for the dictionary picture that will accompany the definition. Oh, and if you need another reason to look askance at the companies behind the faux fight, check out the date of the release. Says BET executive VP Stephen Hill, "We're gonna have fun on Sept. 11..."

Fred--Happened to catch Fred Thompson's Presidential announcement on The Tonight Show a couple nights ago. Fred beats the "I'm not your normal politician" drum pretty well. It's a bit easier for an actor to do. It's also the only thing a Republican can do to distinguish himself from the pack right now. Oh, wait, Fred. There is one more thing you can do. You could actually agree we're tied up in a real horror show in Iraq and not toe the party line like you're trying to turn on a foot fetishist.

Football--Okay, this is our country, but you don't have to keep reminding me of it. I put up with John Mellencamp's song eight times per game for every game I watched last season. I know we're opening the season in his Mellencamp's home state this week. Let's give it a rest after last night, okay? Even if I have to listen to Stevie Ray's "Pride and Joy" driven into the ground by the advertising industry, at least I won't be hoping to die in a horrible crash on the Dixie Highway back home. I don't even dislike Mellencamp, but to quote The Bottle Rockets, "I'll puke if that jukebox plays John Cougar one more time."

Happy ending--As the week ends, I'm looking back at a week where I accomplished a lot and still have six days before I have to get back on the road. So, instead of doing nothing (which we pretty much did for the Labor Day holiday weekend), we're having some good friends over tomorrow night for some drinks, a friendly card game, and maybe a few rounds of Guitar Hero 2. My kid was good this week, the dog didn't die, and the wife has not suggested life insurance once (a sure sign she's not yet completed her plans to make sure I die an early but unsuspicious death...oh, and if I should die an early death, this is meant as a joke and should not cast suspicion on my wife...unless of course you find her with a bloody knife, a pack of Copags, and a Gin score sheet that shows me winning in five hands).

Labels: Mental Massage

For the first time in a long time, today actually feels like a Friday. I don't feel like doing anything that resembles work. I will, of course, but I don't think I'm going to work too hard. In fact, I don't think I'm going to work too hard here, either. So, here's a quick week in review and a fun music meme to put a period on the week.

Good thoughts for a friend in the hospital

L'il Otis Turns Three

The Devon Epps Story

Bacon

Finally, as I've said before, I don't much cotton to memes, but the one BadBlood tried yesterday sounded like fun. Turn on your iPod, set to shuffle, and record the first few lines of the first 20 songs that play. I also don't much cotton to the supernatural forces folks, but I do have a special relationship with my iPod. It has days where it really gets me and knows where my head wants to go musically. When I turned on the Pod, this is what it spit out. It made for a good session. It took me on a ride that ranged from childhood listening, through college, through my post-college party days, and into whatever it is I am now. In short, a good shuffle. Some of the songs will be completely obvious to many of you. Others may be a bit more obscure. If any of them pique your interest and you want to know more about them, hit me in the comments and I might dedicate a post to this list. I think you'd all enjoy just about every band I heard play.

1.Carrie, darlin', Carrie. Carrie Brown I cried. If I can't marry Carrie Brown, believe I'd rather die. Believe I'd rather die, boys. Believe I'd rather die.

2. The memory of a miner, dragged himself to work, worked himself to death, working for someone else. We follow each other around on shaky ground.

3. You with your fast and fur-lined mind, with your disregard of time

4. This song is sung for anyone that's listening. This song is for the broken spirited man.

5. I'm a fool to want you, such a fool to want you, to want love that can't be true.

6. Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, Jack Can't Cook, you can't tell the story by the cover of a book, so don't judge Jack, 'cause Jack Can't Cook.

7. Brett is in the bathtub making soup for the ambassadors. I am in the hallway singing to the troubadours.

8. A man stood in the shadows, his face was dripping sweat. He took a break from running, but wasn't done yet.

9. If the rainbow was a roller coaster, I could ride it for free.

10. Meet me down on the railroad track, wear your hair high like a haystack, jump on in boxcar number nine, he'll take us out past the county line.

11. Oh, can you hear me? Oh, can you, can you hear me? I have come from the grave, I have spared no shame.

12. When I was a child, my family would travel down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born. There's backwards old town that's often remembered, so many times that my memories are worn.

13. Now here we go dropping science, dropping it all over, like bumping around the town like when you're driving a Range Rover.

14. I never shoulda drank that tequila. I should've stayed with the beer. I took the first shot and like it or not, I couldn't stop 'til I landed right here.

15. Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know? How could you lose that happy glow?

16. (No lyrics) "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed."

17. When this was is over, it will be a better day. When this war is over, it will be a better day, but it won't bring back those poor boys in their graves.

18. The thrill is gone. The thrill is gone away.

19. A long time forgotten, her dreams just fell by the way and the good life he promised ain't what she's livin today.

20. Got a tow from a guy named Joe. Cost $60, hope I don't run out of dough. Told me about a sex offense put him three days in jail. I'm stuck in Indianapolis, hope I live to tell the tale.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music

I haven't done the old Friday Mental Massage for a while, so let's get it all out, shall we?

Africa Hot--I spent most of my summer in Las Vegas. The temperature was in triple digits all the time. Sure, it was hot, but it wasn't miserable. This week, G-Vegas is, to quote Biloxi Blues, "Africa Hot." I started working on cleaning out my garage yesterday afternoon and gave up after half an hour. My wife and I took the kid to the pool. When I started sweating in the water, I knew it was time to go back inside.

So, I did what any reasonable guy does in such a such a situation. I went to a bar. Then a poker game. By 10pm, despite being in a room with central air conditioning and two fans, I was sweating like my friend T does on an 80 degree day. I left before I'd planned to and came home. Once in bed, I continued to sweat in my 72-degree house. Something was so obviously wrong with my body, I decided to not go outside today.

Guess who's back?--It's about time I say.

What? WHAT?--Well, let's see here...I've been wanting to take a particular trip for the past three years, but wasn't able to do it. Now when I really don't have the mental fortitude or time to do it, I've been asked to go on this ten day jaunt. Well, that was fast. Back you your regularly scheduled program. I'll be maintaining the schedule I'd intended for the next couple months.

That news alone has turned this massage into a beat down.

I'm just going to sit here and not go outside.

Labels: Mental Massage, Travel, Weather

The first time I saw him, we were outside the the elevators on the 26th floor of the Masquerade Tower of the Rio All-Suite Hotel and Casino. He wore a long, black, leather coat--the length intriguing because it was longer than a sport jacket but not as long as an overcoat. His hair was jet black and held a slight curl. His eyes, though, were the first things to really hold my attention. Within seconds of standing next to him and waiting for the elevator's familiar ding, I knew he would never blink in my presence. Further, I knew he wasn't looking at me. He was looking in me.

I remember the slightest of chills. The guy was probably in his mid-20s, but his eyes said he was a thousand years old. When we got on the elevator together, he stole a brief glance at my Nikon.

"You getting some good pictures?" he asked.

Those were the first words the Devil ever said to me.

***

I don't--or perhaps I should say didn't--believe in the Devil any more than I believe in there being a capital "G" God that runs the show. Even though I felt uncomfortable with the guy while we rode down the 26 floors to the casino, I didn't ever actually think he was the Devil. However, I thought it might make for a fun story later. I watched the Devil walk away slowly as slot machines clattered and the Rio's brimstone stunk up the joint with smoke, booze, and food.

I didn't think much about it until the next day when I started to get on the elevator and found the Devil was already there. He smiled with a row of too-white teeth and still unblinking eyes. This time he didn't say anything.

Over the course of the next week, the guy was everywhere I went. One day, he showed up at a poker tournament. I spotted the back of his head from across the room. Even though he was wearing a suit, I knew it was him. His mane of pitch-hair was hard to miss. By now, I'd grown a little wary of the guy. My little joke about the Devil had grown unto a genuine discomfort with his presence. I wanted to take a picture of him, but every time I started to aim the lens in his direction, he looked up and--again--in me. I've never been afraid to snap the shutter on a camera before. This time, I didn't. It was if I couldn't will myself to have a digital record of the Devil. By the end of the week, I avoided the guy at every turn. If I saw him walking in the hallway, I turned around or ducked into another room.

Now, keep in mind, if I were joking here, it wouldn't be the funny. If I were speaking metaphorically, it would be more than a little trite. The fact that I'm serious makes it more than a little weird.

After a few drinks one night, I ran into the guy in the hallway and couldn't avoid him. He didn't seem startled at all when I walked up and stood directly in front of him.

"Who are you?" I demanded. If I hadn't had three beers in my stomach I would never have had the courage.

The guy spit out a name and said he was from Austin. For some reason, I replied in kind.

"What do you do?" I demanded again.

His omnipresent smile grew a little wider.

"What do I do?" He still never blinked. "I guess you could say I'm a jack of all trades."

Jack of all trades? I took a step back. I was now sure the guy from Austin was either a drug dealer or, in fact, the Devil himself.

He never looked away from me, never blinked, and never stopped smiling. The rest of the conversation is lost in a wash of near-real fear. So, at the end of the conversation, when the guy asked me what I where I was headed, I further narrowed my read on the guy. He was either was a drug dealer or the Devil. Moreover, he either wanted my ass or he wanted my soul.

The Devil scared the fuck out of me and I never spoke to him again.

***

Lest you think I'm making this up, there are several people I told about this as it happened. They started spotting the guy for me and warning me about his presence.

During one of my last night's in Vegas, I was looking for a back way out of a convention hall. I saw a door and headed toward it. It was very late at night and I thought I saw someone sleeping. I turned around and my friend Gene was standing there.

"There he is," he said, nodding behind me.

I turned back around, and there was the Devil. I shuddered and found another door as fast as I could.

For the rest of the night, I hid. A joke and story subject--a mere character in my little one-act life show--had become an irrational source of fear. By the end of it, I was actually afraid to be alone with the guy.

The Devil knew my name. The Devil knew my patterns. The Devil knew where I was.

The Devil knew Otis. And now Otis had seen the Devil.

***

I'm home now and haven't left the confines of my house for the past 36 hours. Apart from taking my kid to get a haircut and maybe getting one for myself, I don't see myself leaving for a while. I know I am safe here.

I'm not saying my run-in with the Devil made me fear hell. I'm just saying that I think I've spoken with its fearless leader, I'm an easy mark for the son of a bitch, and I don't need to be pushing my luck.

Labels: Las Vegas, Mental Massage

With limited time and limited mental acuity, I don't have time to properly explain why I'm doing this. To be honest, I don't even want to explain it. It's been a few days since someone said to me, "If I were you, I would kill myself." Since I didn't agree, I vowed to live a life bent on making sure I never said anything to anyone with such vitriol. I've done such over the past few days. Now, I'm taking it one more step. I'm vowing to make sure others feel as good about their lives as I do.

A friend of mine who is with me here in Vegas is on a quest, and far be it for me not to help him. So, I ask my meager readership here to help me. Please, if you can, use your blogs to link to the following blog with the following words.

Linked words: Hairy gymnast
Target: http://suffolkpunchpoker.blogspot.com

Please know, this is important work you're doing. Every Hairy gymnast will thank you.

Labels: Mental Massage

Last night, after an anniversary dinner with my wife (I really need to see the rest of the lobster that had a one pound tail), I took a walk through the downtown arts district of G-Vegas. Despite the underhanded and often dirty way the area developed, it's quite nice and the perfect place for a walk on a warm Thursday night.

My wife held my arm as we walked. I let my hands hang to my sides. After about a a half hour of walking, I felt the familiar tingle in my hands. It's a combination of swelling and repetitive motion issues that make my hands feel like arthritic sausages.

It was a quick reminder that The Sickness is about to begin.

I realized that my marathon Vegas summer is about to begin and I will be sausage hands for the next two months. I usually begin these trips with a long lament about leaving my family, the romantic dread about spending a summer in Sin City, and an anecdote or two about one of my past trips.

Instead, I'm just going to clear my head of a few niggling little things and try to go into the summer fresh. I've made a decision to treat this summer like a test of will, ability, talent, and discipline. That likely means I'll be a shivering mass of flesh, writing nothing, and sodden with booze by mid-June. But I hope not.

So, let's go into this one clean, eh?

* I'm a bad judge of depth. Evidence of this can be found in most areas of my life. This week, I bought a new washer and dryer. I judged the width and height of my utility closet very well. Not accounting for depth, I'm now waiting for the delivery guy to bring something new that can fit in the space. I have only moderate faith that--even with the use of a tape measure--I got it right this time. I think there is probably a greater life metaphor somewhere in here.

* I bought a new cell phone that was probably more than I need. The Blackberry Pearl is a fabulous little device. However, I think I bought it to compensate for other depth issues I have.

* I have had a small halo of concern hovering over my head for the past couple months regarding a professional issue. While not entirely to my satisfaction, the issue has been resolved and I'm glad it's over.

* I wanted to go to Bonnaroo this year. I couldn't pull the trigger on it because I wasn't sure if I was going to be working. Now, I'm sure I'm going to be working and I'm disappointed I can't go to the 'Roo.

* Last Friday night, I almost had myself convinced to drop out, sell my house, buy an RV, and travel the country writing a book based on a silly but intriguing premise. My wife, noting my relative insobriety, remarked, "We'll see what you think about this idea in the morning." Remarkably, I still think she would've been up for it.

* Until last Friday, I had never played Washers. Thirty-three years is too long to live without having played this game.

* To anyone thinking of visiting my wife while I'm gone: The house is fully alarmed, I have a dog with sharp teeth, and my wife is skilled in various martial arts and the use of a handgun. Oh, and she has a scorching case of herpes. Oh, sure, maybe I'm kidding about that last part, but do you really want to find out?

* I think it's pretentious to consider myself the J.J. Cale of my chosen line of work, but sometimes I do.

* I also think it's pretentious that I've been drinking premium vodkas on a regular basis. Given a taste test, I could probably tell you the difference between premium and crap. However, it would take a lot of work to work up a palate that could distinguishing between the good stuff. And working up that palate is probably not the best idea.

* An old guy spilled an entire cup of hot coffee on me last week and I didn't get mad.

(Note: As I type, the real test of my tape measure skills is taking place. A muttering, gangly delivery man is shoulder deep in my utility closet. In just a few minutes, he will either say nothing and all will be well. Or he'll poke his head out, call me mister, and say, "I don't think this is gonna fit." At which point, I will likely use the words "mother fucker."

* I so suck at home repair, woodworking, and anything that requires physical skill that I sometimes wonder if I'm just an exceptionally gifted monkey. Then again, a monkey could use tools better than me. Probably play pingpong better, too. My brother recently installed...well, everything in his new house. As he gave me a tour, he was talking about remodeling his master bath. "I just need to cut out half of this wall," he began. I stopped listening to measure my penis and realize that I have more than depth problems.

* Fill in the blank: "I never thought there would be a day--like today--when someone would hand me ___________ and I would be disappointed."

* I forgot to write Skip back.

(I couldn't resist and peeked in on the delivery guy. I'm worried I may have to use, as my Grandma Ruby used to say, curses and bad words.)

* My dog is a real bitch when she comes home from the doggie country club (aka kennel). Her breath stinks, she refuses to eat any of her own food or treats, and she can't stop nervously moving around. I, like the sap I am, have been feeding her chicken breasts. My wife gave me the stinkeye for that.

* I just finished Carl Hiassen's "Sick Puppy." Those books make me smile.

(Okay, we may be alright on the delivery front. Just a couple more steps and I can claim second-try-success).

* I don't care what anybody says. The final season of the "Sopranos" is the best since the first season.

* I can't dance.

(Motherfucker. Wait, that's a good motherfucker. All systems go.)

And that's it. My next dispatch will be from the road. And if it's not, then you know I'm not coming back.

When the road I travel starts to unravel
Every which way it goes
The beat starts to press on my bullet proof vest
And my high turns out to be low
Give me my guitar I'm going to go far
Let me see it let me hold it in my hand
I'm the devil in disguise I tell you no lies
I'm playing in a rock 'n roll band

--J.J. Cale

Labels: Mental Massage, Travel

I am usually an open book. This makes it hard to be a poker player in a live setting. With emotions and sleeves and all, I'm often tempted to wear sleeveless shirts. However, those who know me know I don't necessarily pack a lot of heat in the guns department, so anything that shows off my arms is usually more embarrassing than whatever part of my fragile emotional base I'm giving away.

A big part of this has to do with impulse control. I only bring this up because I just had to take my kid's train set away from him. He is developing a nasty habit of pushing down his preschool classmates and, in lieu of smacking him around a bit, I took away his most prized possessions. His teacher--who also happens to be a very understanding good friend--suggests the kid's impulse control isn't necessarily keeping up with the rest of rapidly advancing brain. I worry sometimes that might be my fault.

That's not actually not why I sat down to write. In fact, I sat down to tell you I'm not going to give much away today. Instead of an open book, I'm going to be more like the fluttering pages of a book when you're flipping through it looking for a picture, or money, or a note from an old girlfriend. I'm not being coy, nor do I have any big secret. I'm just feeling a bit like a camel right now.

So, a bit of an early week mental massage for you.

Massage #1: After some good research and a weigh-in from Brother Otis MD, it appears that trying to measure the volume of a giraffe's vagina as compared to a cow's vagina is a futile activity. Apparently, a better way to measure is to consider the size of of their male counterparts' junk. Some quick research shows a bull has about a three-foot penis (one-inch in diameter). I don't have the exact measurements of a male giraffe's penis, but a picture provided in the comments of the last post indicate the giraffe ain't as well hung. So, thereya go? Oh, and why did I want to know?

Well, some of the places I play poker aren't necessarily frequented by gentlemen. As such, I actually heard the phrase, "Tighter than a giraffe's pussy" at a game last week. That spawned a long discussion about the relative tightness and, eventually, how it compared to a cow. I argued that despite the relative height, that a giraffe would have a smaller vagina. So, thereyago.

Massage #2: I love the theme songs from 1970s and 1980s TV. These days, people don't write many show-opens or show-closers that are worth much. Jerry Bruckheimer users music to open a lot of his shows, but he is such a big fan of The Who that we don't get any original material. Think back to the 1970s and 1980s and you'll remember a ton of good theme songs. From "Cheers" to "Moonlighting" to "Barney Miller," the music was about as good as you could want for the era.

I have long argued that the two best theme songs ever on television actually came from the same TV show. Which was that? Well, "WKRP" of course. Now, everybody knows the opening song. The outro is the lesser-appreciated tune. I spent years trying to figure out the lyrics. As it turns out, according to IMDB, while there is singing in the song, there are no lyrics. Apparently the exit song was the work of a bunch of studio musicians in Atlanta. While recording, they needed a vocal track to help them keep time with the music. So, somebody recorded a bunch of gibberish (which I'm sure contains the word "bartender" at least twice), and laid it down. When the producers heard the tune with the gibberish vocal track, they said, "We'll take it!" And that was that. What I'd really like to know is where those studio musicians ended up and whether they ever recorded anything else I like.

Massage #3: As you might have read elsewhere, my wife's car was burgled over the weekend. Lost in the crime was one of my most prized technological possessions: my Bose QC3s. At first I was like, "Ah, well. Them's the breaks." However, upon further thought, the Bose QC3s completed my technological circle. Without them I feel empty and leaking. And that makes me sad.

And that's all, except for a picture of the resident therapy mutt--a great thinker on the subject unconditional love, provided that unconditionality doesn't involve a fight for food or the new neighbors' dog.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music, Parenting, TV

If anyone can find the following two statistics for me, it would free me up to have a fun weekend without spending hours in front of the computer.

--The approximate size (length, width, or approximate total volume) of a giraffe's vagina.

--The approximate size (length, width, or approximate total volume) of a cow's vagina.

Please provide links to primary sources.

Please shoot me an e-mail or leave a comment if you have the answer.

Your reward will be one of the two (your choice):

1) I will publish your name here in recognition of your mad researching skills
2) I will not publish your name here, thus sparing recognition of your knowledge of animal reproductive anatomy

Thank you in advance for saving me countless hours of research and the inevitable government Internet watchdog phone call.

Labels: Mental Massage

It's easier to coast and avoid aiming the bow in any particular direction when the sky is so blue. At certain times of the day, it's easy to ignore the direction of the sun and whether it is rising or setting. For a moment, or maybe a few moments, you can just let everything stand still.



It doesn't sit in the middle of the street and we don't cotton to cats, but it's our place. And the sky is blue. And the kid has a home.



Some days, like today, it's easier to forget that it was ambition and drive that got us this far. Still, to feel so lucky, one has to accept that luck played a role in it. When the sun goes down, though, and the kid is in bed, one has to wonder how much farther luck can carry us and if we shouldn't find a little more of that ambition in which we used to take so much pride.

I need to see someone about this inertia. I think it may be chronic.

Labels: Mental Massage

This is not the jungle, and yet it feels like it sometimes.

In a society, we try to assign some meaning--try to assign some blame, even--for things we can't understand. Faith, for some, helps. It's these things that make the faithless wish they were the praying kind. Because, without faith and the ability to forgive, there is only anger. And in anger there is little but pain.

Anger is blinding. It feeds irrationality. If we cling to some last shred of reason, we might be able to hold on. The problem is, on the back side of reason, when we come out on the other side, we're left hollow. We never had the faith. We've given up on the anger. We've teetered on the edge of insanity and acted without rational thought. We've managed to survive in spite of ourselves. And we're left in the same jungle, surrounded by the same animals, and left wondering how we let so much time pass without finding a way to fix it all.

So, how do we survive? Again, the faithful can chalk it up to a master plan and a deity's will. Those on Faithless Street don't have a mailman. They don't get word that it's all going to be okay. So, they make up their own little stories. Stories like you read here, I guess.

It's days like the one we just watched that get me searching. Not for faith, necessarily, but cause I have my own little brand of it (one that, last I heard, is not in the playbook of Pat Robertson, Pope Benedict, Gary Bauer, or Tom Cruise). I just search for something. I've managed to get by without blaming anyone except the one person responsible. I've managed to control my anger without getting too numb. It sounds cliche, and I sound like a broken record, but I got by through making my kid laugh.

Best medicine? Some say, I guess. It's a salve, I think. I don't like zoos (I actually once broke up with a girl because she wanted me to go to the zoo and Christmas mass within six months of each other), but my kid loves the animals. So, I go. It's easy to see how some of the animals get through it. Some are just too dumb to get it. The goats at the exit petting zoo are pretty good examples.



I get goaty sometimes. It's easier that way. I eat the food people shove at me. I wander around in my pen and take the petting when I can get it.

But, I think the thinking folks among us know that if we're goats, we're little more than sheep. We'll end up getting led to the milking pen or the shearing shed. We'll flock and baa and not offer much in the way of the jungle's version of progress. In short, we're civil in our inaction.

No, we're not goats. We have will. We have reason. Or, at least we like to think we do.

And so we recognize that we're in the jungle and it appears to be the only jungle we have. And that's what makes our eyes sad. When people look at us and say, "Dance, monkey," we can choose not to. However, that doesn't change the fact we're pretty much trapped.



It would be nice if there was a solid wrap to all this. It would be nice if I could tell you there is way to survive the jungle without deluding yourself into believing it's all going to be okay. If I could do that, Tom Cruise might give me a job.

I can't do that. It may seem like I'm beating the obvious drum a little hard, but we're living in a time I don't think any of us expected 15 years ago. I finally admitted to myself today that it's got me a little scared. It's not the madman that turns an idyllic community into his personal shooting range. It's everything. I don't have to list it for you. If you're reading this, you're likely thinking about the same things.

What do we do, folks? Do we get goaty? Do we accept that our eyes are growing as sad as the monkey's? Or do we do something else?

Tell me. Because this jungle is getting deeper and darker every time I look up.

Labels: Mental Massage, Photography, Society

"Fucking tourist."

Some folks may not know it, but over the years, the word "tourist" has become derisive. It's a way to differentiate between the people who "ain't from 'round here" and people who "ain't from 'round here, but know the scene, man."

To put a finer point on it, travelers laugh at tourists. It can sometimes get a little holier-than-thou, but even tourists have to admit, there is usually a pretty clear difference in philosophy. Tourists go to see the sights. Travelers go to live the culture. That, at least in the mind of the travelers, makes their journey better.

I figure I agree. I know travelers and I know tourists. If I had to join one of their clubs, it would certainly be the former. Occasionally, they let me in for a little look at how exciting life can be. It's been a long time since I've been a tourist. Frankly, I think that's why I don't travel more. Seeing the sights ain't my bag.

There is a disconnect in here somewhere. As most regular readers know, I tend to spend more time on the road than your average bear. In just the past four years, it's been Denmark, England, Monaco, France, Austria, the Bahamas, and more than a few American cities. Most of those European trips weren't one-offs. I've been to London three times, Monte Carlo twice, and Austria twice. In 1997, I did the backpacking thing with my college buddies, from London up to Edinburgh, over to Amsterdam, down to Paris, and back up to London. I've off-roaded on the back side of Aruba, went scuba diving in Hawaii, and driven a convertible up the PCH.

It feels a little odd to say, but none of the above feels complete. It seems even more odd when I am just a couple generations removed from relatives who couldn't make it to my wedding because they were uncomfortable with the idea of getting on a plane. That is to say, if they've been anywhere, they've been in a car, and that means they ain't been far. I'd venture to say, if you took a couple people out of my dad's side of the family, I've been more places than all the people I'm related to combined. So, how can it all feel incomplete?

I don't know why I bothered to itemize my travels. I could've just as easily written, "I been around, Pink. I been around." There's a part of me that seems willing to admit that it's an ego thing. Maybe some part of my brain thinks I'm going to impress people by talking about all the places I've been. In truth, though, I've been nowhere.

When I think about travelers, I tend to think about people I know. The two that come to mind most immediately are Pauly (who is a frequent character in my road stories) and Brandon. I've written enough about Pauly that you should get a sense for him. He's a beyond-definition character. That is, the closest you'll ever get to defining Pauly is to talk about where's he been...or better yet, where he's going to be next. While his lifestyle has its drawbacks, it is one most would envy. Brandon, while still a wild and crazy traveler, is not quite as bohemian as Pauly, but still gets the job done. I met Brandon a little more than two years ago in France. At the time, he was a just-from-college poker guy who happened to win a pretty big poker tournament. He ended up parlaying his winnings into some good investments and has been traveling ever since (I think he's supposed to be going to get his MBA soon, but the call of the road is a strong one). Those men are travelers.

The point I'm dancing around here is my inability to enjoy most of the trips I take. I think the travel industry would describe me as a business traveler, an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. If you're on business, you're not traveling in the sense that Pauly and Brandon travel. I can only describe most of my jaunts as "trips."

I am a tripper.

That was a very long way to tell you I'm about to hit the road again. True to form, it's a business trip that will likely result in much more business than pleasure. It's Monte Carlo this time, or I should say, again. This will be my third run into the famed city. While it's a gorgeous place and the event I'm going to work is a very nice one, it's yet another trip that will likely have me under the flourescents more than it has me under the sun. There are a few thing about this trip I can't discuss at the moment, but they should make for a more interesting adventure. Once I'm in a safe zone, I hope to write a little more about it.

Regardless, my return to the road has me thinking about whether I've been using my travel opportunities as good fodder for writing material. I think in most cases I have, but I should made a better effort to do so. There's a part of me that dreams of starting a new life as a travel writer like my friend, Jen Leo. I might have the chops for it. I dunno.

Here's a snippet from "Naked in Copenhagen", a quick blog post I wrote when I landed in Copenhagen, Denmark, sans luggage.

I stopped in "Everything's a Kroner" (not the real name, but folks from the States will recognize the little strip mall dollar stores with the same theme). It's the kind of place you can buy a loose bag of oregano, a ten-pack of razors, and a religious candle in the same trip. When I walked out, I realized I had made it to the center of the city. A group of school children sat outside the Louis Toussaud Wax Museum, begging to be let in a few minutes before the official opening time. Across the way, through the birds, is another touristy place, A Ripley's museum. Beyond those exceptions, though, this doesn't look like a tourist trap. Worker bees buzz in and out of the alleyways. Shopowners push through the cold to take the bars off their shop windows.

When--three hours later--I had finally had enough walking and assembled a suitable outfit to carry me until tomorrow (surely to goodness and mercy SAS will find my bag by Saturday), I stopped into an Irish pub for a pint of Guinness, A row of older men sat in chairs near the windows, enjoying a pint or two, smoking their pipes, and reading the daily news. A man stepped up to me and said something in a language I didn't understand.

The bartender, a friendly woman that must be killing time in the fashion model off- season, said "He's asking you if it's good" and nodded to my Guinness. I smiled at the man and indicated it was. Before I could warn him that I was just a poker correspondent who doesn't have the good sense to pack an extra outfit in his carry-on bag, he'd ordered a couple of pints and moved on with my recommendation.

Friendly, trusting city.

That was far from my best road story, but it's one I remember because someone later quoted a line from the story back to me.

Since we're massaging today, here are a few links to other tripper stories:

Mr. A in the Big A. -- my first trip to New York.
Wrinkled in Europe -- A Nice, France lament on hotel amenities
Stuck in Monte Carlo -- What happens when I'm stupid in a foreign country
A Night at Jimmy'z -- Spitefully rolling with the rich in Monte Carlo's hottest club
Walking in Deauville -- On being alone in France

That's just a few of the stories. I think, after some re-reading, I'm getting some decent stories out of the trips. Still, I'd rather stop tripping and start traveling.

Either way, it's wheels up in 48 hours.

***

Oh, on another note, someone mentioned recently that they haven't seen my RSS feed in some time. Because of the new Blogger change, old subscribers should resubscribe using the link at the end of the post.

Labels: Mental Massage, Travel

"Don't sleep too late," my wife said. "It's cave-sleeping weather."

She closed the bedroom door, leaving the brand new memory on an infant-fresh day. That was quite a moment, I thought, though no one watching would've noticed.

The tone in her voice wasn't accusatory or chiding. It was the voice of a girlfriend who had to run off to work while her boyfriend stayed in bed after a long night of lovemaking.

In truth, we'd gone to bed early last night. She'd drifted to sleep on my shoulder while I read a fairly hilarious George Saunders story. It was humid and warm when we went to sleep. This morning, there was a cold spring rain making noise on the roof. It was, in fact, cave-sleeping weather--the kind of sky that makes a bedroom darker and a blanket warmer.

Early days in our relationship, the wife lived in a gorgeous place that backed up to a small forested area. Her bedroom was on the lowest level and enjoyed all-day shade. Some days, we'd stay in bed all day long, two young lovers in their college cave. We'd laugh when we realized it was 5pm and we had yet to start our real world day.

When the weather gets like it is today, our old instincts take over and it's hard to get out of bed. We remember what it was like to spend the day exerting energy only on each other.

Real life, of course, doesn't allow for such selfishness. There are jobs, kids, bills, errands, and a host of other responsibilities that make us get up and get on with the day. It's the life we built and a life we love. I don't think either of us regularly pines for the old days to the degree that it makes us regret giving up the hedonistic times.

This morning, though, I saw just a hint of my old girlfriend. When she left me in bed to get on with real life, she had a glimmer in her eye and a smoke in her voice that made me remember what she looked like a decade ago when she would slip out of our little cave on her way to work.

Tonight, our babysitter will be here at 6:15. We have reservations at one of the new, hip, trendy places in town. After that, we'll either go catch a movie or just come home and watch something on TV. Tomorrow, real life will start again at the break of dawn and we'll do it all over again.

And I'm not sure either of us could be any happier about it.

Labels: Marriage, Mental Massage

Of life's two certainties, I faced one head-on this week.

"You had a good year," Billie said to me from across her desk.

"I'm not going to complain," I said. "Of course, this year likely won't be nearly so good."

She looked at me with a look akin to how a dog looks at a squirrel wearing a marching band outfit. The look said, unequivocally, "Huh?"

I started trying to explain the ups and downs of life and finances in my world. About two sentences in, I could see she drifted off to how much work she had to do before the March 15 corporate filing deadline. I shut up and wondered if I had time to get my hair cut.

As we finished up, I asked her about a couple of itemized places on my personal return.

"That's the child tax credit," she said. "I wonder why it's only $50?"

I wondered the same. Fifty bucks? I feed, clothe, pre-school, and provide healthy play experiences for my son, and the government is only crediting me fifty dollars for my efforts and money spent? Has the IRS ever purchased diapers? Better yet, has the IRS ever changed a diaper? I should get a $1000 credit just for that.

"Ah, yes," she said. "You don't qualify for the full amount."

She pointed in eight different directions, at some flow charts, pictographs, and some sort of Nordic runes to explain how I wasn't eligible for the $1,000 child tax credit.

"Well," I said. I composed myself. "Well, at least I'll have the deduction for my health insurance."

A little more than a year ago, when the wife came home to play police woman to my kid's Babyface Nelson, we lost our Big Time Corporate Health Insurance. While never great insurance, it was always there.

"Well, sure," Billie said. She sounded like I did the other night when I tried to convince my son that one green blanket was as good as the other and that he could go to sleep while his favorite was in the dryer. [Note to Cincinnati Sara: Your gift to my boy is one of his most prized possessions.]

A few clicks on the keyboard and Billie looked at me and shook her head. Despite the fact I spend $600 a month on health insurance for my family, I don't meet the minimum threshold for deducting the cost.

So, I'm not allowed to take the tax credit for my kid and I don't get the deduction for having insurance to keep my him in doctor's visits and cough medicine.

Remind me to find a candidate who is in favor of tax reform.

***

In other news, I got my hair cut on the same day. As I sat under the scissors, I occupied myself by looking at the posters on the wall (anything to avoid looking in the mirror at the stylist's bulging crotch on my shoulder). One of the marketing posters was of a blonde woman in what was surely anticipatory glee. You could see behind her, out of focus, a man with a sly look on his face. My eyes were drawn to the woman's unique belt. It was orange and didn't go through the belt loops of her tight jeans. I looked closer. Then I looked at her hands. She was holding two large alligator clamps.

Jumper cables. The woman was tied up in jumper cables.

"That woman is tied up in jumper cables," I said, eyes in line with the crotch.

"Hmmm," my stylist said. "Most people just say they like her hair."

I come from the Midwest, where the vernacular usually calls for a person with a dead battery to inquire, "Can you give me a jump?" Growing up, that never seemed dirty. However, when I moved to the South ten years ago, I started hearing a new phrase.

"Can you jump me off?"

Now, sitting in a franchise hair cuttery populated by crotch-shoulder massagers, I felt like this message was less than subliminal. And I swear on all that's holy, the caption on the jumper cable S&M poster read: Lifestyles.

***

I was up late last night. From 8pm until around 3am, I had one of those periods in which everything...just...worked. Every decision I made was the right one. Every risk I took paid off. I didn't use luck when I didn't need it. In return, luck rewarded me by showing up when I was, indeed, in need. The result was being able to go to bed with a foreign sense of calm and accomplishment. I feel asleep much faster than normal.

***

Finally, some pimping:

My wife is on a roll over at her blog.

A good friend of mine recently started blogging. One of his recent posts touched me. Check it out.

Absinthe, my boy in the 'wood (did I just type that?), is in the final stages of baby-waiting. He's also enduring one of the ugliest realities of baby-prep. Check him out at Absinthetics.

Pauly publishes a monthly online literary mag based largely on people's travels, either around the world or around life. The March issue of Truckin' features some hella writers.

The Friday Mental Massage is a brain dump. Herein, you'll find no attempt at what some people call "writing." Of course, some people would say they don't normally find capital "W" writing here, anyway.

Labels: Advertising, Mental Massage, Parenting, Pimping, Taxes

I don't write on Sundays. It's not a religious thing, or even a rule. I just typically have no desire nor need to write on this particular day. What's more, most people don't read blogs on Sunday, so it's pretty worthless to bother posting anything. So, why am I loading up RER today? I dunno. I guess my head is a crowded mess and I don't have any other way to purge. The thing is, I don't even feel like telling a story and it feels pretty presumptuous to just dump this mess on you without some kind of payback.

So, maybe I just won't.

It can't be all that important anyway.

Labels: Mental Massage

Antonella Barba, at a glance, is a pixie. She's the girl from your home room class that is pretty and knows it, but doesn't act like it. She's the girl that your mother believes would be a good girl to ask to the Homecoming dance. What mom doesn't know is that Antonella Barba likes to get half naked on war memorials and go topless with her girlie friends. You know, the kind of stuff that makes her more the girl you'd like to date and the kind of girl your mom wishes would develop a bad coke habit and end up in Internet reality porn.

Well, now she is one of the unfortunate members of the American Idol legacy who will be remembered more for her "talent" than her talent. I'm no fan either way, nor will I admit actually watching American Idol. Regardless, it's all got me thinking about the unlikely (read: never gonna happen) event I become some sort of 14-minute celebrity. I'm fairly certain there are no half-naked pictures of me out there, save the one my friends published in the University of Missouri student newspaper The Maneater as a birthday prank. Video, however, is another issue. I've tried to go back in my memory and think about existing embarrassing video tape. Here's the list:

* I'm sitting in a dorm room in Laws Hall at University of Missouri. I'm drinking from a 40 oz. bottle, pretending to smoke a dart (yes, an actual dart that you would throw at a dart board), and telling the story of my friend Marty's pet eel that died after jumping out of an aquarium. (Humiliation level: Low)

* I'm in a suburban neighborhood and serving as the master of ceremonies over a footrace. This race takes place after dark and in front of a crowd of very intoxicated people. (Humiliation level: Low)

* I'm hosting Bradoween and pretending to speak for the hibiscus bushes in my back yard. (Humiliation level: Medium)

* I'm hosting some other party and singing Rocketman. (Humiliation level: Off the charts)

* I'm hosting some other party and dancing with a friend's wife. (Humiliation level: Medium)

* I'm at Al Can't Hang's Bash at the Boathouse. I'm impaired. I'm standing in a crowd and talking to a friend who also happens to be the wife of another friend. I threaten to--but, mercifully do not--expose myself for the benefit of the crowd. (Humiliation level: High)

* I'm in a diner at the Gold Coast Casino in Las Vegas. I've been playing Pai Gow poker and earning a "free" meal of steak and eggs. Pauly offers me $400 if I'll eat two of the Keno crayons sitting on the table. Without thinking about it, I do it. When asked what it tastes like, I respond creatively, "Crayons." (Humiliation level: Low)

That list was a lot shorter in my head than it came out here. Such are the dangers of a misspent youth and liberal attitudes on malted hops and barley. Fortunately, only one of those videos has appeared on the internet and, apart from the mild embarrassment at being stopped in public and asked "Hey, are you the guy that ate the crayons?" it's not been that bad. I'm not sure who is in control of the video from college, but the rest are in the hands of people I trust not to humiliate me or sell me out.

***

For some reason, I've been thinking about 2003 a lot recently. I'm not sure why, exactly. Nothing in particular stood out, other than March of 2003 was about the last time my life was exactly...I dunno...normal. On this Friday, I decided to take a look back at March four years ago.

On March 10, 2003, I wrote this:

It's hard to write this without seeming falsely modest or overly boastful. So, I'll leave it at this: I won an award. People tell me its pretty important. I don't know how much of that is true, but from what I can tell, Peter Jennings won it in 2000 and Ted Koppel won it in 2001.

That was the beginning of the end of my career in traditional journalism.

Six days later, I, for the first--and thankfully only--time, completely blacked out and severely injured myself. The doctors called it orthostatic hypotension. I called it one big hole in my face and my bottom lip nearly being ripped off.

It is sort of easy to let ourselves forget that in March of 2003, we sent our country to war. Now, it's easy for me to say we're involved in one of the ugliest blunders of our country's history. In 2003, I think there was a part of me that saw it coming. As I sat nursing my busted face, I wrote about the pending Iraq war:

I'm wondering if my tete-a-tete with the carpet knocked more than my lower face astray. As hard as I try (and believe me, I'm trying) I can get neither excited nor worried about the possibility of war, retaliation, victory, or defeat. It just doesn't seem real.

There comes a great burden with being the world's only superpower. I figure a healthy part of that burden is knowing when to go and when to stay home. I don't have that answer.

A man of thought (as I like to consider myself) should have some opinion or feeling about his country leading a charge to war. I feel incredibly shallow for feeling very little in the way of anxiety or patriotic fervor.

Perhaps when my as-yet unconceived child turns 20, there will be no need for war.

That's a nice thought. But, I'm sure when my dad's buddies were stuck in Vietnam 30 years ago, he was probably saying the same thing about his as-yet unconceived child's potential world.

On March 19th, as it all started, I had false hope, writing:

Outside my window, the wind screams like an air raid siren. Lightning flashes in the sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance. At times, the entire house sounds like it will implode on itself. It is the first real storm of South Carolina spring.

On my TV set, Peter Arnett is watching the skies over Iraq. The President's spokesman just announced our nation's leader will speak to the country and world in about ten minutes.

It seems the rumbles, flashes, and wails will not be limited to my little mountain in the Blue Ridge foothills.

May both storms pass quickly.

Just a few days later, I was writing about people who were dying in Iraq. Rather than quote the whole thing here, I'll just link to it. It's not fantastic writing, but I think it was around the last time my head and heart felt young.

Willin'

That year aged me more than any year previous or since. My dad's near-death and unlikely survival, the realization I was going to be a father, and the everything else started turning me into someone that I had never been. For the most part, I can admit I have matured and benefited from what I experience that year. Still, I can't help but miss that young part of my soul, that part that lived in stupid bliss and rarely felt those twinges of true regret.

I wonder if I'm right in thinking our country has aged past its years, too.

***

So, maybe that's a little too heavy to end the week.

Try this. Sometimes things, in the face of all logic, just work out. Like when you're falling from 12,000 feet and your parachute doesn't work.

Yeah, sometimes things turn out okay.

Labels: American Idol, Antonella Barba, Mental Massage, War

So, I wasn't going to live up to my promise to report back on February by the Numbers. Failure is a bitch. Fortunately, it wasn't failure across the board. Nonetheless, I didn't do as well as I hoped. The first two weeks went really well on all fronts. Then, as usual, some things happened, I started slipping, and the end of the month was pretty much the equivalent of a blown tire on the interestate. But, for fear of breaking one more promise to myself, here are the results of my month of self improvement.

I guess I should note, all of these goals were aimed at two ends. I wanted to be healthier and I wanted to spend more quality time with my family.

***

Health

Days taking a 30 minute walk (12)--FAIL--Yeah, that didn't happen at all. In the first couple of weeks, the weather didn't allow for it. By the time the weather got nice, I was pretty discouraged by the project as a whole.

Pounds lost (7)--FAIL-- This was supposed to just be a nice byproduct of all the other goals. I wanted to drop down to around 167, a weight at which I feel really comfortable. I may have lost a couple of pounds, but it was nothi