Effortlessly Average

Valentines BBQ

2009-02-14T10:52:00.008-06:00

Yeah, I bagged him and I'm at my limit.

So, who wants a leg? Wing, anyone?

Whatever

2008-09-22T20:51:00.006-05:00

So... what are we going to talk about? Ever have one of those moods when you seem to really crave telling someone all you have to say, but just can't muster the energy required to write it down? That's me. You know what would be nice right now? A beer with someone that makes me laugh. I guess I've been a bit blaaaa lately and that's not normally me. Whatever. Maybe the problem is that my brain feels like there's so much banging around in there that I can't focus on any one thing long enough to say all about it that I might normally.

My alternative would be to sit here and blather on about "stuff" in my life, a-la "today I had soup for lunch and it was really good soup even though I'm not normally into soup.." blah blah blah, yeah, I'd suffer a narcoleptic episode just writing it, so I can imagine what you'd think reading it. The fact is I've got a ton of things on my mind, from my recent surgery to the one I think I'm going to have to have sooner than I'd thought (and it's got me a little worried, honestly); from trying to get beyond the ex dating the one person to whom I'd object to trying to figure out how to look at women without wondering "when would she fucking leave"; and even what on my "bucket list" I'm going to do next. Eh, I'll figure out something. I suppose what I'd really like is to feel like I belong to more than just what I can do for myself. That sounds stupid, doesn't it? What I mean is, to share; to feel; to be excited about a person again. As it is, I'm excited about what I'm doing for me, sure, but have no one to share those experiences with. You know what I mean. And while I'm excited about those things I've begun, I'm apathetic enough about people to figure no one gives enough of a shit.

Besides, c'mon, we've all seen those blogs that go on and on about general events in the author's life that, since we don't know them, we have a hard time reading. I don't really want to be that kind of blogger, if I can actually make claim to being one in the first place. You want to hear something funny though? I've got dozens of entries in the works that should be all the mediocrity you come here to enjoy; I just lose interest too quickly to finish them.

So let me open up the mailbag, where by "open" I mean holding it open so you can toss your questions in there. Someone help a guy out here. Anyone have a question? Comment? Or perhaps an opinion about how much shit McCain gave Obama for his lack of experience, then turned around and picked a running mate with only marginally more experience than my cat? No? Nothing? Fine, then dare me to do something.

Anyone? Anyone?

Buehler?... Buehler?...

No longer a virgin

2008-09-13T14:43:00.004-05:00

So guess where I've been the last couple days?

I'm borrowing the wireless connection from someone who obviously has a generator and believes internet access is a vital necessity. Lucky me.

It's early in the morning Saturday and I'm sitting in a lawn chair in the brick enclosed cubby of my front porch, where I'm almost entirely shielded from Ike, writing this. The rest of the house is sleeping, after having spent the night waiting for the windows to cave in. Everyone's fine, cuz I know you all were supremely concerned, right? Now I can say I've experienced my first hurricane.

Not what you expected from the title, no?

Have A Drink on Me

2008-08-30T22:37:00.006-05:00

So today's my 16th wedding anniversary. Considering the divorce isn't final, I'm not sure what to do. I'm also not sure which should make me feel worse: that it's a day I always considered special yet won't be again, or that I actually didn't even remember what day it was until she reminded me just before it was over.

Damn.

The Definition of Irony

2008-08-30T09:47:00.004-05:00

So you want the definition of irony?

When Cortez crashed Montezuma's party back in the early 16th century, he and his out-for-the-gold shipmates were introduced to a fruit we now call the avocado. Actually the Spanish word for avocado, which generally sounds, phonetically, like ahb-oh-GOD-ah, is their word for lawyer. They did this because they struggled with the pronunciation of the Aztec word for the fruit, which is a whole lot of vowels and reminds me of the word "waddle" whenever I hear it, so the Spaniards used the word that sounded the closest to them. A word that happens to mean "lawyer" in Spanish. Now here's the ironic part: in Aztec, the many-vowelled word for avocado doesn't mean lawyer; it means testicle.

Intermission

2008-08-23T20:58:00.002-05:00

So, while I write one of the most poignant entries you'll ever read, take this and try not to hum along.

Soon. Very soon.

Minutiae: it isn't just an 80's mexican boy band

2008-07-31T12:26:00.001-05:00

So where have I been, you may be wondering? Or not? As my literally ones of readers will attest, I sometimes vanish for periods of time, just to collect my thoughts and sort shit out. Of course I won't bore you with the insistence that I've been "busy," mostly because I really haven't been so much busy as just plain lazy. Although I guess you could say I've had a lot going on, just not the kinds of things anyone would care to know. That's what makes this blog different from the rest, see? Some blogs are filled with statements of deep thinking. Others the kind of banal commentary about crap their closest friends don't care about, let alone a near stranger. Oh, and let's not forget the great many tomes regarding the frequency and consistency of their kids' stool; as if we all want to know how often their naughty spawn lay pipe. But not this blog. No, no. This blog guarantees consistent mediocrity. Here at EA, we're not just any run of the mill insipid blog... we're THE run of the mill insipid blog.

Just to lend some validity to just how mundane the events of my recent life have been, allow me to peel back the lid and give you a whiff. Come closer, you can't smell it from way over there. No, not that close; I don't want you to pass out. Good, right there. Ok then...

I've been cleaning out my blogroll. And when I say blogroll, I mean my Google Reader roster. I know I don't keep a blogroll on my blog, but I'd like you to know that it's not personal. I just got tired of some people who shall now remain nameless going out to all the sites on my blogroll, searching for comments I'd left, with a view toward catching me being disingenuous. I mean really, it's not like they need to go someplace else to prove that. They can get that confirmation right here.

Several thoughts occurred to me as I perused the blogroll, but the common denominator was that despite spending most of my adult life observing human behavior, I have to admit that I just don't get people. I'll save the details of my reasons for said statement for another post, save one observation: I don't get ultra religious people.

I mean, so much of what they take as gospel just doesn't make sense to me. Take the book of Genesis, for example. Six days? And a 7th to rest? Doesn't that suggest God is fallible; that He tires? And isn't that a stick to the eye that He is all powerful? After all, if He's all-powerful, why couldn't He just wave His hand and "snap" everything was already there. And how did they know what a "day" was, anyway, since by it's very definition, a day wasn't possible until the Earth and Sun were created? But these people believe every single word Genesis says as if it's beyond contestation. Which I just don't get, cuz I don't think Genesis was all that great a band, or Phil Collins all that amazing a drummer. And what the hell is a Susudio, anyway?

Aside from that (and to prevent you having to spend too much time reading EA today), the only other thing I wanted to tell you today was that I had to take a day from work last week to go to court. See, all I wanted to do was spruce up my car, but I got a ticket for hanging an air freshener from my rear view mirror. Can you believe that crap? And I worked hard on that air freshener. Apparently, according to The Man, it's illegal to make an air freshener that looks like a handicapped placard.

Makes me wish I'd been pulled over in Arkansas. Over there, the cops are a lot more laid back. How so? Well, if you're in Arkansas and get pulled over for suspicion of DUI, you get to go on your way if your BAC is lower than the cop's.

Oh, and before I let you return to your regular schedule of surfing for circus animal porn and midget leg wrestling on YouTube, let me ask you something: A buddy and I were walking through the park the other day, talking about dating and women, when we happened across a dog licking his balls. My buddy chuckled and replied "wow, I wish I could do that. Then I wouldn't need a woman." And despite the seriousness of our conversation, the first thing that popped out of my mouth was "well, that's fine with me, but maybe you should pet him first."

Does that make me wierd?

I be trippin'

2008-07-19T20:48:00.003-05:00

Road trippin' that is. In my never ending quest for poon, I've found myself out of town yet again. Y'all just have to wait till I get back to sample my juicy goodness. However, I did post on the 'Stache, if you just have to have a taste of EA.

Tonight will go one of two ways: 1) I'll hook up with some amazing beauty who will rock my world until I suffer a severe vitamin E deficiency, or 2) I'll be back in my hotel room by 11pm, preparing a blog entry for you fuckers.

I'm giving 15:2 odds for #2. Any takers?

Information Overload

2008-07-10T09:48:00.003-05:00

So, this has been quite a long break, hasn't it? I won't bore you with all the typical excuses lazy bloggers offer when they neglect to post for extended periods of time. Research shows that 89.6% of these excuses involved being "busy," anyway. As a matter of fact, I'll tell you I've had so much major cool stuff going on that I've -and I think you'll understand here- just not cared to blog. Now, if only sex were involved, you may not even be hearing from me now! heh.

What I will tell you is that I've got so much to tell that I've got to sort it out so that I put finger to key in just the right manner. Cuz I care about you fuckers. Soon, very very soon, I'll have it all sorted out and spew- I mean relate, all the happenings of the last month. I may even throw in some sex just to make it interesting. In the meantime, with the cacophony of images, experiences, and thoughts, like rivulets in the ocean that is my brain lately, I look more like this:

Appetizers

2008-06-12T13:24:00.002-05:00

So I'm working on this deep, philosophical post about a major life change that I'm about to go through. And it's got everything: sex, drugs, music, boobies, drama, opinion, sword fights, escapes, adventure... you name it; it's in there.

But it's taking me a while because The Man has me preoccupied.

So in lieu of an actual post, I'm going to throw out there a lazy blog just to let you all know I'm thinking about you even when so many of you couldn't give a crap about me. heh. Think about it this way: you'll be back on your porn site (or Perez Hilton's) in two minutes flat.

A) Four places that I go over and over again: Starbucks, California, Home, State of Denial

B) Four people who e-mail me (regularly): My kids' homeschool group, myself (I send myself emails when I want to remind me to do something), The "enlarge your penis in two minutes a day" people, Some schmo in Nigeria who wants me to believe he's an African royal who's trying to protect his country by using me to transfer $100,000,000 using my name and will pay me a 1% gratuity if I front him $10,000 (I'm seeing how long I can keep him on the hook).

C) Four of my favorite places to eat: Home, with family; a little cafe in Santa Monica that looks out over the beach; another small cafe in Mexico that serves an amazing tomato and cheese salad (only been there a couple times, but man if I could go there more often...); oh, and I suppose Chili's.

D) Four places I would rather be right now: traveling in my RV; somewhere I've never been before; somewhere private with someone I love; in Eva Mendez's knickers.

E) Four TV shows I watch over and over: The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson; The "George W" Down Home Denial Channel; Survivorman; the day's material from the camera I've hidden in Dick Cheney's bedroom.

F) Four people I think will respond: FBI; DHS; George's mommy; my fellow punk bandmates: "The Squishy Tumors."

Humor for 12-Year Old Boys; and Men, Too

2008-06-06T13:44:00.006-05:00

So we're back at the hotel, avoiding the sun blistering mid-day heat, and what do I do? I log into my blog to entertain you fuckers. Cuz I'm nice that way, dammit.

Anyway, I ran across this in my inbox. No, the one on my computer. Yes, the electronic one. I'd suggest you relieve yourself first, because we don't want anyone wetting themselves while watching. Pay particular attention to the looks on the faces of the women at the mirror.

Lock Up Your Daughters, People

2008-06-01T22:28:00.003-05:00

So I'm out visiting the Lounge, and Miss Oki revealed to us that she's only "barely evil"; a mere "twisted." Personally I think that might be a bit generous, but hey, I didn't design the test and hey, she could have lied.

And lying on these tests is something I know a lot about. In an attempt to ensure that EA remains the same boring display of mediocrity you've come to lament (it's not just any rediculous collection of drivle; it's THE collection of drivle), I'll often take and retake tests of this nature in an effort to find the funniest result. Or just the result that makes me more interesting than I am in real life.

Oh, don't beleive a word of it; I'm damned interesting in real life. But that's not the point here.

The point is that tonight, as I read that Keri is only slightly evil and could, in fact, change her ways if she chose to, I decided I'm in the mood to answer the quiz in as honest a way as possible. Yes, folks, I decided to give an accurate picture of EA for once.

Why? Because eventually I'm going to date again and I don't want that woman to read this blog and run screaming for the hills. Or, perhaps I'm just lazy tonight. After all, I am in Disneyworld with FlyBoy and the Puffinator and we did walk about 40,000 miles today, so cut me some slack for crissake.

So I took the test. And I figured I was going to fall somewhere in the middle, much like Miss Oki. I mean, I've always considered myself somewhat of an average person: better than some, worse than others, so why shouldn't I end up in the middle? It asked a bunch of benign questions, like my favorite movie genre and the kind of music I listen to. Add all that usual trivia to my "kinda good/kinda bad" personality and I thought I'd be somewhere in the high point of the bell curve.

But no.

How evil are you?

Look how far that freaking arrow is to the side of evil! I'm so fucked. No wonder normal, lovely women don't like me. I guess all that's left is animal sacrifice and starting a plague during the Barney and Friends Revival on Ice.

Now if you'll excuse me I have some puppies to drown and meth to sell to pre-teens. I wonder if Dyck is hiring....

Why Budget Charged Me for the Damage Waiver

2008-05-30T07:32:00.003-05:00

So one of the things I enjoy doing when I'm out of town is taking road trips in my rental cars. I have unlimited miles and often upgrade to the more exciting vehicles. On that note, though, if anyone from Budget Rent-a-Car is reading this, can you please, for the love of Christ, tell me why, when I upgrade to a premium car, you think that means I want something that screams "old" and "conservative?" In other words, why do you always insist on trying to rent me the Grand Marquis or Buick Lucerne after I've just walked past row upon row of more sporty, sexier choices? I mean, do I have a sign on me that reads, "this guy must want the fat, middle-aged, conservative car that..." wait. Nevermind. Anyway, road trips. In northern California, road trips are simple, relaxing, and fun. There seems to be no limit to the places one can roam once you get out of the hustle and bustle of the bay area. In southern California, this is much more difficult. First of all, everyone and their mother -and sometimes even someone else's mother - is on the road, making something so simple as going down the street for a gallon of milk a major trek. When going anywhere in L.A. there are three levels of time that apply:

A quick jaunt. This is for trips of under an hour and would apply to such activities as checking the mail, walking to the bus stop, or starring in a show on the WB's fall lineup.
A hearty adventure, meaning commutes to and from work, trying to get anywhere downtown, or perhaps starring in NBC's fall lineup. And finally,
Packing a tent and hiring a Sherpa, because you're going to be gone a while.

Normally I shy away from the road trips when I'm in SoCal because I hate having spent two hours on the road and still not having reached the city limits. Last week was different. I heard Drew Barrymore was accepting applications for her next husband and I'd always had a thing for women with tattoos and brown eyes, so I ventured out, even though it meant traveling the ever-nightmarish 405. Still, I figured what the hell, when I lived in L.A. some years ago, Drew and I exchanged pleasantries and smiles while sharing a pump at a gas station in Malibu, so surely I've got a leg up right? Right? You can imagine my surprise when I hit the freeway en route to my next wedded bliss, my Sherpa, Lapka, resting a protective hand on my North Face tent, and found the southbound 405 completely deserted. It was just me and Lapka in my rented SUV, with a full tank of gas and a dream, venturing down the empty freeway toward my next true love. The only thing that could have made it more perfect would be a Rascal Flats song. Lapka can't sing, just so you know.

The point is, we'd found Nerdvanna: an empty freeway during Los Angeles rush hour. Here's why. Maybe some of you saw the news coverage. Oh, and as a side note: can you believe AA sent me a bill for $25 for being a checked bag?

*EDITOR'S NOTE: No I don't know why the sound didn't load with the video. Fuck it.

*EDITOR'S NOTE II: Ok, now the sound works. Clearly I'm either my computer's possessed or I'm being punked. Go figure.

Blogger Sux, or, What Happened to the Checked Luggage Post

2008-05-29T15:29:00.003-05:00

So I had this funny and true story all prepared. Just like all my posts. This one, however, contained an embedded video that according to that little button riiiiiggght up there that I can see right now as I type this, I should be able to load from my computer.

However...

Despite the fact that all appears to be all good and well when I upload said video clip of the coverage, publishing the post and subsequently going out to click on the icon to play said video produces a blank box that simply buffers away endlessly until you finally can't take it any more and bail. Much like several jobs I've had and, humorously, the way I'm sure several women have felt about me.

Anyway, without the video, the story makes little sense. And if I'm going to maintain my superior- er, I mean substandard position in this blogosphere, I thought it best to remove the post until I could fix the issue. Although, now that I think about it, posting it as is might actually help aid my standing more.

So, there you have it. Patience, people. heh.

Some Meme Time

2008-05-13T21:36:00.002-05:00

So I'm into lazy blogging again. I'm sure it seems that I'm doing it a lot lately. But my plan is to run my last reader off asap, much like I do the women who express a shred of interest in me. My excuse today is that I'm in the airport yet again on yet another odyssey for The Man and don't want to drag y'all from your internet porn search for very long.

Despite the fact that something like fifteen of my last twelve posts have been memes, I'm nothing if not methodical when it comes to hammering out my to-do list. It took me forever to read those 700 entries on my RSS feeder and damn, some bloggers can really fill up page after page with what can be said in a few sentences. I should know; I do the same.

Now that I have them all read, I've got to catch up on a couple tags. This one is from this Phat Kat, that vixen from down under who could post about the size and consistency of her last bowel movement and 40,000 people would ping in to read. Plus, it's a meme about one of my favorite subjects: sex. Well, maybe not my favorite, but it's right up there with... oh, who am I kidding, it's basically my favorite.
I still have one more lazy blog (aka, meme) to complete and I'm sure I could just as easily claim that being having such an average mind, I forgot, but since it's been tasked me by a woman with a rack that just screams "motorboat," I'm going to put forth the effort to complete that last meme in a pitiful belief that it'll be so moving to her that she'll want to show me said rack. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out my butt, right?

This is more of a "get to know you" kinda thing. So just feel free to read on and discover why I'm not expected to get any action for many moons to come.

Sex in the Morning or Sex at Night? Considering how long it's been, I'd take it anytime, anywhere. But I'll admit sex in the morning is a fine way to start the day, especially if the previous night ended with getting laid. I'm also partial to middle of the night barely awake sex, boning in the shower, stairway sex, a quickie in the coat closet during the Christmas party, and the ever popular "nooner."

Better Sex Music - Sade or Marvin Gaye? Well, I'm all for respecting the talent and influence ol' Marvin had on the world of soul and R&B, but really, it's hard for me to get into the mood while listening to a guy named "Gaye." Personally I think I'd prefer George Winston or some kind of tribal chant to the god of mysterious virility, Jack Nicholson.

Naughty Pics or Naughty Home Videos? Both, but I think the video is hotter. I'm all for live action. Or, we could just take a series of still shots and flip through them like one of those stick figure stories you used to draw in the 7th grade when you should have been paying attention in Social Studies.

Fabulous Sex With: Dr Doug Ross or Dr Greg House? Um, either of those choices would mean I'd have suddenly decided to go inboard. And that would be a big negatory. Now if you want to throw a little Eva Mendez or Jenny McCarthy or Nell McAndrew in there, then I'll say I'd give up one of my three testicles to have ten minutes with any of the three of them.

Vibrator or Dildo? Well, my answer to this presumes that I'm USING them on a woman, not having either used on me. So, that out of the way, let me say that I do this thing with a vibrator and my tongue that... well, let's just say I've had no complaints.

Bedroom Sex: Lights Off or Lights On? On. Definitely on. And if there's a mirror somewhere where having those lights on allows a different view... well, so much the better!

Word Preference: Pussy or Cunt? Honestly? I can't say I like either. But I really don't like cunt. I mean I really don't like it. To me that's a vulgar word that's used to demean a woman. Now pussy I can get into (heh, pun intended), but I might start giggling. How about Whisker Biscuit instead? Fuzzy Doughnut? Tube Steak Wallet? Geez, you're so picky.

Spanking Over the Knee or Spanking Only During Sex? Well, I guess I don't really care, but it might be hard for me to concentrate which someone smacking my ass. Or did you mean I'm spanking her?

More Exciting: Sex in an Elevator or Sex in an Airplane? Done the elevator thing. Never the plane thing. Also done the movie theater thing. And the park thing. Frankly, there ain't no way I'm doing it in an airplane lavatory. Have you SEEN one of those things lately? I swear every man who uses one just whips it out and lets it fly around like an unattended fire hose. And I'm sure some of the women I've seen go in there do, too.

Ron Jeremy or Peter North? Um, why would I care about this? Other than to remind myself that I'm so inadequate compared to either? Of course, Ron's just a sleazy pig anyway, so I think I've got him beat in just about every category except dipstick length.

Linda Lovelace or Jenna Jameson? Ugh. Do I have to pick only between these two? How about if I instead give them Ron Jeremy's dick and they can do each other? Besides, look at my choices here: one's a deadbeat, overexposed, corpse of a porn star and the other's Linda Lovelace. Frankly I'd rather nail Hillary. Ok, maybe that's a bit extreme, but you know what I mean, right?

Rope Bondage or Bondage Tape? What ever happened to the silk tie? Is this what the kids are doing nowadays? Isn't "rope" and "bondage" sort of redundant? Well, I suppose you could use rope to lash your beer cooler to your lawn tractor... Still isn't sex supposed to be fun?! Rope burns or uprooted hair when removing tape doesn't sound like much fun for her. Or me. Or Hillary.

Give Rim Job or Receive Anal Sex? Huh boy, another knee to the balls or stick to the eye question. (sigh). Wait, would I have to give the rim job with my OWN tongue? I think Bill O'Reilley's used to having his tongue up his own ass, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind.

Get Rich Stripping in a Skanky Bar or Get Rich as a Call Girl for Celebs? You can get rich doing either? Damn, where do I sign up?!

Which Threesome - Boy/Girl/Girl or Boy/Boy/Girl? Done the boy/girl/girl thing. I can't say I'd enjoy the boy boy girl thing, but if I had to I'd want to know I'm way hotter and better endowed than him.

Flavoured Oil or Tingling Oil? Flavored oil first... then tingly oil... then flavored oil.... then tingly oil.... then a poultice.

Pearl Necklace or Swallow? Based on my experience, a guy needs to give expensive jewelery in order to have a shot at the swallow thing. So maybe it should read "Pearl necklace THEN swallow." But what if she doesn't like pearls? Do I have to buy diamonds instead?

Sex While Strangers Watch or Sex With a Stranger? Well that depends. Are the strangers a gaggle of Hooter's girls awaiting their turn? Now that I think about it, that might make both options true, don't ya think?

Tied to the Bed or to a St Andrew’s Cross? St. Andrew's Cross? Is that some weird religions kinky thing? Since I'm apparently naive and don't have the guts to consult the Oracle on such a subject in a public area of the airport, I'm going to go with tied to the bed.

And there you have it, nineteen reasons why you, ladies, should avoid me like the plague.

It's all about me

2008-05-04T13:52:00.006-05:00

So I'm sitting here in my newly spotless room and might I say that when I get this pigsty cleaned up it totally rocks as a man's room. Women beware: walking in here may very likely result in an irresistible desire to get naked. At least I can hope.

Now I'm here, wondering what to do for our visit today. And I got nothin'. Dead end. For some reason today my super highway of creativity has run smack dab into the solid wall of... something that prevents creativity. Now how's THAT for an analogy? Take that, actual wordsmiths and others capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. It's probably due to the conspicuous lack of espresso frothed together with 12 ounces of hot milk.

Yeah, I know it's after 10am, but we're not in Italy, so sue me.

So what does one do when the desire for being a witty fucker eludes? Yes folks, that's right, he does a meme. I'll grant you it's not only lazy but overdone and also a little gay, but hey, it beats me rambling on for paragraphs about how little sex I'm getting.

Doing a meme today also allows me to pirate the idea from someone else AND still feel as if I've accomplished something resembling actual work. To my credit though, I did add some questions I just felt like throwing in there. These things can be so mundane without some really juicy tidbits, don't you agree?

Rules are simple in this one. It's just a Yes or No thing. No explanations, no preamble. Just on or off; 1 or 0; black or white. To know more, you gotta comment or email.

Over 21? Yes
Danced in front of your mirror naked? Yes
Ever told a lie? Yes
Been arrested? Yes
Kissed a picture? Yes
Fallen asleep at work/school? Yes
Held an actual snake? Yes
Ever run a red light? Yes
Ever drink and drive? Yes
Been suspended from school? Yes
Ever been fired from a job? Yes
Totaled a car/motorbike in an accident? Yes
Sang karaoke? Yes
Done something you told yourself you wouldn't? Yes
Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Yes
Ever gone "under the knife?" Yes
Ever laughed until you wet yourself? No (damn, finally a 'no' answer!)
Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Yes
Kissed in the rain? Yes
Sang in the shower? Yes
Sat on a rooftop? Yes
Been to a foreign country in which you didn't speak the language? Yes
Thought about your past with regret? Yes
Been pushed in the pool with your clothes on? Yes
Skinny dipped? Yes
Shaved your head? No
Blacked out from drinking? Yes
Had a gym membership? Yes
Been in a band? No
Fired a gun? Yes
Liked someone with nobody else knowing about it? Yes
Played strip poker? Yes
Been to a strip joint? Yes
Donated Blood? Yes
Liked someone you shouldn't? Yes
Have a tattoo? Yes
Been to jail? Yes (and why would this one follow the tattoo question?)
Have or had any piercings? Yes
Made out with a complete stranger? Yes
Had a one night stand? Yes
Caught someone cheating on you? Yes
Felt like dying? Yes
Regret any of your ex's? Yes
Been to a rodeo? Yes
Been to a NASCAR race? No
Been in Love? Yes
Met a celebrity? Yes
Been on TV? Yes
Know how to cook? Yes
Like motorcycles? Yes!
Bungee jumped, skydived, based jumped, etc? Yes
Slept outdoors? Yes
Spent the night in a snow cave? Yes
Slept with someone knowing you didn't like them? No
Smoked? No
Ever done drugs? No
Thought you were going to drown? Yes
Play an instrument? No
Driven cross country? Yes
Ever known someone could see you naked, but didn't cover up? Yes

And there you have it. Sixty things you never wanted to know about me. Seems there were a lot of "yes" answers in there. Maybe I'm more experienced than I thought. Or more depraved. Same same.

A dream job?

2008-05-02T12:24:00.005-05:00

I'm working on a post as we speak while simultaneously listening to my weekly regional management conference call and I had a thought:

I never thought I'd work for a company where I'd be conducting interviews for nurses and therapists who are "swallow certified."

That just gives me a whole new appreciation for my job potential.

Homework

2008-04-27T09:36:00.004-05:00

So as the more perceptive of you will note, I've been absent a short while. Now don't go gettin' all weird on me; the fact that we made out and I didn't call you fourteen times the next day doesn't mean that I've gotten what I sought and now have moved on to the next conquest. No, I've actually been nursing several muscles pulled due to the continual clinching required to prevent being reamed by the union reps. Oh, they're all sweet as pie in the beginning. Well, except meat pie. Meat pie isn't sweet. Oh, on the surface, meat pie sounds like it should be good with a capital MMMMM! I mean you got meat: Good! You got pie: Good! But unless by "meatpie" you mean that particular part of a woman that goes well with whipped cream, meat pie is not what I'd call a tasty treat. It might sound good, but it tastes like ass.

And then there's rhubarb pie; another pie that makes you want to thrust your finger down your throat. Did you know rhubarb is a relative of buckwheat? I wonder why we never saw him on and Little Rascals episodes. Oh, and did you also know that the historical use for rhubarb was to induce vomiting? As far as I'm concerned that makes it singularly UN-fit to be a pie filling.

Anywho... I didn't bring you here to talk about pie. I brought you here to look at this*:

For those of you who can actually see that picture, you'll notice the little red circle. That's the current level of unread posts y'all have decided to share with the world which this particular visitor has yet to view. So as you can see, I've got a lot of reading to do.

*UPDATE::: That reads "671" for those of you with poor eyesight for one reason or another.

Gather 'round

2008-04-22T22:33:00.002-05:00

So, now don't go wandering away on me. I'm doing some of that there Finance Rock Star stuff, so I'll be right with you. So for those of you who've graciously come to visit, I'd just like to say:

Kitty - I accept your tag and I'll get to it straight away.
Crystal - I accept your tag as well, but I've got to figure out how to separate which songs I'd wild bang to, versus those I'd just leg hump to.
Did I miss anyone else's tag?
Anonymous - No, I don't have a pint of Astroglide, and frankly, if I wanted to be on my knees with balls flying all around me, I'd attend that party at Elton John's.

I'm leaving for CA again tomorrow cuz I must engage in pitched battle with the likes of the union representatives. Such is the life of EA, the Oprah of the finance world. I'll post tomorrow from my hotel in SF. And don't you feel special? Kind of makes you feel like an international presence, don't it?

Gotta Keep Moving

2008-04-09T14:41:00.010-05:00

So I've only got a second before I have to get moving again. I'm out of breath, my legs are screaming at me to stop running and, frankly, I'm a bit scared.

As I've mentioned before, I'm on my way to Argentina this year. It's not going to be an easy trip. So I've got to get into better shape. Apparently not having anything remotely close to a metabolism, I've engaged "outside help" in my quest to look something closer to what I was in college. This is also a cautionary tale regarding buying anything on the internet, so beware, fuckers!

While I scoured the 'nets, looking for info on the best way to transform from Orca into something resembling [insert hot celebrity of choice here], I came across an ad for a weight loss program that not only was full of testimonials, but guaranteed success with their "Tier III" program. Yes, guaranteed. According to this site, you had three options:

Tier I: $450 for five days and a loss of 10 pounds

Tier II: $850 for eight days and a loss of 20 pounds.

And Tier III: $1,250 for twenty days and a guaranteed loss of at least 40 pounds.

No surgery. No weird pills, shakes, or diets. Just one phone call and the ball would be rolling. But I'm also a Finance Rock Star and it simply wouldn't do for me to pour that kind of green down the hole on a program I can't say for sure would work. Besides, it could be a scam right?

So I decided on the Tier I program and made the phone call. Questions were asked and answered. Details given. Credit card number revealed. I was "in."

Two days later I received a knock at my door and when I answered it I was greeted by a stunning blonde who joyfully pronounced that she was my trainer for the next five days, at the end of which I'd be at least 10 pounds lighter.

I invited her in.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments.

Based on our conversation it seemed obvious some walking or running was going to be involved. I'm not a fan of running, but hey, the way she looked she could ask me to eat the ass out of a dead rhinoceros and I'd have done it.

She finally asked for a place to change into her workout gear. I pointed her to my bedroom and she disappeared while I waited outside. I spent a few moments stretching while she changed.

After a few moments passed, she emerged from my house wearing nothing but a pair of Nike runners and a smile. She gave me a wicked grin as my eyes made lecherous passes over her rock hard, tanned, naked body.

"Now, time for your workout. If you can catch me, you can have me."

And with a burst of speed I haven't seen since the last woman I met online met me in person, she bolted. For five days I tried, but I never caught her.

On the plus side, though, I stepped on the scale the day after our last cat and mouse -about three weeks ago now- and sure enough, I'd lost the promised 10 pounds. Eleven, in fact. I was understandably stoked.

So I called the company again and forked over another chunk of change for the Tier II program. The same numbers, questions, blah blah blah changed hands and I waited for what I could only imagine would be TWO naked girls to chase. I hoped they'd follow the same mentality as one would have when coming across a hungry bear when hiking with a buddy: "I don't have to be faster than the bear, just faster than YOU." I thought my chances were good of getting at least one of them.

The next day found me dressed and ready at the appointed time.

A knock at the door.

I about bounded across the room, pausing only long enough to regain my composure and adopt a cool, collected veneer over my horny perv core before opening the door.

What stood before me wasn't two women, but one of the hands down most amazing looking women I've ever laid eyes on. And she was already wearing nothing but running shoes and a smile. I guess they've grown smart enough to anticipate that some patrons might try to skip the run and go right for the goods during the changing process, so this trainer showed up ready for business.

There's simply no way to describe in words big enough just how hot this woman was. Her long dark hair fell in ringlets about her flawless skin. Men would fight wars over the chance to feel this woman's body. Her full, shapely lips pulled back to reveal white, straight teeth.

"You know the drill. If you can catch me..."

And off she ran, like a gazelle evading a cheetah. Ok, maybe not a cheetah... maybe something closer to a hippo or really out of shape dog. Or Rosie O'Donnel.

For a week I chased that minx and never even got close to catching her. Oh I tried to be charming. Didn't work. I tried faking an injury to get her to come close enough to grab. Nothing. Finally I came to realize that the only way I was going to have a shot at having that body wrapped around this one was to actually catch her. But damn, she was fast, so I never could.

On the plus side, I did, in fact, lose 20 pounds. And I never felt hungry. Never felt excessively worn out. As a matter of fact, aside from a raging case of blueballs, I felt great! So it's no surprise that I ultimately called the company a third time to sign up for the Tier III program.

Questions asked. Answers given. Financial figures exchanged.

For the two days leading up to my third trainer I was beside myself with excitement. I mean, there's no way to top the last trainer I had and frankly, even the first was stunning. My mind seethed with the anticipation of what my third trainer had in store for me. And I was confident that with the training I'd had so far, there was no way she was going to outrun me without a jetpack. Yeah, I was not only going to get a workout now, but I was going to get poon, too!

Then came the ring of the doorbell.

I suddenly became aware of my body launching itself at the door, not caring to appear to be some poon-addled schoolboy.

I yanked the door open, fully prepared to launch myself into a full sprint if she tried to bolt suddenly. I was so amped up on sexual tension and Starbucks that I swear I could have caught the space shuttle if needs be.

The horror cracked me in the face like a hammer.

What stood before me was a lean, muscular, sinewy young man that looked like he could catch the space shuttle without even breaking a sweat. And just like his predecessors, he was naked.

And he had the biggest dick I'd ever ever even heard of. Not that I'm an expert on male genitalia mind you, but I swear he didn't use his hands to ring my doorbell a moment ago. Throw a tarp over it and boy scouts could have camped under there.

His thin, porn star mustache raised as he broke into a lecherous grin of his own. Then his words echoed in my horrified brain.

"Hello. I'm with 'Company X.' For the next three weeks I'll be your trainer. Now get moving, because if I catch you..."

-he leaned in for dramatic effect-

"... your ass is mine."

I'm on day twelve. I've been able to evade Sven the Wonder Schlong so far and I think I'm really losing some serious weight here since even my fillings are getting loose in my teeth, but... oh shit... he's caught his breath! Here he comes again!!!!

I gotta run!! There's no way I'm g......

It's Either Ascend to the Heavens, or Rot in Hell

2008-04-08T09:15:00.006-05:00

So I took this new job, right? And the paychecks are pretty effing sweet. As are the people with whom I work. And I can't beat all the poon that goes along with being a Finance Rock Star. But can I just say that I'm already tired of the current project I'm on? I must have adult ADHD or something. Or perhaps it's just the feeling of being handed the lifeless corpse of a long dead and rotted project, with the instructions of "see what you can do with it. Oh, and I told everyone you'd have it ready by next week."

Anyway, in ~~lieu~~,... ~~leue?~~,... ~~lou?~~,... in place of posting today, I give you something to occupy your time while I finish up. Don't forget to turn the volume up RRREEEEAAAALLLY high and click on Manic Mode. heh.

I may post later today; I may not. But it's the excitement of what I'll do next that keeps you coming back, isn't it? That, or the expectation of porn, which we all know is the REAL purpose of the internet, right?

Speaking of which, I remembered a smut story I wrote a while back that you might enjoy. I'll see if I can't be finding it when I get home and reprint it here, along with the back story. Or just the sweaty details, since I know that's all y'all* really care about.

*yes, I spoke Texan; that don't make me one.

Sometimes "Vigorous" Can Be Misleading

2008-03-30T10:34:00.001-05:00

So where I grew up, there's a lot of open range, dotted with ranches and farms. One of my favorite past-times was to jump in my truck (or on my dirtbike, depending on the mood) and head out into the open desert to explore. The beauty of living in such an area is that it's never more than 1/2 an hour from total solitude. From my house in the north valley I could head in virtually any direction and with only five bucks in gas ($432,854 in today's dollars and at today's gas prices) I could be totally alone.

On one such excursion I crested a slow line of hills about 15 miles north of my house and discovered a long, narrow valley stretching a few miles out from me, toward another ridge on the horizon. The line of hills I'd just overcome turned out to actually be the southern end of a ring of stubby mountains encircling the entire narrow valley. Running almost through the middle of the valley was a small stream, to either side of which grew about thirty feet or so of deep, lush, green grass before again surrendering to the sage and bitterbrush of the desert landscape. The scant dirt road I was on continued down the inside of the hills and traversed the valley where its eastern edge met the west side of the hills. To the left of where I stood was the only proof any man had ever been there (aside from the dirt road on which I was travelling): a long, two-wire range fence stretching the length of the valley on five foot tall wooden posts, each spaced about fifteen feet apart.

The scene was beautiful. On more than one return trip I would sit on the hillside with Pete, my golden lab, and watch wild mustangs lazily walk through the valley, pausing to nibble the grass or drink from the cool water of the stream. I figured the valley must have had a name and knowing what I did about land in Nevada, it was probably owned by someone, somewhere, but as is true to Nevada culture, if there ain't some specific reason to have it closed off (like for a bombing range or a place for hookers to run free), nearly all land is for public use.

But I was also a teenager. So I had more reason than just the wild mustangs, frolicking prostitutes and a serene landscape to return to "my" valley. About halfway along the east edge of the valley was a place where the road turned to the left and headed west toward the stream. Being a small-ish stream flowing along nearly flat ground, there was no need to build a bridge across it; you simple drove through, which, over time, flattened the banks of the stream, allowing the water to spread out into a cool, refreshing pool - a perfect spot for picnicking and demonstrating to those of the female of the species that I was a romantic bastard.

From the other direction the range fence turned east, meeting the road not far from where the road crossed the stream, turning to parallel the stream, about ten feet from it's western bank. A great many days were spent leaning against one of the wooden fence posts, tossing sticks and pebbles into the stream's clear water as the sun warmed my body and soul. And in all those times, I never, not once, saw another human being come down that road from either direction. It was easy to imagine I was the only person on the planet.

Eventually, of course, I convinced a girl that I was worth dating and -since we both lived at home and therefore did not have unfettered access to a private place from which to get our rocks off- it wasn't long before oh, let's call her "Heidi," was frequenting the valley with me.

Each time it was the same: we'd grab $5 in gas and snacks from the neighborhood 7-11 (yes, ladies, I am a romantic fucker) and make our way into the hills to what had become our special place in nature.

We'd spread out our blanket, spend a few moments soaking our feet in the water or the sun into our skin, exchanging light conversation as we cast sidelong glances up and down the road to check for visitors.

Without fail, the road was always empty. And so within about 45 seconds "Heidi" and I had ourselves mostly naked, banging away on the blanket spread out on the carpet of deep green grass between the fence and the water's edge. With the vigor of those of the teenage population, we experienced every single position we could conjure in our minds, most of which requiring one or both of us to grip the fence for balance or leverage.

~~Forty minutes~~ Twenty seconds later, it was usually over. Since she'd had no greater experience than I did, that was just about the required amount for her to get her toes to curl as well, so it worked out good on all fronts. As adolescent relationships usually do, "Heidi's" and mine eventually ended and we went our separate ways, but I continued to frequent the spot where we'd shared so many trysts.

Some years later, when I was in my first few years of college, I ran into "Heidi" again, at a frat brother's BBQ. Aside from a bit longer hair and somewhat bigger boobs, "Heidi" hadn't really changed much at all. Unlike myself, who had actually filled out and was much hotter than the pizza-faced, scrawny kid she'd been ~~conned into~~ dating before.

Two weeks later I called the phone number she'd given me at the BBQ and invited her on a hike I was going on with another friend and his girlfriend, not far from where "Heidi" and I used to escape to have sex. Yeah, what you're thinking now is the same thought that crossed my mind back then, too. Lucky for me, she agreed to come along.

The four of us drove out. My buddy and his girlfriend started out into the hills while "Heidi" and I decided to hang back at the truck and get caught up on the last handful of years we'd been apart.

We chatted.

We laughed.

We exchanged perfunctory pleasantries.

Our eyes stole sidelong glances up and down the road, in addition to the spot on the hill where our traveling companions had just gone.

We smiled that wicked smile at each other; the one that says "yeah, I know what you want. When are you planning to shut up and go for it?"

Ten seconds later we were rolling in our same spot in the grass, tearing at each other's clothes while trying to keep our lips on each other. Finally naked (mostly), "Heidi" lay down on her back and pulled me over top of her, raising her legs to wrap her legs around my waist, locking her ankles together.

I was instantly ready. With her ankles locked behind my waist, she pulled me into her with one fluid motion. She let out a soft moan as I filled her completely. I reached forward to grip the fence for support. Following my queue, "Heidi" raised her arms to brace herself against my forceful thrusting. For the next several minutes we lost ourselves in wild, sweaty sex. We were like ravenous animals. There was much screaming and grunting. Our eyes locked. Our brows creased in amazed rapture. It was as if every nerve in our bodies was alive and screaming with carnal desire. Our bodies moved frantically against each other. Words were reduced to clipped grunts. Sweat immediately poured from our bodies, quenching the parched desert earth. Finally, in a rush of sexual release, I pushed myself back from the fence, "Heidi" wrapped her arms around my shoulders as we both collapsed into a sweaty, quivering heap.

We lay for several minutes, gasping for breath. Finally we got up and began gathering clothing, just finishing dressing and settling into the bed of the truck when the other two of our party re-emerged from the wild.

Several quiet minutes passed before my buddy's girlfriend could stand it no longer.

"Um," she stammered. "I don't mean to embarrass either of you, but we sort of saw you two."

Her boyfriend nodded his agreement. "We didn't mean to pry. We were just returning and hear you two calling out, so we thought something might be wrong. We were halfway down the hill before we realized you were actually in the throws of passion. We didn't know what to do so we just crouched down to wait it out."

"Heidi" and I looked at each other for a moment.

"I guess we were a little louder than we used to be," I said.

His girlfriend grunted. "I'm surprised either of you can walk!"

My friend laughed. "You two used to come here a lot, huh?"

"Yeah," we both replied.

"But this time was different," I added.

"How's that?"

"Heidi" and I looked back toward our old love nest between the stream and fence and exchanged an exhausted smile that said we'd both be sore the next day.

"Well," she said, "when we used to come here before, that fence wasn't electrified."

Advice from Moob

2008-03-24T23:49:00.000-05:00

So this morning I was standing at the omelet bar in the hotel and I noticed that if I so chose, I could have shredded chicken as a filler. And that got me wondering: isn't that just wrong? I mean, let's think about that. First the chicken lays the egg. A human comes along and takes that egg. Then he kills, plucks, skins, boils, and shreds the chicken so that my chef here can stuff it into the egg. Isn't that like some kind of poultry cannibalism?

Wouldn' that be like dipping your burger into your milk before you ate it?

Things here have been going well. I'm apparently creating a name for myself within the company. I only wish it were a good one this time. I mean, who the hell wants to be known as Moob Pussmeyer? It's like being in grade school again. heh.

I'm sitting in my assigned office for the day, M. Pussmeyer written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the wall next to the door. I've intermittently entertained myself by calling the facility from my cell phone and asking the receptionist to page Mr. Moob Pussmeyer, just so I could hear the page over the building's intercom system: "Mr. Pussmeyer, telephone call please. Mr. M. Pussmeyer. Please dial the operator." Next month, since the receptionist is young and likely hasn't seen Porky's, I'm going to be Michael Hunt for the day.

So anyway, just before she left for the night, Andrea -my colleague- comes into my office here, all in a huff. She had left the room for a few minutes to go change in one of the vacant patient rooms because she'd flown into town that morning to attend our financial reviews and had a date that night with a friend in the city. She returned, however, without her evening wear, but with her knickers in a twist nevertheless.

"Looks like I need to go shopping," she fumed.

"Why?" I'm such a conversationalist, ain't I?

"My hairspray exploded all over the inside of my bag."

"Ouch. Clearly you are in violation of one of the vital tenets of air travel: always pack your toiletries in a plastic bag."

Her face twisted into a look that either said she was about to make a smart ass comment or had suddenly realized that wind she just let pass wasn't all air. "Well, the obviousness of that statement as I stand here now didn't cross my mind when I packed at 4am this morning."

I shrugged "well, look at the bright side: now your clothes will be firmly pressed throughout the entire evening"

"Actually, I'm going to leave now and go buy new ones."

"You could always wear those. They'd just be all stiff and full bodied. You know, when I was doing art, I used to use hairspray to set the colors of the chalk so they'd never rub off. Now your clothes are permanently colorfast. Yay, you!"

"You're a dork, Mr. Pussmeyer."

She began packing up her computer again while I returned to slashing the budgets. Psha! Food? They don't need food. Jell-O costs, what, fourteen cents a pound? And water's free! $40,000 for food. What the hell is this, the Ritz Carleton?

"You know," Andrea said conversationally, "I've used hairspray to get ink out of fabric before."

And what follows is a moment that speaks to how I get my reputation:

"Oh yeah? Well maybe you could use ink to get the hairspray out."

Apparently, I have all these great genes, but they're all recessive.

Intelligence and the Concept of Mutuality

2008-03-22T09:54:00.003-05:00

So despite my reputation, I was actually a good kid growing up. I didn't really get into a lot of trouble at school or within my neighborhood. The frustration my parents felt stemmed more from the zany ideas that would cause my body to act before my rational brain would gather the reins. I performed well in school - very well in fact - and was basically respectful and easy going toward my parents.

But don't let that confuse you. What kept me in line wasn't as much a healthy respect for authority as it was a healthy fear of the consequences. Yeah, yeah, I here you: where was the fear before I got sent to prison, right? Believe me, it's been throw into my face enough that I'll never forget -or likely receive an answer to- that same question in my own brain. And here's the lesser known lesson kids: even standing up and trying your level best to make it right won't save you from heartbreak later; some of the dearest people to your heart, despite offering forgiveness and understanding at the time, will nevertheless use it against you if they get angry enough years later.

Anyway, it wasn't that I never had mischievous thoughts. It's just that the reality is that I didn't want to suffer the humiliation of feeling like I'd disappointed those around me; those who thought of me as such a good -if somewhat overly impetuous- child, which is good since I virtually always got caught.

I may have done very well in school, yes, but I hated it as much as the next kid. Many a morning passed that I'd wish I could somehow get out of going.

I also believe in the principle of "mutuality," which states that any benefit should be mutual; each party should receive something from the agreement. Never is this more clearly proven than in teaching a child your actual name.

When my daughter was very young, my wife and I (back when she still loved me and I stupidly thought we'd grow old and wrinkled together) asked her if she knew our names, besides "mommy" and "daddy" that is.

"Yes," she nodded. "They're 'hon' and 'hey Kel'."

Of course this demonstrates the importance of teaching our children our names so that police, when finding a lost child don't hear "Mommy and Daddy" in response to the question: "what are your parents' names?"

Where is this going? How does it tie into the first half of this stupid post? Well just hang on a second and I'll tie them together. Like most my posts, you have to read all the way to the bottom before you understand why I even bothered. And sometimes it's a long way to go, fuckers. Something a certain poon-loving clown points out on a fairly consistent basis.

Anyway, where was I? Pardon me while I scroll up and get my train of thought back on the right track...

Yes, teaching your kids your actual name and the concept of mutuality.

See, we all like our young kids to know our name so they can aid in our finding them if they should ever become lost, like at Disneyland or an Insane Clown Posse concert. Wait... who am I kidding? No parent would let their kid out of their site at Disneyland, right? Besides, what is the admission to Disneyland nowadays? An I.R.A. statement and $150? I know! That's like... 45 lap dances or something. Well, actually it's not; I don't charge that much.

Anyway, what most people don't realize is that had my parents taught me their actual names, it would have not only helped them locate me at the Jimmi Hendrix Reefer-fest '70, but the mutual benefit would have allowed me to not get caught trying to skip school.

Oh I'd try to skip from time to time, but I'd get caught because while I not only lacked the creativity of a truly evil-genius mind, I apparently also lacked cognitive learning skills because the futility of my attempt never became obvious until after I was on the phone with the principal.

"I'd like to speak to the principle, please" I'd say with my heavily disguised voice (read, lowered deeply), speaking into the mouthpiece that was covered with a wash cloth. Incidentally, who but a child actually thinks covering a phone's mouthpiece with terrycloth will actually make your voice sound older? In reality you sound like a kid speaking into the phone from across the room.

"Please hold."

And I'd stand there listening to the dead silence that made you wonder if they'd hung up or you were still on hold. This was in the days prior to Hold Muzak, when we'd be entertained by Elton John's The Bitch is Back as performed by The Boston Pops.

Suddenly, [click] "This is Mr. Combover, the principle. How may I help you?"

Still in my slow, chin-to-the-chest, lowest tone possible voice that makes children think they sound adult and women think they sound male: "Yes, Mr. Combover. Kelly won't be in school today. He's sick."

"What? You sound like you're really far away. Who is this?"

Nooooowwws where the concept of mutual benefit and teaching your kids your actual name ties together, people.

Slight pause... "Uh, it's... my dad."

And now you know why I never successfully skipped school as a kid. Clearly a moron such as myself needed all the learnin' he could get.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

2008-03-15T11:37:00.010-05:00

So hi there. How are ya? Been a while, hasn't it? I'd like to say that what's kept me from you had to do with nudity and a beautiful woman, but alas, the truth is I've been traveling for work. As a matter of fact, I've been home for a whopping two days and now I'm about to hop a plane again, except this time the kids come with me. And while there has been nudity involved, it's more been of the doctor-slash-patient variety, and I'm afraid it wasn't as fun as my fantasy conjured. As you read this I'm sitting at a table in one of the many thousand centers of the universe for those of the caffeine addicted: Starbucks. I'm in the Galleria area of Houston, sipping a nice iced latte (although a little strong on the espresso) while my naughty offspring read over my shoulder at what I'm typing. So no swearing, fuckers.

We're here waiting for our flight out to the coast (west, not east). I'm reminded of the James Brown song "Pappa's Got A Brand New Bag." Not because it carries any relevance to my life right now, but because it's being pumped into the air over the speaker system in here. And after all, when I think classic Soul music, I think Starbuck's.

On the other side of the tall, plate-glass window from my checker-top round table is a bright red, chick magnet Ferrari Spyder. Yes, it's all the poon you can handle for the bargain price of $200,000. FlyBoy is gibbering and carrying on about it in the same way I do when I spy an unclaimed Twinkie or exposed boobie. So at least I understand the compulsion.

I have a venti iced latte here next to me, that as of twenty seconds ago, has become undrinkable. I say that it is undrinkable because as my younger offspring -FlyBoy- bent over to read my words of wisdom he confused my latte with his smoothie and took a big ol' swig... paused for a moment with a look of abject horror on his face... then promptly spit it all back into my cup. Yay me. "Yes Miss barrista, I'll have a venti non-fat iced latte with an extra shot of spittle please! Oh, and don't forget the partially masticated chocolate chip remnants from his gaping maw."

So anyway, here we sit, waiting to board a plane for the coast. This job, aside from a salary large enough to achieve love in the really old fashioned way (by paying for it), may also very likely turn into the job that allows me to roam the country at will and work remotely. I've been looking for one of those every since we decided we wanted to travel full time. Back before things went to shit. I hinted about working from Montana one month, Wisconsin the next, Florida the next to my boss during a conference call earlier this week and his reply was that after I get this business into the kind of financial shape he desires, he can't say he'd necessarily care where I'm actually located each day; as long as the job's done and I make it back to California or Houston on an as-needed basis. Again, yay me.
----

It's later. Quite a bit later, actually. We made it to California. I've just returned home from making a trip back to the airport to pick up the bags they conveniently lost for us earlier. The airline is considerate that way. And the offspring left my laptop in Houston. In the back seat of my car. Which is parked in the... wait. Perhaps it wouldn't be a smart idea to mention to everyone on the 'nets that my laptop is unattended.

Needless to say, so far, the best part of my trip was the iced latte at the International House of Caffeinated Crack, aka Starbucks. The garage was totally, 100% full; my laptop missed it's flight; the airline lost two of our bags; and I've still not had sex since Woodrow Wilson was in the White House.

So when time came to rent a car, I decided to go high-end.

Agent: OK sir, here's your ford POS.

Me: Don't you have anything... nicer?

Agent: Sure! What did you have in mind?

Me: Oh, I don't know, something that says sexy and that I have a higher income than IQ?

Agent [tapping on keyboard]: Oh, well ok; that level of ego stroke comes to an extra $925 a day.

Me: Money is no object. Set me up. I gotta look cool for the chicks. I mean look at me; clearly I need all the help I can get. After all, it worked for those guys who married Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts, right?

Agent: tappity tappity. OK sir. I need you to sign the following affidavits and waivers.

She passed a phone book sized stack of papers over to me and began shuffling through to the relevant pages.

Agent: This one stipulates that we here at [rental agency] are not responsible for any harm caused by the rampant testosterone that will be coursing through your veins. [I scribble my initials]. And this one says you won't try to drive while receiving road head from a 21 year old blonde you meet in a bar then pay the cover charge at every other nightclub in town trying to find her after you return from the restroom to find that she and her friend have left. [scribble my initials while saying "what they don't know won't hurt me" to myself]. OK, good; and finally this one says that while we know you are male and will not be able to resist fucking with all the buttons and gadgets in the cockpit, you will only do so from a complete stop and only AFTER you get road head from the girl you just signed wouldn't be. [check]. OK, here's your key fob. Just exit these doors and turn left. Then look for the group of...

And that's right about the time I tuned out because, you know, I'm male and have a short attention span.

Let's see.... down isle "R," in slot 44..... and there she was... a brand spanking new Cadillac sports car.

I pressed the "I'm your new master" button on the fob. Her lights winked at me from across the parking lot. She roared to life and opened herself to me as if to say c'mere baby, everything you want is right in here.

I slid inside with one fluid motion. Her warm interior enfolded me as my hands glided over her smooth features. My breathing started to become heavy. I could feel her gently pulsing underneath me.

Then, just as I became fully engaged in pressing the right buttons there came a knock at the door and I head "Dad! Dad! What are you doing in there! Open the door, let us in!"

Huh, just like real life. I swear since having kids I haven't had 10 minutes for either sex or the bathroom. I shut off the engine and fingered the button on the door and the kids piled in. Suddenly I'm just EA again, hopeless romantic father of two, just trying to string another successful today between yesterday and tomorrow.

Once settled with seatbelts on, I press the 'come to life' button on the fob again. Nothing happened.

I pressed it again and was greeted with an audible "ding" and a sexy, sultry female voice.

"I'm sorry. My sensors indicate that you're a man. You must first pass the test before I am able to submit to you."

"Test?"

"Yes sir. Test. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and hold still while I conduct my analysis."

"Huh?"

"Please refer to paragraph 2b of your rental contract: drivers must first submit to an assessment and aptitude test before I will allow the world to know you've been inside me. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and remain still for a moment."

I know! It seemed really odd to me too. But I figured I've got what it takes to handle even the most pretentious vehicles, so I did as she instructed. She didn't keep me waiting long.

"Sorry sir, my analysis has determined that your penis is too large to drive a vehicle like me. Also, I detect the presence of offspring and that you are approximately 42,000 pounds too heavy for me to be seen in public with you.

"42,000?"

"Approximately, yes. Please return to the rental counter to exchange me for one of this agencies many Ford POS'."

"Oh c'mon! Isn't there an appeals process?"

"Well, I do detect that you have a high income. And I can see from my background analysis that you have just the right amount of bad boy in you and that you used to be pretty hot. So perhaps we can work something out. Please insert $4,000 into the CD slot and for the next few days I'll act as though you need me to compensate for another 'shortcoming'."

Thank God I'd just seen my pimp the day before.
------

By the way, I noticed that our flight crew, including the pilots, on our first flight was almost entirely women. So do you suppose that with an all female flight crew, the cockpit suddenly becomes referred to as "the box office?"

A Little Meme Time

2008-02-28T09:29:00.003-06:00

So King Dick Mitten (as he has requested I refer to him. Heh) has decreed that I must partake in the ubiquitous Meme. And as I'm being a lazy blogger today, I'll do as he commands. Besides, normal kings rectify their displeasure by beheading those who offend them, however as my research revealed, the Clitorian kings pleasure themselves by burying their "head" in the rectum of those who offend. And as that's just not a tradition I'd care to experience, the Meme seems like the path of least resistance.

Now. The Rules. I capitalize them because rules is rules and them's the rules. "Hey, these aren't my rules. Come to think of it, I don't have any rules."*

Anyway,

Rule #1: Post a link to the person who tagged you. Check.
Rule #2: Post the rules. Check.
Rule #3: Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. Shouldn't this rule go last? I mean really, I'm still posting the Rules for crying out loud. Geez, gimme a minute here.
Rule #4: Tag at least three people. Ok... you... you.... and you! Oh, what the hell; you, too.
Rule #5: Make sure the people who tagged you KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did. Huh? I'm not going to tell you everything I did. I mean, people already think I'm weird enough. If they also knew I sneak into their bathrooms at night to use their toothbrushes, I'd never get anyone to visit EA.

So here we go. Seven non-important things/habits/quirks about EA. Or was that six? Five? Dammit, now you're making me scroll up to re-read. See what happens when you list the rules all out of order?

...

Ok, six. Six things non-important. [insert looooooonnnng pause]. I'm hesitating not because I can't find six non-important things about me, but because I can't narrow it down to only six non-important things about me. Hmmm..... Ok, here's one

1. I'm a talker. Those of you who know me will be all like "NO, I never knew!" and I'll respond "Yes, I am." And if I'm confused or severely upset, I'll even talk to myself. Talking is how I work shit out in my own head. I don't know why, but I've done it since I was a very small child, which is probably why my parents thought I was possessed.

2. When I'm in the mood to talk to myself, but can't be entirely alone (like when I'm driving somewhere), I'll sometimes put my hand-free mic in my ear so it'll appear that I'm on the phone instead.

3. I gag at the smell of Gardenias. To me they smell like dog shit. Yes, I do mean dog shit. Not "they smell as bad as dog shit" but they literally smell like the piles of excremental bombs I had to remove from the yard as a kid so my dad could mow the grass. I've tried to use the Oracle to find info on why this might be the case, but all I could find was a reference in a blog about designing perfume, in which the author states:

"...An orange note could also work here, but be careful with the orange if you are adding Indole to the floral base, It can get a wee bit poopish. Because with Gardenia you want more of a rotting smell than poop. If (that is) you want to capture the essence of a full tilt Gardenia."

4. I drop my car into neutral whenever I'm at a traffic stop. I drive an automatic in which the gear shift is on the console between the front seats. From my position in the pilot's chair I rest my arm on the console and my hand on the shift lever and whenever I come to a stop I drop the car into neutral. I don't know why, but don't tell my insurance company that I do it, m-kay?

5. I speed read. Sort of. When I read a novel by an author who crams a 300 page story into 650 pages, I'll very often -at mundane parts- skip various sections of sentences or paragraphs so that I may still get the feel for what the author is saying, but not have to read every single word.

6. I can write alphabetic shorthand. It's a skill I learned in high school to prepare for note-taking in college, at which point, my high school teacher told me, the instructor will speak at a normal pace and you're expected to keep pace because (s)he will not pause to let you catch up. Alphabetic shorthand uses letters or groups of consonants to represent words, much like the version that used to be taught to the secretarial pool, but using the alphabet instead of symbols. In alphabetic shorthand, the sentence "Jerry likes his red mustache, but they do not like the foo Manchu look" would be written "Jry ks z rd mstch, b y d n k e fu Mchu lok."

So that's six. Six weird, wonderful things about this average schmo called EA.** Feel free to laugh out loud at me; I know you already do.

* I'll hump the leg of anyone who catches the obscure movie reference.
**Oh, and don't be surprised if these six end up on the next installment of the ubiquitous 100 things post.

Stonehenge Explained!

2008-02-19T21:49:00.001-06:00

So, I'm somewhat of a history buff. The older I get the more interested I become in the world's history, including her people. Aside from the obvious sexy light that portrays me, it nevertheless affords me the opportunity to learn many fascinating things. I'm proud to say that after many years of research I've finally discovered what Stonehenge was all about.

For most of recorded history -certainly since I've been alive, which is about 75% of recorded history- Stonehenge has been suspected of being everything from a place for religious ceremonies to the site of alien interactions, which frankly I find stupid since I don't think there are many people from Mexico in England. However the light of discovery has revealed the true meaning behind Stonehenge's original design:

Female genitalia.

Shocking, no? Wonderful amounts of research went into this discovery and I'm now convinced that Stonehenge resembles the female anatomy. Finally on the right path I dug further and the truth revealed itself to me as if a rose, blooming before my very eyes. Here is what I've discovered.

Stonehenge is a massive fertility symbol whose stones represent the various parts of the female genitalia. For centuries it's been thought that the Druids built Stonehenge. However it is now known to have been built by an ancient race of people called the Clitorians.

The Clitorians were an extremely fertile people who came to southern England from a place high in the Swiss Alps called Mount Beaver. Ever since the Clitorians came from Mt. Beaver they had wanted to build a monument to the female anatomy. However the Clitorians did not have enough money to build such a monument so they had to borrow several thousand clam smackers from the Pussyphites. As you might know, Clam Smackers were their currency and the Pussyphites were a neighboring race of people who were extremely wealthy. In fact, it was the Pussyphites who had graciously given the Vulvarians the money to build the Great Wall of Vagina.

Anyway, one day Dick Mitten, the king of the Clitorians, announced the building of Stonehenge at a lavish banquet at which his loyal subjects dined on vertical tacos, fuzzy doughnuts, and whisker biscuits. Parting the meat curtains that led to the stage, King Mitten appeared before everyone who'd come from Mt. Beaver that morning.

Whipping out his sausage wallet, the Clitorian king pronounced a jubilant "hay hay!" and offered 200 clam smackers to the person with the best design. After several weeks, Darryl of Furburger was announced the winner and building commenced immediately on a piece of land known as Pastrami Flats (which is, of course, just east of Coochy Cove) with stones acquired from all parts of what is now Europe, including Pootania, East Tunaville, and Kooterburg. Yes Stonehenge would have an international, if not fishy, flavor.

Even the name Stonehenge has special meaning. "Stone" being the Clitorian word for "Nappy" and "henge" being Clitorian for "dugout."

Within a few months, Stonehenge was completed and the Clitorians held a huge gala to celebrate its massive opening.

And that, my friends, is the TRUE story of Stonehenge and what it really is supposed to be.

I'm now starting deep research into Big Ben and I'll be sure to keep you informed. I'm sure wonderful discoveries will be made.

Short and... Who Cares, Just Read it Anyway

2008-02-15T19:53:00.004-06:00

So no, I'm not dead. Nor in any kind of funk that's got me not posting. No, not jail either. I'd love to say I've run off with a carload of Hooter's girls and a box of Trojans, but alas, I'm in California, negotiating for a new job that could give me a six figure salary again.

But I also kinda like all you beotches, so I wanted to drop in to post something. I kept my eyes open for an opportunity and when it presented itself, I boosted this computer from a 16 year old at Starbucks who left it unattended while he evacuated his venti soy latte. Imagine how surprised he will be when he returns to realize that he's sent hate mail to "President" Bush, downloaded 14 copies of the same song from a Chinese piracy site, and had his home page changed to midgettripods.com.

I will of course fill each and every one of you in personally when I return to H-town (aka "the center of the universe" to those who live there). In the meantime I offer you this question:

Do you think it was wrong of me to phone pizza and doughnut deliveries to the weight loss surgery seminar that was being held at my hotel? Just wondering.

Oh, and I know you went out to see if there really is a site about midgets with huge schlongs. You pervs.

I'm out!
K.

It's not his concern that you chose to be poor

2008-02-02T14:03:00.000-06:00

So, here in the EA household, we have rules:

- No castrating animals without proper supervision
- No pot
- No illegal girl operations on weeknights
- No playing with weapons without full safety's activated
- No bitches after 11pm

Oh, and no rated M games.

The problem with enforcement of this last particular rule is that FlyBoy is now approaching 13. Those of you with offspring orbitting this particular age may know that aside from the near constant, frantic insistence that a cell phone is an imperative for survival, there is also no such thing as a "good" game that is not rated M (or, if said offspring is under 10 years of age, no "good" game that's not rated T).

Still, I resist giving into allowing FlyBoy unfettered access to rated M games because one, he's not 17 and I insist that he not push the adult envelope too soon and two, I'm just a jerk. That's just the kind of parent I am. I mean c'mon, if I couldn't live my dream of being a child actor vicariously through him, then he's not capping cops and running hookers in South Central L.A. until he's at least 16.

However, I also recognize that video game ratings were designed by people so uptight that you'd need a tractor to pull a needle from their butt. So when a rated M game comes along that FlyBoy insists he will die without, there is a chance he'll get to at least play it IF we rent it first and check it out. Language and casual references to sex are not so bad; gore, mindless violence, and drug use are out of bounds.

This weekend FlyBoy ~~whined~~ negotiated until I agreed to let him rent Assassins Creed, including a call to his mother for clearance. We rented it and he holed up in his room for the next 265 hours to master the "art" of stealth, hiding in plain sight, and killing guards who reeeeaaaaly like fine furniture.

Some time later, as is normal when he does something excitable, FlyBoy bursts into my room.

"Dad! Dad! You should have seen this!"

Seen what?

"This old woman, she was following me around everywhere and I couldn't get her to stop..."

[picture me nodding, waiting for the exciting part]

"...and she kept saying to me 'please sir, I need money. I'm sick. I'm hungry. I'm homeless.'"

Yeah...

"And I couldn't get rid of her. So the next time she came beggin' up to me, saying 'please sir, I need money. I'm sick. I'm hungry. I'm homless.' I killed her and said to myself: 'and now you're dead.'"

[now picture me staring at him like he just shot a booger out his nose and it landed on my cheek]

You did what?! I thought the Assassins Creed was that no innocents were to be harmed, ever. I don't want you playing a game that teaches you to harm someone just because they annoy you.

"Yeah, but I couldn't get rid of her."

So you killed her because she was annoying for being poor, hungry and homeless?

"Um, I guess so, yeah."

You know what that makes you, don't you?

"What?"

Republican.

The Dark Lord should be coming to collect your soul soon.

It's not what it seems... well, ok, yeah it is

2008-01-29T14:47:00.000-06:00

No, the "contest" is not over, but hey, someone said they'd bang me if I changed my profile picture to that, so I went with it -FOR NOW- until I get more votes into the box. Now, be a good American (or Aussie or Brit or Canadian or wherever -hello Dubai!) and go read the next post and submit your vote.

Until voting ends I'll keep the "dork" image because hey, a vote fortified with a promise of gratuitous sex (despite the obvious limitations) is more powerful than a vote by itself. heh.

...A Thousand Words

2008-01-29T10:38:00.000-06:00

So over here at EA we've received literally ones of letters insisting that we change the image photo. Seems ~~thousands~~ ~~many~~ ~~a couple~~ two of you don't like the one currently in use. Oh sure, many of you like what you see in it, just not the pose that hunk of manbeef is in. You say it potahto; I'll say it correctly.

But we also believe in giving the four people who read EA what they want, so here you go; boobies:

Huh. Must have been cold when this was taken. Not good enough? *dismissive wave of hand* Fine fine fine, anything for you. Never let it be said that we don't aim to please over here at EA.

There. Happier?

We'll pause momentarily so you four can satisfy your respective needs.

...

Good? Ok, back to business: that profile image.

For days now the crack staff at EA has been pouring (or is it poring? Pooring? We don't know; homonyms aren't are bag, baby) over image after image, in a quest to fall upon that one picture that would communicate that "just-right" message. In the end, we felt like falling on our swords. No, not that sword; an actual sword.

And of course there's the insinuation from another particular person out there that a better profile photo will improve [or maintain] my bang list status.

Yeah I know what you're thinking: has that person actually seen EA? Followed quickly by do they let mental patients and/or convicts blog? Or have conjugal visits? And I would have to answer that I've looked it up and the answer is no, although I'm not so sure about West Virginia; the law's a little hazy there.

Anyway, here we were -the EA crack staff- reviewing all these potential profile pictures when it hit me us, the aforementioned "crack staff": Why not let the fans of EA pick the photo?

Some of you might be thinking "hey, yeah! I'll feel like a part of it!" Others might be saying "sounds like EA is lazy blogging today." Others: "Psha! Show me the money first!"

And you'd be right on the first two counts. So there. And you'll get your money, Mom. Geez.

So without much more preamble, here are the pictures ~~I've~~ we've narrowed it down to, along with a remark or two as to why; if I feel like it. And if I don't decide this is totally fucking stupid, of which there is an increasingly high degree of probability. heh.

Feel free to pick your favorite (that's favourite, for those of you who don't habla English) and tell me so in the comments section. Or submit one of your own that defines how you see this here corner of my world. Hell, for the right incentive I'll use a picture of YOU even. Oh, and the legal staff here at EA insists that I mention that I tend to save pictures from a large number of sources. If you see one here that originated from you, consider credit given where credit is due and I'll hump your leg later. As an added precaution, I checked with the Pope:

And he said it was cool. Take it up with him, but I warn you, he looks a little too agreeable. Anyway, this is me, EA:

I look something close to this...

...when I'm alseep and dreaming, anyway. I mean c'mon, I'd never wear something like that. That's just... gay. and my package is far, far, waaay smaller than that. heh. Nevertheless, I've been faced with the bitch of all curveballs in life, but I'm trying to see it as an opportunity:

Even though I don't fucking want to have to. The knowledge that someone else will stand in my place, in all that that means, is hurtful beyond belief. To be replaced, tomorrow or next year or in three years, sucks. Or even to be cast aside for nobody. Still, you have to find a way to go forward. This picture represents the hope of blah blah blah a bunch of shit you won't care to read.

This one I just freaking like.

This says fun to me. It says casual conversation on a good day. There being two glasses, it says someone might be trying to get me drunk and make me do things Penthouse Letters wouldn't print.

This just says Holy crap what was he thinking!? to me. Of course, the LAX security screeners would likely still let him pass.

Self explanatory

Another one I just like. Something about two people, naked to the world yet side by side in a survival against the pointy edges of life's experiences just strikes a chord with me.

Funny. But as I'd like to get laid again I'm not sure this sends the correct message.

I want to flyyyy like an... uh.. eagle

to the sea...

Yes, yes; that's me. Often, I'm afraid. Yet despite it being true from time to time AND my attempt to both admit to- and learn from- my missteps, I nevertheless consider this image to be reserved for the likes of Dick Cheney, George Bush, Hillary Clinton, and anyone who truly believes in a localized "trickle down theory" on a global economic stage.

From the shameless "I want you" solicitation. Or, I could just be saying "c'mere and pull my finger."

...and from the primordial soup shall one day evolve a race of beings who will raise their collective voices to the heavens and proclaim to the cold stars above "yeah, I'll have a grande no-foam latte and two sticky buns!"

Like the waves on a sandy beach, so are our lives. Or some such crap like that.

Proof that the water might be calm right now, but you'll soon be digging sand out of your crack.

Mighty tongue, horny, fat as a cow... remind you of anyone?

Self descriptive and a fine PSA (that's public service announcement for those of you who've never been a celebrity caught jerking off in a public rest room and sentenced to "community service")

It took you this long to figure that out?

Someone once told me my emotions fly off me as if I'm on fire. heh. If that's true, I'm clearly pissed in this picture.

Or I'm just this guy. Which no doubt is what women see approaching when they spot me walking toward them.

Portrait from my childhood. Hey, I had a sty. Also the way I likely appear when I blog about how I feel about certain goings on this year. Or when Starbuck's adds too much chocolate to my mocha.

Sometimes that "one for the road" that sounded so good the night before turns out to have been a huge mistake the next morning

Hey, I betcha I can act my way out of here. I can also find my ass with both hands and a road map.

Yes, this is a green zone for this activity. I'm always accepting applications for the right individual and will provide knee pads if you so desire. heh. In an effort to better my chances, however, I've been working out:

As you can see, I'm really becoming ripped! Anyone have a band-aid? Cuz I'm gettin' cut!

And it certainly beats the alternative:

Although admitedly I never needed a date back then.

Nothing screams sexay! more than the right hairdo. Added bonus: hides the lobotomy scars well.

Pick a tooth; any tooth.

You can always tell I've gotten laid when...

See what I'm doing there? I'm writing notes for blogging about the experience!

Something about this one I really like. Sort of combines the whole "reach for the stars," "swing for the fences," "dream the impossible" concepts for me. I may not catch it, but I'm god-damned well going to try, even if it seems impossible to others.

Yeah, from time to time, especially if there's a chance at seeing you naked. Although you could substitute cash, car keys, my soul, or my penis for that credit card there.

No, your breath smells fine. Why?

Yes. But the box could be smaller. You have the one your engagement ring came in?

Another from the "inspiration" series. I grew up in areas like this. I've been on that exact road as a matter of fact, although I didn't take this picture. It speaks to me of possibilities; of adventure; of life and love and hope. Something about reaching for the horizon fills me with hope that maybe the next place will be just as exciting or even more exciting or, sometimes, less heartbreaking.

Which leads me to the last:

I would really love to feel "home" again.

So.... discuss...

The Ubiquitous 100 Things

2008-01-27T11:05:00.000-06:00

So, I did one of these things once. A long time ago. Then I stepped back to look at it and thought to myself what the hell were you thinking?

Alas it didn't remain.

But, as I've been seeing these more and more and I've been getting to know so many of you better I've had occasion to reconsider my disdain.

The problem I have is in finding things to reveal that people would find interesting in one so boring, average, [insert third adjective here] as EA. Yes, I just referred to myself in the third person. Frankly I could use a third person. One more and I'm only two people away from a threesome. Or wait; that's one more and I'm only one person short of a threesome. Whatever: I'm 30% bored, 52% trying to pump some filler into the preamble of this entry, and 46.23% not good with fractions.

So, 100 things about me:

I've got yellow eyes. They're right here in the box on my desk. hahahahaha! I kill me.
I love music and have a collection of CDs numbering around 2,000
If I could work my will, I'd spend the rest of my life traveling the world, never truly placing roots in one place for long. And with someone who shares that passion, so much the better.
I'm emotionally passionate. I pour my heart and soul into my loves. I don't fall in love easily, but if you're the owner of my amour, I'll follow you to the furthest reaches of Hell and back if necessary.
I tend to like other people more than myself. Not that I don't like me (except for once, but more on that later); it's just that I find others so much more interesting. Myself... well, I've been watching that movie since I was born, so I find it far more entertaining to watch others.
I do not like pretentiousness. Not at all. You own a Lexus or live in a mansion or look like a supermodel? Fine; good for you. I'm happy for you that you've got it so good, at least by outward appearances. But if you begin to use your possessions or intelligence or looks as a means to categorize others on a scale of superior, that's when we have a problem. Chances are, you're just as big a bastard as those you turn your nose toward, you just do it from an ivory tower.
Music, to me, is linked inexorably with history. When I hear a song, it's not just a series of notes intertwined with words. It represents a time in my life, complete with emotions and events and if I allow it, hearing it again can bring me back to that state. This would explain why I can't replay music I listened to when Mrs. EA was in love with me.
I'm funny. Not everyone gets my humor and I demonstrate the proclivity toward the inane, but I love making others laugh.
I went to prison for a few months. Years ago. There is no way to accurately describe how that feels. It was like stepping into the seventh circle of hell. Just like you, I swore I would never ever do something that could lead me there. We all look into the mirror every day confident in the solidarity of our moral compass; assured that we're all good by default. That those who go "inside" have some fundamental flaw that makes them different from the rest of us. Then one day you look in the mirror and wonder "what the fuck ever happened to never ever, asshole?!" When society wrote me off, I swear I would not have been surprised to find this printed over the facility entrance: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Which explains the next item:
There was a time when I was so consumed with self-loathing that I literally did not care if I lived or died. It's the only time in my life I've ever welcomed death. Sound melodramatic? Have a conscience and go to prison; then tell me about melodrama. At that time I looked into the eyes of my wife and kids and tortured myself over their being saddled with a man like me. So many counted on me and trusted me and I'd let them all down. For that time I lived only. for. them. More than once I came closer to ending my life than anyone realizes. Yet Mrs. EA didn't leave me, despite my belief that she not only had cause, but deserved better. She called me her "family." That, coupled with the promise of our life together (she, our kids, and me), forced me to want to rebuild my determination to live my life, only wiser. She probably doesn't even know it, but she and the kids quite literally saved my life. Which is probably why it's been so fucking, god damned hard to handle knowing that she doesn't want me anymore. I need a few minutes here....
OK. Number 11. And a major shift in mood, k? Lessee.... Oh, this may not sound all that interesting to those who haven't seen me, but I used to be a pole vaulter and slalom ski racer. In fact, I lettered in those sports in high school. To look at me now, you'd think I was a football lineman, or maybe just a fat bastard. Ha! But no, I really did possess a fabulous body once.
I can cook. Pretty well too, I'm told.
I've lived all over the United States, and intend to take that international at some point once I have the kids safely into their own lives. Any ideas where I should live first?
I don't know what you'd call it (stupid, reckless, adventurous), but I tend to do dangerous things from time to time, some of which have resulted in injury. Examples? Ok, here you go:
I've bungee jumped from a hot air balloon
Crashed a motorcycle on the 91 Freeway in Los Angeles in a spectacular man-meets-car-bike-meets-concrete-at-70mph incident while on my way to meet Mrs. EA to go Christmas shopping. Hundreds of staples, six titanium screws, two surgeries, and several artificial body parts later, I'm good as new (mostly).
I once severed the last three fingers of my right hand after getting them caught in an air conditioning vent duct in my youth. One amazing micro plastic surgeon later and they were reconnected. And don't look too bad if I do say so myself, although if I touch something fuzzy with those fingers, I get a quick sensation that I'm being burned. Weird, huh?
I played rugby in college, where I sustained many bumps, bruises, cuts, and a concussion or two. But you know what they say: "In rugby, there are no winners. Only survivors." No? How about this one: "Give blood; play rugby." No? Oh well, the post game beer parties were kick ass.
Jesus lord almighty, we're only on #19? Hmmm... Ok, how about this one: I sometimes procrastinate.
...

Day 19 Commentary

2008-01-19T13:13:00.000-06:00

Hey, I've made my innaugural post on Burt's Stache. If you've all entries of EA, you will recognize it, but if not, consider it my least average moment. Perhaps.

Be back soon. Things to do with respect to the Event.

Ciao!

Why You Miserable Corksucker!

2008-01-18T09:56:00.000-06:00

So, I sometimes say inappropriate things. I also laugh at some of the stupidest things. Those of you who know me will be like "NO! REALLY?!" right now. The rest will be all "huh, who cares?" and click the "Next Blog" button up there on the header bar.

But should you care, and by way of example, take the other day when I was in the kitchen with my offspring, whipping up dinner (cuz, hey, what else are you going to do in the kitchen besides cook and have sex, but I ain't gettin' any of the latter and even if I were it ain't gonna be in when the offspring are present). Flyboy was sitting on the counter. The Puffinator was standing in front of him with her cup of ice cubes, which they both snack on like M&Ms. I was at the stove practicing culinary excellence. The offspring were engaged in a dare contest: "I dare you to take a bite of this jalapeno," "I dare you to call Dad fat," etc.

Suddenly I heard from the corner of my ear "I dare you to swallow this, asshole."

I spun around, flinging chicken almondine in a graceful horizontal arc across the floor. "What did you say?!" You can tell from by my mixing of punctuation that I was incredulous.

They both looked at me with confused innocence. "What? We were just messing around."

Looking at my daughter: "Did you just call him an A-hole? You know we don't use language like that toward family members. And A-hole is reserved for descriptions of Dick Cheney or that jerkwad who hosts American Idol."

Holding her hand out, The Puffinator showed me the ice cube in her hand. "No, I said 'swallow this ice, whole!'"

"Oh. Carry on, then" I laughed and returned to creating my culinary masterpiece, recollections of Roman Troy Moronie quotes wafting through my mind.

Odd, but I didn't seem concerned about my son swallowing an ice cube whole. It would melt before he died, right?

Well, I'm outta here for now. My goal today: to see how many times I can crowbar "Surely you can't be serious? Yes I called you Shirley" into other blogs.

I'm out!

On A Crusade for Safety

2008-01-17T07:41:00.000-06:00

So anyway, yesterday I was reading the news between bouts of working and selling Girl Scout Cookies for the Puffinator when I saw this story.

Virginia Lawmaker Introduces Legislation to Ban the Display of Genitalia on Vehicles

Well great. Just great. Where am I going to view my porn now? What's that? The Internet you say? What is this internet of which you speak? Feel free to send me examples of what I'm missing. Except you, Dyck; Satan would shake his head in dismay at the horror of what you've likely got stored on your hard drive. heh. Oh what the hell, send me that too.

Anyway, as I read the story I thought more and more well now that's just stupid. That's listening to Dr. Phil stupid. Or not crossing your legs on the Drop of Death water slide stupid. That's Mission Impossible III stupid.

It appears that this particular lawmaker seeks to ban those redneck truck accessories that resemble men's balls. Redundant much? As if there's such a thing as women's balls? Of course, I have yet to see all of you women who read EA so there may be a few select cases out there, but that's not the point.

The point is that this schmo is claiming as his reason for this ban that "they distract drivers."

Now I know how hard it is to keep your eyes on the road when driving behind a truck with a dangling set of monster clackers jingling in front of you, but really, let's be honest here. What he's really railing about is some constituent who pissed and moaned because his daughter asked what those things hanging from the truck were and he didn't have the gonads to reply "those are supposed to be testicles, honey, because the redneck hick driving that truck doesn't have any of his own. Or, perhaps they are the former property of the man to whom that woman driver used to be married." I guess the truck has more balls than that father. After all, anything to avoid teaching our kids about sex because you know how it is: you tell your nine year old that those things under the truck's bumper are balls and within two years she'll be out gang-banging the high school football team.

Instead, he writes his congressman. "*In suitably whiny voice* My poor innocent daughter saw a pair of fake testicles and I don't have enough of my own to tell her the truth, so I think you should ban them for everyone else. That way I can continue to shelter my ignorant child so she can learn about sex from her peers and watching internet porn that objectifies women."

Or something like that, I'm sure. Kids and the media being what they are today, though, the daughter was likely not asking what they WERE, but how they got so much bigger than the ones she's already seen on the internet.

Then I got to thinking. If these juvenile displays of bravado are being banned because they're a distraction, then they better dip their fountain pens and have the paper ready because there's a whole long list of additional "distractions" we need to eliminate. Here's a few that come quickly to mind, but not necessarily from EA's personal experience:

Bumper stickers
Cell phones, even those with hands free options
DWS - driving while sexy. And while we're at it, ban hot people from the sidewalks because they, too, might distract drivers driving by.
Billboards
Radios
Conversation among passengers
Touching yourself
Eating and/or drinking
Midget leg wrestling
Personalized license plate and license plate frames
Road head (both giving and receiving)
Reading
Applying makeup
Applying a full body oil-based moisturizer for that moist, glistening look
Writing your dissertation
Performing circumcisions and/or vaginal rejuvenation surgeries
Cooking
Brushing your teeth
Brushing someone else's teeth
Beating your kids (specific to my mom)
Convincing that hot chick in the car next to you that she should show you her tits
Firing your Glock at other motorists (specific to California)
Changing the radio station channel or switching CDs
Break dancing
Origami
Roof surfing
Republicanism a-la Dick Cheney (specific to my dad)
Sleeping
Picking your ear, then smelling your finger
Chinese fire drills
Being insane/scientologist (specific to Tom Cruise)
Dressing, undressing, or changing clothes
Astral projecting Mayan gods
Acupuncture
Filming sex acts (specific to Paris Hilton)
Calculating Pi to the 25th decimal place
Searching for a suitable place to hide the body (specific to New Jersey)
Clipping toe and/or finger nails
Flossing
Using a carrot to satisfy that annoying deep rectal itch

I think we can all agree that eliminating these additional "distractions" will make our roadways a far safer place to be.

The Event of a Lifetime, (so far)

2008-01-12T22:18:00.000-06:00

And we're back! Welcome to 2008 everybody, welcome to January. I am your host, the interweb's Effortlessly Average. I'm in a fabulously optimistic mood today. I know I've been absent lately and while I'd love to claim sloth as my excuse, the reality is that the writer's strike has a broad, broad reach. I mean, if it affected the Golden Globes, one would expect it would touch this site as well. We can't all bribe our writers with pickle juice and lubricated bananas. Besides, I had been working on growing a beard, but I had to shave it off. Maybe next time I'll try to grow one on my face. Still, we have so much to talk about I don't even know where to begin.

I've been watching endless hours of TV, waiting for the infomercial rerun of the 20th anniversary Sweatin' to the Oldies. Several weeks or days or months ago -I don't do time well- I was sitting at my desk focusing on growing my beard when in the corner of my brain I thought I caught the faint lure of a bunch of fat chicks bustin' a move with some gay white dude with an afro, but I didn't look up in time and missed it. Oh, I suppose I could have probably found it online, but hey, if I order it during the infomercial I get a bonus DVD of Richard Simmons' gayest moments. And we all know no one wants to miss those. I mean c'mon people, Sweatin' to the Oldies has been unavailable for years, and now it's back! Just like me! That makes it like a collectors item! Also just like me! Two hours of fat people boosting their blood pressure to America's most overplayed hits. Just like me! And there was no way I was going to miss the chance to order my very own pair of striped shorts and sequined tank top!

Oh hey; good news. I've been asked to be a contributor on Burt's Stache. I'm the Day 19 guy. I've been trying to figure out what to write for my first foray into a broader world. I want it to be good. As I sat pondering which way to go, I thought to myself "hey, what's that smell?" Then I thought, "hey, maybe I should go to EA's greatest hits for a first entry!"

Perusing the vast archives of EA ~~greatness~~ mediocrity it occurred to me that I've been writing this blog for nearly two years! Two years people! It seems like only yesterday a young man with stars in his eyes and a belief that he was actually funny logged into EA for the first time, intent on changing the internet world with his wit and wisdom, convinced the people would flock to his site to read his every word. And I remember telling that boy, "Get me a latte, boy! and don't go overboard with the foam!"

You know what this means, don't you? It means this blog has lasted longer than 50% of my marriages! And involves about as much sex, too. And I didn't even realize it had been that long, so I guess you could say I've been withholding sex from myself, which is really surprising because normally I can't keep my hands off myself. In the end, I found the entry I'm going to use and it's a beaut. As far as this space's longevity, well I'm already engaged in an attempt to grow massive breasts that I can talk about endlessly in an effort to boost my hit counter. I'll let you know how it goes.

Also in an effort to avoid sitting down to write, I went cow tipping for the first time. I have to admit that's just a stupid activity. I mean, what exactly are the cows going to do with the extra money, anyway? And why did it take me four cows to figure that out? Oh, I tried to get my money back, but the cows get a little bitchy when you ask them to return the tip. Happy cows my ass. Anyone want another steak?

The next day found me pensive. As you know, I've been doing a lot of introspecting (new word!, new word!) this last couple months and as I mentioned before that I need a change. A change of something more substantial than underwear style. There may be many varieties out there, but low-rise mesh will always be EA. Anyway, during the course of my introspection I've come to the realization that my life needs adventure. I have a long list of things I've always wanted to do and let's face it, EA ain't getting any younger. Besides, I'm tired of surviving under the cloud of "it only hurts when I live." Frankly I'm tired of the pain. It doesn't do me any good anyway. I used to have dreams people. Aspirations. Goals. Sex. Yes, I know it's hard to believe, but I used to have sex. Not that the drought will end any time soon, but the point is I want to begin checking things off my list.

So with the coming of a new year I'm going to violate the one invio...-uh-...lateable rule of all that is Effortlessly Average: I'm going to make some resolutions. I know! Shocking much?

In order to understand why this is monumental, you have to buy into the whole philosophy of EA. Being EA is like being vanilla: it just is, without fanfare or preamble. I'm synonymous with ho-hum; steeped in the mundane. My name is synonymous with all that is mediocre and easily obtained. It also happens to rhyme with "belly" but that's neither here nor there. And like vanilla, EA is wrinkled and crusty on the outside, but contains a lot of aromatic goodness inside if you're willing to scrape it free with the flat edge of a knife. Ew, this kinda took a creepy turn, didn't it?

Resolutions, however, suggest change. Resolutions hint at improvement. They point bravely into the future with a look of resolve and determination, crying to the cold expanse of the unknown "I refuse to eat generic peanut butter for one more day!" Or something like that. When living in the realm of resolution, the air carries with it the clean, fresh scent of progress, not unlike the new air freshener I put in the EA-mobile this weekend.

So you see my problem here. How do I resolve to change when the mere thought violates that which makes me so effortlessly average? Well, the answer lies in what I intend to change. Clearly some things will remain the same. For example, I fully intend to continue to apply footwear using the sock, shoe, sock, shoe methodology. I'll likely still mix darks with colors. And I also plan to continue to be the best father and man I can possibly be, excepting that I'm going to trip up from time to time and I don't have to make excuses for being hurt when my heart's broken.

Along those lines, I have several resolutions on which I plan to focus in 2008, although I think it might be more appropriate to call them "goals" as opposed to "resolutions." I've really hated feeling the way I have been this last several months. It's not me and I could feel it slowly bleeding me to death emotionally. The way I see it is I have a choice to focus on that which I may have lost, or toward that which I have to gain.

This is an entry about those goals.

You know, people often ask me why I choose to be a contractor when the pay is only about 75% of what I used to make and my experience dictates positions of far greater responsibility and potential. Of course the term "contractor" is so much less sexy than "EA, Danger Accountant." I'd have to say that my reasons for not going permanent are broad, like Rosie's backside but less hairy and dimpled. Don't ask me how I know. Besides the fact that I'm not an accountant, I'm a finance, uh, guy, I'd have to say the biggest answer is "flexibility." Being a contractor allows me the freedom to explore the world as I see fit without having to go through the interview, hire, work, quit process repeatedly.

For years now it's been a fervent dream of mine to travel more. I had intended to do with with Mrs. EA, but I've decided I'm still going to do it even if she wants no part of it or decides to do it with someone else. I have no doubt that there will be times when I'm standing on some mountain overlooking something beautiful or remarkable somewhere in the world and I'll look to my left, where she always used to stand, not see her there, and feel a pang of regret and sorrow. But I'm going anyway. And I've decided where the first "there" will be.

Some little while ago I eluded to an "event" toward which I was working. Here's where I tell you all about it. I sat at my computer a couple months ago and thought about what I was going to do going forward. I decided I needed to do something big; something that would remind me that I've got so much more to achieve in life than convincing anyone that I'm worth being around of commiserating over the less enjoyable parts of my life.

As I sat there trolling the interweb I had a thought: why not ride my bicycle from Washington state to the state of Maine! Yeah, that would would be exciting! I checked with all manner of resources, both online and in person and sure enough, it seemed to fit the bill. It would be a challenge. It would be an adventure. it would give me time to think about the past, present and future. But I had one glaring problem: I wasn't going to be sleeping on the roadside every night, so unless I intended to have about a bazillion dollars for accommodations, I'd need a chase crew. But I struggled to find anyone who could/would take that kind of time to help me achieve a goal like this. As the weeks progressed it started to look less and less likely.

Back to the internet!

Where I found Plan B, which quickly became Plan A.

Where am I going? Here:
And what is there, you might be asking? This:

And what would I be doing there? This:

And this:

And this:

You got it friends. I'm going to Patagonia on an adventure trip of a lifetime. Well, of my lifetime so far, anyway. 17 days of trekking, climbing, rafting, zip lining, rappelling, and horesback riding across the wilderness of South America.

Along the way I'll be sleeping in places like this:

And kayaking in place like this:

And the most exciting part, navigating rivers like this:

But this ain't no pleasure cruise, people. The info I've read states very clearly that this trip is NOT for the out of shape or faint of heart. There are no hotels or other apparent conveniences, like bathrooms or doctors. In order to prepare, I'm going to have to take a multi-pronged aproach. One that involves training in mountain climbing and repelling, rafting, and horseback riding. I suppose I could include trekking, but frankly I've been walking for years so I don't think I need much more training in that area.

The hard part is the trip extensions. Part of the trip allows adventurers to take one of five side trips to surrounding areas. I could take a five-hour flight to Easter Island where I could explore the hundreds of giant Moai statues, pink sand beaches, petrogliphs, and archaeological digs.

Or I could take in Torres del Paine National Park for days of trekking through what's called one of the most visually stunning natinal parks in the world.

Or travel the back roads of the Chilean Lake District to climb an active, smoking volcano

Or take a float plane into the lakes of Pategonia to sea kyak and hike calving glaciers

Or finally, take a trip into Santiago. I guess this would be for your shopping crowd.

I leave November 29th. I'd planned to go sooner, but as the whole earth is round thing is working against me, it will be winter down there when it is summer up here. So the only time to go is when between november and April. Since there's no way in hell I'll be ready by April, I guess November it is!

And you know what? I'm so jazzed about it that I totally should offer up a contest to take someone will me. I accept all manner of bribes and showings of undying devotion and adoration. Even if my breasts aren't coming in really well so far.

Golimar! - What you get with a budget of $5 and a pack of gum

2007-12-30T13:26:00.000-06:00

The more frequent visitors to EA will know it's been a little while. Hi. How are you all? I've been keeping myself busy training for "the event," of which I'll mention later. I've also been inspired to create, recently submitting an anecdote of my life for publication and placing the finishing touches on my first music video cover of a classic song. It's not really a foreign language; I just didn't know the words and was kind of baked. Hey, what do you expect for $5? Want some gum?

Peace, Love, Prosperity

2007-12-25T13:41:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas, everyone. Or Shalom, or blahhalla blub vreebprupta or whatever your particular religious flavor is. I sincerely hope you find on this day all the joy and happiness that you seek the rest the year through.

I've got a ton of posts in the queue. Isn't that a funny word "queue?" It's like the kind of word you try to pass off when you're short of ideas in Scrabble. heh. Anyway, I'm still laying low for the day, but I'll pick it up again soon. I'd use this opportunity to beg Dyck not to dump me from his sidebar but I'm already not on his sidebar so I've got nothing to lose.

Merry Christmas, all. Peace, Love, Prosperity; and the Life to find them all.

Oh, and PS: can someone tell me why when you hold down the Shift key and use the arrow keys to highlight the entire text, moving past the first character deletes the entire post? I can't prove it, but it's got to be a conspiracy of the Man.

Pie-holicus-enorm-ucus

2007-12-19T07:46:00.000-06:00

*UPDATE* Let me restate something about what I wrote last time. Sometimes what I mean gets lost in the speach. Count that one more reason why I'm not Hemingway. When I said "could that be because she doesn't want it, but doesn't want to say so?" I should have said "I WOULD BE VERY HAPPY IF this means she doesn't want it." She's been crystal clear: she wants a divorce. I don't. While it hurts more than anything in my life to realize this of her, it doesn't make her wrong. Nor does it make me wrong for deciding to defend our marriage. What I need to do is make my statements as information about ME, not speculation about her. Just wanted to make that more clear. I'm tired of hurting her. I'm not a mean guy; at least I try so very hard not to be. Maybe I lash out when I'm hurt and don't stay aware enough to recognize that I am. I feel as if I can say 100 genuine words, but if one is perceived badly it's as if I never said the other 99. You've heard it honey, but it's true: I don't want to hurt you or be mean to you- not EVER- and I'm sorry I have. Change is not an overnight event. I think I don't really even know her. Oh I've spent a lot of time trying to make her be what I thought she should be, but did I ever really get to know the woman she is? No, I don't think I have. *sigh* Too many expectations, is what I've had.
-------------

Turning Point?

2007-12-17T15:29:00.001-06:00

Hey everyone-

I'm laying low. Thanks so much for all your comments and offers of support. I don't know if she still reads this blog and if she does she never lets on, but I wanted to drop in to let you all know -should you be wondering- that I've come to a decision.

We talked tonight. When we started I told her I'd decided I just can't live for years feeling so disconnected from her but still being married, so I was going to file for divorce tomorrow. She asked if I knew where to go. I told her no, because I don't want this at all. Then we started talking. No accusations thrown about and for the first time it was intense without turning into a fight or a litany of who did what to whom. That's a big step for us. While she never let on (because she's reached the point where she doesn't know what to expect), I think she still wants it to work but just has no faith that it will. I hope I'm not wrong, but I think she loves me but feels afraid to give me positive signs because I latch onto them as proof that everything will be fine and then, when she does something to tarnish that hope (correction: something I perceive as tarnishing that hope) I swing the other way into despair. And the roller coaster ride that has become our relationship has pushed her to the point where she almost doesn't care if what she does hurts me. I think that if we'd had more communication both of us may have acted very differently.

The fact is: I love her. I've never stopped loving her. I feel as strongly for her today as I did when we married. I'm also an emotionally expressive person who too often has allowed his feelings to direct his actions. Tonight I laid myself bare without making it sound like an indictment against her. I sincerely told her I'm sorry for everything and that I still love her dearly. And that I do NOT want a divorce.

We had dinner together and it seems we both felt comfortable -somewhat- around each other. I asked her to watch a movie with me and she said maybe, but when she didn't come down I didn't take that as a sign of rejection. That was a big step for me. She was noncommittal, but I understand why. Tonight was good, but she has no faith that it has staying power. She's seen me act one way yet tell her I felt another. I suppose we both have to some degree. For my part I've been more focused on my own pain than figuring out what she needed.

So I made a choice tonight. I'm making one last ditch stand for my marriage, for a whole laundry list of reasons. Regardless of what she decides to do, I've decided to start acting like the man I know I am. She doesn't have to believe it, but I love her. No one will ever love her more and while I've done a piss poor job of showing it, I've always respected her as well. So... I put my ring back on. And I'm going to try to think more about her than my feelings. For the first time in months, I felt good around her. If she ultimately decides to divorce me anyway (in which she said she's in no hurry; could that be because she doesn't want it, but doesn't want to say so? We'll see) then I'll remove my ring for good. As of right now, we're still married, and I'm still in love with her and feel lucky that she ever picked me in the first place. I can't feel that way but act like we're divorced; so the ring stays on until this is settled. I'm not a religious man, blogosphere friends, but I found myself muttering a clumsy prayer when I put this ring on a couple hours ago, that I never, not ever, have to remove it again.

Thanks so much for your well wishes everyone. It's a great comfort to know there are people out there with whom I can share.

And Now, We Take You Over to the Peanut Gallery

2007-12-11T16:31:00.001-06:00

Say, while I'm working on the post about my upcoming adventure, aka the "thing" I've been mysteriously hinting at, does anyone have any question they'd like to ask ol' EA? Anything at all? The floor is wide open. Feel free to inquire about my person, my family, my sexual proclivities (although I might lie to make them sound more amazing than they are), my trip "inside," my political/religious viewpoints (and oh, there are many), whatever. Here's your chance. Make it good.

**UPDATE**: The trend seems to be about the prison experience. heh. So yeah, feel free to ask anything you want to know about it. I can't absolutely guarantee I'll answer it, but there would be very few things about it that I won't. Let me preemptively answer one question: No Dyck, I was not ass raped. Now ask me if I did some ass raping. heh.

Terra Incongnita

2007-12-04T21:37:00.001-06:00

I'm around people. Make that I'm around -comma- people. Of course I'm around people too; it's not like I'm a hermit or something, but now that this already ranks as a 9.6 on the stupidshit-o-meter, let's just stop this line of thought before it even gets off the ground.

I'm feeling confused a lot lately. I don't know how to do what I've been asked to do. I feel dismissed and discarded, and I'm reminded of it every day. Yet nevertheless I want to come through; for the kids and her. She may not hold me in her heart any longer, but dammit she had years to "egress" me (yeah, the sense of humor's not dead yet) from her heart; I'm still early in year one of that process. Maybe in six years I'll feel as she does today. I suppose the hardest thing to handle is feeling as if even my existence doesn't matter so much; not that she wishes ill upon me, but that she just doesn't think about me; like navel lint or Bananarama. And if I'm wrong - as I'm sure she'd say I am - she never lets on that this isn't the case, so how am I to know? Isn't it at least understandable that I'd get this impression since I have no evidence to the contrary? It's hard to accept feeling inconsequential by someone. Fuck, I grew up with someone who treated me that way; I never thought I'd feel that same indifference in my adulthood. I've read in a couple places recently that one should "never make a priority out of someone who won't even consider you an option." But I find that's harder to do when you still have very strong feelings for that someone.

So the long and short of it is that I'm not posting this week because, well, do you really care about my woes? Really? Right, of course not. Why would you? I could be anyone really, isn't that right? And we all suffer the slings and arrows life lobs our way, so why come to EA to hear the mindless diatribe of someone you don't even know? It's like living in Albuquerque but watching the local news from Bozeman. So, no post is good news, or something like that. I may be incoherent, but I have an out because I'm also a little baked. Now all I need is someone with whom to share it. And that's you -comma- people. Don't you feel honored?

I go through my day-to-day, somehow stringing together whatever's required to tie sunrise to sunset, never letting on to the world around me that I feel a gaping hole inside. I arrive to work in the morning, tossing salutations to those I pass via the thin lipped eyebrow raise as I wend my way through the cubicle farm to my own domain: the tiny kingdom of Gemeinschaft, of which I am the supreme ruler. My loyal subjects are her-schtapler and frau-holepunchten. Apparently we're Bavarian. Who knew?

Anyway, I try to write something here and there, but as I sit at my computer, I stare at the blinking cursor and it just stares right back. Ok, actually it blinks right back at the frequency of 70 blinks per minute. And posts not inspired are posts that my daughter's rat would be embarrassed to have lining her cage.

Oh, you know what I read today? A medical report that claims bar-b-queuing is bad for your prostate. Imagine my dismay: here I had plans to BBQ my prostate this weekend and now I can't, at least if you believe the brainiacs who wrote the report. I guess I'll just have a steak instead.

And as a side note, do you realize that "embargo" spelled backwards is "o-grab-me?" That's not an important fact, just something I remembered and in my mild inebriation it made me chuckle. But then again, I also snicker every time I hear, say, or think of the word "pork." And yes, I just chuckled when I wrote it.

Beyond the sham that is my level-headedness right now, I have to say I need something. I crave intimacy. All I've ever wanted was to feel desired. I never thought that was too much to ask. My mistake was in trying to force it. I should have asked more questions and made fewer demands. Now the tatoo on my arm will remind me for the rest of my life what's been torn from me. Fuck, that really hurts. More than I'm intelligent enough to articulate. There have been times over this last several months that I've stood in silent anguish, watching her just walking away, wondering how she can cast to the fire what had been, to me, a successful marriage, and I'm left with the feeling that if my chest were a cannon it would have blasted my heart into the empty chasm between us. I know you can't fill that gaping wound with alcohol, but I'm trying. Ok ok, not really all that hard, but I have to admit I understand that compulsion of addicts and alcoholics, even though my sense of responsibility overrides my overwhelming desire to just tune out for a while.

I need something big; something to remind me of who I am; what I'm able to do. And I've got something in mind, but I'm not going to share it; not just yet. I've got some checking to do before I know if I'm even going to be able to make it work, then I'll share. Of course you, my friends, won't think it's all that big a deal most likely, but to me... I need this. I feel like I've been wrong; so wrong for so long. And just when I thought I was about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life (aside from parenthood), the ground fell out from beneath my feet. I need to figure out how to get that back.

Move along folks, nothing to see here...

You start with "damn this is long" and finish with "oooo, that's gotta hurt!"

2007-11-26T15:45:00.000-06:00

I had this really funny post all fleshed out – well, mostly – about the first Thanksgiving, but I didn’t finish it in time and now it seems stale, like the crust on the sweet potato pie that’s been on the counter a week. *Heh, you couldn’t see it, but I originally wrote “sweat potatoe.” Praise be to god for spell check and can you imagine what that would taste like? Oh, and the more bible thumping of you will note that I used the lower-case G for 'god' as I’m referring to Gates and the Kingdom of Microsoft, not the Big JC.*

This Thanksgiving post was a humorous diatribe about the fallacies of what we consider to be a “traditional” Thanksgiving. Unlike today, when Thanksgiving is a four-day holiday of football, over-indulgence, and the prelude to gluttony of that “spiritual” holiday in December, the first Thanksgiving was actually a celebration of “holy shit, we didn’t starve this year! In your FACE King of England!”

If today’s reality was a part of the first Thanksgiving we’d see Miles Standish chatting up Chief Massasoit after the feast.

“So, Massasoit, are you going to stay to watch the Cowboys whoop ass on the big screen?”

“No, Miles, I have to make it an early night. The missus and I are headed to Sears at 2am for the annual Black Friday pre-Christmas post-Thanksgiving holiday sale spectacuganza.”

“Oh, well that’s too bad. Capt. Bradford hasn’t even gotten drunk on mead and started his rail against liberal politicians!”

“Yes, that’s always fun to witness, as would Sarah’s calling him a retard. But the braves and I have eaten all the seal, lobster, and fowl we can handle.”

“Well, take an eel pie with you. We just have too many leftovers!”

. . . . . .

Sadly, this post did not flesh out soon enough to make it to press before it became irrelevant. I suppose a more accurate reason that it wasn’t posted was that I was too lazy to actually work on it. Maybe next year.

While it would have been a masterpiece of literary wit and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm about how we’ve bastardized the original intent of the holiday, the reality is that I go for quality in what I choose to share with the world and while I’d be the first to admit there have been many examples of lackluster-edness on this blog, I just didn’t feel the motivation to wrest forth the effort required to give it the quality you all demand; indeed, deserve!

The thing is, I don’t feel an obligation to post, the same as I don’t feel an obligation to be funny when I do; which is fortunate, since this lack of commitment mixes so nicely with my inability to be just that. Think of it as the blogosphere’s version of a nice cotton-poly blend or a Morgan and Coke. What I write is true (mostly) and are stories born of my own experiences in life, which is why I’d never make a bankable television writer: too few poignant experiences.

As a result it sometimes takes a while before I write something that doesn’t fall to the axe after I re-read it and think “who’d care about that crap?” Just as no one is always happy or always sad or always funny, so too is what you read on my blog. I often wear my emotions on my sleeve, sometimes both sleeves. So when you reach what I’ve written, you’re not just experiencing a humorous or saddening (or insipid) recitation of something that I’ve run across in life, you’re gaining a glimpse into my current mood; what’s going through my mind, in a conceptual manner of speaking. Maybe it's evidence of my banality, but I find that I write a far better sad story when I'm sad; a far better sexy story when I'm feeling amorous; and a far funnier post when I'm feeling light of heart. The result is that sometimes it’s happy, sometimes sad, sometimes irreverent, other times deep and serious. About the only condition I haven’t covered is “sexy,” but I hear that’s coming soon (the more perceptive of you might then make the leap that if you want to ever see the much-eluded to "smut post" you should talk dirty to me to get me in the mood. Jus' sayin'). Ha!

To me, blogging is a form of marking my journey through life, erecting signposts along the way (hehe, I said “erect”). It’s also a means of communication, commiseration, perhaps validation? It’s a means of meeting new people – hopefully new friends. It’s a means of inspiration, at least in the sense that, sometimes, others can read what I’ve written and say to themselves “damn, at least I’m not like that!”

It’s also often a means to remind myself that there are still far cooler kids in school than me.

And “cool,” at least as it pertains to the popularity contest into which social networking venues have become, is just not me. I don’t wish to be the most popular kid in school; I want to have friends I could keep for life, even if that’s only one or two individuals. My style is conversational, but hopefully intellectual. My personality is passionate, but introspective. I write to you in my blog the way I’d speak to you in person. Fortunately for you, however, you’re not captive to my words and ideas when you’re reading EA as you would be face to face. Someone told me once – and I find it a paramount compliment – that I’m a “transparent writer.” Not “predictable,” but that I write who I am, not who I wish you to see; that reading what I write gives a glimpse into the person behind the words. I found that statement to be the height of gratification because what I want anyone who reads what I write to come away feeling is that the person who wrote it and the situation described is… human. Fallible. Hopeful. Passionate. Sometimes ridiculous. All those things that make the human condition so grand and glorious, infuriating and mysterious.

The fine line to be tread is in balancing my humanity – and the sometimes boring reality that is day-to-day life – with subject matter that is going to inspire someone to check back from time to time to see ‘how goes’ the life of one of the aggressively mediocre. It’s that delicate balance between “interesting, funny, or inspirational” and “unexceptional.” On the one side of this line is the litany of experiences that will leave someone with the desire to return for more. On the other side is “well, there’s ten minutes I’ll never get back.” On the left is “real”: my totally from scratch cranberry sauce fecking ROCKS. True? Yep. Interesting? Yeah, about as interesting as watching an obese man pick sock lint from his toenails with a toothpick. Also on that side is the real life story about how every single scrap of clothing in my house is now laundered (well, except for the two linen shirts that need to be dry cleaned). Yes, I’m a domestic God, people. But would you care to hear this? I wouldn’t. Hell, I did it and I’m yawning just writing about it. I don't want to be one of those bloggers who think "today I ate beans for lunch and it took me twice as long to get home as normal" is the pinnacle of literary conversation; mostly because I lack the skills to make that kind of thing interesting in any way whatsoever.

So the real question here is: what can I write about that’s both true and interesting/funny/inspirational enough to make you want to visit again? I mean, I think I’ve lead an interesting life so far and I know for damned sure I can be funny. I just need a crowd to work off for the funny to surface. I’m that guy who invents the hysterical come-back to a seemingly innocuous statement. When you’re me and you sit down to write in your blog, you stare at the screen and it stares back as if to say “OK. Now... be funny!”

Well, they say the best way to capture a reader is to make them empathize with your character; to help them feel what your character feels. I read voraciously and I can tell you some writers are gifted enough that they could pen an anecdote about two hamsters mating in a cage and millions would pay to read it. I don’t pretend to be anything even perfunctorily approaching that good at drawing someone in with my written words. But! There is one beacon of exception to this rule of attractive empathy: Sex.

Yes, sex: that tried and true subject that always garners attention despite the fact that we Americans act like we don’t do it at all. Nothing inspires more hits than a picture of boobage or even the insinuation of boobage. But as I’m not female, my boobage wouldn’t really inspire oooo’s and aaah’s. Indeed, it’s more likely to inspire “[gasp!] eewww”’s and “sir, please, put your shirt on; you’re embarrassing yourself”’s. Sure, I could post pics of other people’s boobage, but at last google count there are 28,368,972 other sources so what would be the point? No, EA is about me, not some other boob’s boobage, so any sex story I relate has to be something I’ve either invented in my own mind or experienced in the flesh, not something I’ve plagiarized from another source.

In that vein, I can think of two real life sex stories that suit the dual role of “true” and “humorous.”

When I was in college I briefly dated a wonderfully bright, caring woman named, oh, let's say her name was Heidi. Heidi had two kids (very strapping, adorable boys they were). Her 38-year old "husband" (which I use in quotes because he was such in name, not in action), I soon discovered, had bailed on his family for their 20 year old babysitter. Heidi was feeling pretty damned low about her situation and herself, but she was making an effort to rebuild a life for herself after her husband destroyed the one they'd built together.

She and I went on several "fun-only" dates, hiking in the mountains, telling stupid jokes over casual dinners, and generally feeling each other out emotionally. It was as one of these casual, friendly dates was drawing to a close that the planets just seemed to align and found the two of us in her bedroom, naked, hungrily exploring each other with passionate abandon.

But she was a "safety" kind of girl, opening her bedside drawer and pulling out a condom, which she was very adept at applying to the correct region of my body. I remember the condom looked stout, sort of an opaque white that said it could have been made from the same poly-carbonate material they use on bullet proof vests. Nothing was getting through that sucker. But no matter, it was "go" time.

Heidi and I spent the next several minutes engaged in what the sex ed books would call "heavy petting." Finally the moment came: she rolled me onto my back, straddling my hips and leaning forward so her long, blond hair tickled my chest. Seconds later, I was inside her, our hips moving rhythmically together. In my mind I was drifting into a world that could best be described as a video from the drug-induced director of a Pink Floyd video. Sex is that intense for me. Then, suddenly, Heidi stopped moving and sat up.

"Oh shit." she said in a near panic

"What?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Then I listened, and sure enough I did hear something that sounded like someone moving about in the next room. I was thinking "intruder."

"Aw damn, I think it's my ex husband!"

"Uh... what?" was all I could produce.

Leaping off me and crossing the room to another door, Heidi hissed "Quick! Get out of here!" while urging me with her hand to move it a long.

"Why the hell should I go" I'm thinking, "you're divorced." Instead, "Why, you are divorced right?"

"Technically, yeah. But he still has a key and he's a cop with a jealousy issue."

My mind was trying to take all this in as Heidi, still naked and really really beautiful began kicking our clothing under the bed when suddenly the door started to open.

My mind went into survival mode. I leapt from the bed and through the door Heidi had opened, quietly closing it behind me just as she threw on a robe and he entered the room.

The problem was, this was no closet she had led me to. It was what appeared to be a sitting room or den. On the other side of the door I could hear their voices; clearly they were at odds over his unannounced visit. I grew uncomfortable with standing in this room, totally naked, when at any moment he could walk in. The only other way out was a door on the opposite side of the room. In a moment of panic, I padded across the room and through the other door... to a garage.

Great. I took a moment to assess my situation. Literally three minutes ago I was hip deep in a beautiful blond. Now I was standing naked in a garage that was lit only with one of those green night lights. I couldn't see it, but the room was filled with the eery green glow, like those plastic wands kids carry around on Halloween.

After a moment or two I was glad I had moved to this new location because the jealous cop ex husband's voice was no longer a distant murmur from two rooms away. No, it was now on the other side of the door again, and coming closer.

The green glow wasn't enough to really navigate by and I feared crashing into something by trying to move too quickly, so I opted for the only defense I had at that moment: total silence and stillness. Backing into the corner next to what felt like a box of winter wear, I resolved to hide in the shadows and wait for him to leave. Except I had one problem: that damned green glowing night light. It was only after I took a more methodical look around that I realized this green glow wasn't emanating from some cheery night light. No, it was projecting from the glow in the dark condom Heidi had slid over my still hard unit. Now here I was, standing buck naked in the dark garage of a woman who's jealous ex husband was about to enter and there's my dick, glowing green like a beacon on a dark night. I could have made a break for the outside door, but I figured with my luck the guy would walk in right as I crossed his path and I'd look like Yoda running into battle with his light sabre on.

My options seemed limited: go for the mangina, tucking it between my legs; try to cover it with my hands; remove the condom and throw it somewhere, hoping he didn't either see it flying across the room or lying there glowing in the darkness. So I did what any panicked guy in my situation would do: I grabbed a glove from the box at random, slid off the glowing green condom, stuffed it into the glove, and crammed the glove back into the box as deeply as I could.

Now here's the funny part. In our relief after the guy left, it never occurred to me to retrieve the condom from the glove and, indeed, I had no idea which glove held it, so someone was going to get a surprise the next time they went skiing.

As if this entry wasn't long enough, I'll quickly tell you the second horrifying sex story.

Different girl; different night; same over indulgence of alcohol.

We're back at my place, already in the throws of passion, when she stops long enough to ask me what I'd like to do. Frankly I was already doing it, so I asked the same question of her.

Her face skewed into one of wicked desire. "You want to do it from behind?"

"Sure!" I may have said a little to eagerly.

"No, I mean from behind. as in, in the butt."

"Sure!" I may have said even more eagerly.

She giggled. "OK, just be sure to use lots of lube."

Say no more! I shouted in my head as I leapt from the bed and bolted to the bathroom where I kept the required stuff. Seconds later, I was back.

She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs to her chest, reminding me to "go slow at first."

I applied a generous portion of lube to both our important areas and took position behind her. Between the two of us, it wasn't long before we were rhythmically engaged in passionate back-door action. My mind seethed with the anticipation of my first "intentional" experience of this nature. Our bodies were wet with perspiration, our breathing heavy.

Not having any previous experience with this mode of sexual gratification, however, I had no way of knowing when things were going horribly wrong. Something didn't seem right all of a sudden. What started as a slight burning sensation elevated to something akin to dipping my cock into a pot of boiling battery acid. I could see from the look on her face that she had noticed it too. I stopped thrusting. Our breathing began to regulate almost immediately. We both looked at each other as if to say "something's not right here; not right at all."

The burning became more intense, to the point where we both sprang from the bed and raced for the shower for relief.

After a bracing shower that stopped the burning, we gingerly shuffled back to the bedroom, turning the lights on for the first time since arriving home.

"Good God, what the hell was that stuff?" She asked.

"The same stuff I always use." I replied, tossing her the tube while looking for my underwear.

She caught the tube, looked at it, then dropped her hand to her side.

"You pinhead," she fumed. "Tell me you didn't turn on the light when you grabbed this."

"What?" I responded, catching the tube she'd just thrown back at me.

I looked at the label:

"NEW CREST COMPLETE:
Now with cool mint crystals!"

Well, at least we were minty fresh.

2007-11-26T12:19:00.000-06:00

As a glimpse into the kind of guy I am, you want to know the part of this
that I find most complimentary? "Addictive." Weird huh?

Question

2007-11-21T08:10:00.000-06:00

If one had a picture, say, saved on his (or her) hard drive. And that person wanted to pin it to the side bar over there to the left, how would he (or she) go about doing that? Name your price, then share the knowledge.

DING! DING! SWITCH PEOPLE -or- How I Got My Callsign

2007-11-20T16:43:00.000-06:00

I come from a Navy family of sorts. Most every guy, at some point, joins and serves; not always with distinction, but hey, that's not a requirement. So I've always fancied myself something of a quasi-military kinda guy. More accurately, I did when I was younger. I even had me a flight jacket with the patches all over it, a la Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

Back then the Navy had what was called a Tiger Cruise, whereby any sailor who could find an empty bunk could invite a civilian onto the ship for a taste of what Navy life is like. My older brother was stationed on the USS Nimitz, which was, at the time, the carrier flagship.

At the time I was toying with the idea of signing up, but there was no way in hell I was going to enter as enlisted. After spending time on that cruise, especially. The officers live WAY better than the grunts, let me tell ya. During the cruise the Navy performed displays of capability from the ship, including a lottery in which the winners could take a jump on an actual F-14 Tomcat. Since I'd seen Top Gun and had the jacket, I felt qualified and entered the lottery.

I won.

And I was S-T-O-K-E-D stoked. If a recruiter had slid a contract in front of me right at that moment I'd have sold my left nut to the US Armed Services.

I was also looking forward to the assignment of my callsign; something cool like "Boomer" or "Street" (in reference to the fact that I was studying Finance in college at the time). I was so wound up in anticipation you would't be able to pull an needle out of my butt with a tractor.

Now people, someday you too may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you do, don't go!

I should've known it wasn't going to end well when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King, of Fighter Squadron 213. The "Black Lions." Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it.

He was about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time and likely one of the only men strong enough to pry a dollar from a Republican's fist. Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting .." Remember? yeah, that guy).

Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike myself. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

"Bananas," he said.

"Why, for the potassium?" I asked.

"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- but still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nell McAndrew, this was it.

A fighter pilot named "Psycho" gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which he said, if activated, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious. Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. Three minutes later I was trying not to swallow my tongue as we rocketed off the deck and into the sky at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life.

Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.

It was like being on the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per second. I swear if something went wrong and we hit the ground, our sheer velocity would create an impact crater so huge that the material ejected would spark the next ice age.

We chased another F-14, and it chased us.

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G-force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Anyone Married to Me.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that never thought would be egressed. I egressed stuff I never even ate! I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target, the G's flattening me like a tortilla, and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to "throw down." Having broken the sound barrier, puking meant that I could see the projectile vomit a split second before I could hear it.

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Aikman throwing a touchdown pass, or that guy who always had the chicks in my fraternity. But now I really know 'cool.' Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. By the time we landed, I swore I wouldn't go up there again for Gene Simmons' black book, but I'm glad Biff did; every day.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. He said he'd send it on a patch for my bitchin' fighter jacket.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Two Bags."

DING! Switch!

2007-11-20T14:04:00.000-06:00

Rapid fire post #3:

I'm really hoping everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday. Sometime between now and Thursday I'm hoping to visit the food bank with a delivery. Seems to me that no matter what I'm going through currently, at least I know my children will be fed each day and so have a lot to be thankful for. We all do in some way.

On Thanksgiving itself, I'm cooking up a storm so yay I say unto you "feel free to drop by for much feasting and merriment!" Of course, I have to remain home this year. Last year I spent the holidays in San Francisco with friends. And we sat down to a mighty feast on Turkey Day. Aaaand a few spiced ciders later, however....

Damned tourist! Don't they have a police beating somewhere that they could be filming instead? Until this surfaced it was my word against the officer's!

DING! Switch!

2007-11-20T13:56:00.001-06:00

Post #2 today: In response to ADWs remark that she likes pictures "below there":

I know! Can you believe that guy on the right forgot his hat AND his jacket-pocket hanky?!

Like Speed Dating, sans Plebeians

2007-11-20T10:42:00.000-06:00

No time to sit and blather on and on about stuff only I care about. OK, if it involves boobies I know I'm not the only one who cares, but this isn't about boobies so those of you who only pop in to see them can, I guess, pop out again and come back later.

As I only have a few moments before the work fairy turns my way again, and I mean that literally, I'm going to be posting several things throughout the day today, just to fill in my moments of boredom and fulfil my self-proclaimed obligation to foster your returning visits.

So, rapid fire entry #1: People the world over assume we Americans are "behind" our so-called leader simply because he and his administration are the most widely listened-to talking heads in the country. Not so. Fact is, it's increasingly only the staunchly conservative Neo-Cons who would vote Republican even if Hitler and Typhoid Mary were their candidates that support this man and his policies. And now, even the wildlife is entering the protest scene. As I read the news before my useless meeting, I came across an article that made me say: you know it's bad when even the squirrels immolate.

Tue Nov 20, 6:01 AM ET
ASHLAND, Wis. - It was an unlucky day for two squirrels and hundreds of Midwestern power customers.
Brian Elwood, a spokesman for Xcel Energy, said a squirrel came in contact with an overhead transformer and knocked out service to 177 customers Monday. Power was fully restored in just under an hour, and repair crews found the remains of the "unfortunate squirrel," he said.
By coincidence, another squirrel got into a substation 40 miles away in Ironwood, Mich., Monday morning and caused a temporary outage that affected about 1,400 customers in Ironwood and two nearby communities, Elwood said.
The utility takes many preventive steps to keep the curious animals away from lines, he said, but they are one of the leading causes of outages, trailing only severe weather.
"We kind of liken it to anyone who's had a bird feeder and tried to keep the squirrels out," he said. "They find a way.

Clearly the squirrels have launched a coordinated attack! You know what this means don't you? The same people who gave you the pliable Constitution will claim that Al Qaeda has infiltrated our wildlife population and is attacking our critical infrastructure. But not to worry! Dick has already dispatched the CIA to begin ~~torturing~~ waterboarding any other squirrels they are able to detain as "enemy combatants." So you're safe people.

The Cliff-Notes Version

2007-11-15T19:48:00.000-06:00

I had a big, long post all written out, but I just don't feel like posting it now. I'm feeling really... weird... lately. I won't bore you with the details except to say I really, really wish I had some friends here with whom I could share a beer and a few laughs. I think I could really use some of those right about now.

I wish I could sort out my emotions of late, but I'm finding that hard to do. So let me give you the short version:

I feel unattractive, undesirable, incurable. I've tried to write the posts I've promised before, but frankly inspiration eludes me when I feel this way. I recently spoke to someone for whom I have enormous respect (but feel I won't be able to know much longer) and I'm left with the feeling that the worst parts of me were shown to her and it's poisoned any respect or admiration she ever had for me. I feel like I must be insane to agree to what I've recently been asked to do, mostly because I'm just not sure how to be what I need to be for it to work, but a bastard if I don't agree. I'm afraid to move forward; yet terrified of standing still. I feel like I'd be better off in life if no one really knew me too well again.

Virtually everyone likes me when they first meet me; but a precious few know the whole me and remain. Certainly this has been the case with women. And I'm just not certain I can handle having my heart broken again. So where does one turn when all they cherished before seems suddenly tenuous? Even this admission feels like handing further ammunition to those who would define me as damaged goods.

I just don't have the energy required to figure it out. Autopilot... on.

Rumors in the Air

2007-11-09T08:49:00.000-06:00

Ok, back the ice cream truck up.

There's been a nasty rumor going around lately that I'm actually *GASP!* a nice guy. The hell?! Where did this come from? Here I take the good time and trouble to spread wickedness wherever I go and for what? To be called "nice?" I'm not nice. I'm a total bastard. Ask... well, many people! They'll tell you: "he's a total bastard!" I may not be as funny as Dyck or as mysterious as Fingers, but c'mon, throw me a bone here.

Haven't I sold children into slavery?

Haven't I fostered war in Sierra Leone in an attempt to corner the blood diamond market?

Wasn't it I who suggested Donald Trump fly in the face of conventional comb-over wisdom to pioneer the world's first comb-forward?

And who, my friends, do you think is responsible for the whole "combined name" craze (Beniffer, Branjelina, TomKat, Vaughniston)? Me, baby. ME!

When Saddam needed a solutuion to his "Kurdish" problem, did he go to Allah? Or Lybia? Or the United Nations? Or even Russia for crying out loud? NO! He came to me. And I said "give 'em gas!" Well, ok, that may have been a misunderstanding since what I actually meant was that he should promote lethargy through Taco Bell Grande burritos and 24-hour E! network broadcasting and that would make his opponents feel bloated and sluggish and unable to stir up trouble. He thought I meant Agent Orange. My bad.

And for the love of all that is holey do you people have any idea how much Nappy Light I had to produce to convince the Big JC to let fundamental evangelicalism remain?

Let's look at a list of some of my accomplishments:

Jumping the couch. Mine. Tom was looking for a means of expression to take everyone's mind off the fact that he's just another total Scientology nutjob. Seems to me it worked. BTW, who do you think turned L. Ron Hubbard, a so-so sci fi writer, into the guru of so-called religious cults in the first place? Ok, so I was, like, 4 years old when it really got going, but hey, I peaked early.

Then there's Carrot Top. Yeah, 'nuff said. Me.

Who do you think keeps getting Kevin Federline gigs?

Or keeps to himself the volumes of sex tapes of Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Love Hewett, and David Beckham? Ok, I don't care much for the Beckham stuff, but still, it would be "nice" to let others (aka, the screaming women of the world) enjoy it, and I'm not one to be "nice" even when it suits me.

Who do you think is responsible for that little piece of spittle you get in the corner of your mouth when it's really dry?

Or that damned Crazy Frog? Christ, that thing's so annoying that even I can't take much more of it.

Do you think Achy Breaky Heart was an accident?

I've worked long and hard to ensure every annoying movie goer has a cell phone.

In every restaurant I visit, I make sure to bend one of the fork tines out of place.

Every time I visit a public rest room I remove all but the last ten squares of toilet paper from the stalls.

And speaking of restroom functions, who do you think makes the road bumpy when you have to pee really badly?

And do you have any idea how much vodka and asparagus I have to consume in order to leave that unique smell in every gas station restroom in the U.S.?

Who do you suppose wrote Bush's text on speech vernacular? I can tell you it's not easy inventing words like "presidenting" and "misunderestimated."

I have to work long and hard to generate the volume required to keep those "send this to 10 people or you're a heartless bastard" chain mails going. It's not easy to write those in such a way as to give you both the feeling that they're fake, but not enough of a feeling that you won't still say "but what if..." and send it along anyway.

I mean c'mon, a guy goes out of his way to be a total prick and STILL ... What do I have to do, kick a puppy? Have a love child with Karla? Lead a nation into a war on false pretenses?

All my life I've tried to be the bad boy. I've gone out of my way for crying out loud. But do I get credit? No. I get called a "nice guy."

The point is people, that I work long and hard at cultivating my "dick" status. And it's served me well mostly. But I'm still misunderstood. I am forever plagued with the insinuation that I'm a nice guy no matter how many black market babies I supply to Michael Jackson or Arab children I send to Dick Cheney for his "Soulless Whites for World Domination" monthly human sacrifice meetings. I swear I'd have been struck down by God Himself already if Satan hadn't brokered a deal to keep me on Earth out of fear of my trying to introduce Karaoke and Fondue night in Hell.
So let me set the record straight: I'm clearly not a nice guy. 246 women and their husbands/boyfriends have come to that conclusion, and so should you. You don't want a man like me, ladies! C'mon! I cook! I kill bugs! I love children (they taste like chicken)! I'm casual, friendly, funny, way intelligent, and I clean up nicely, but we all know that's just an act; an image people! Something I use to score dates; I should be the only entry on dontdatehimgirl.

And guys, don't think you should foster any ideas of buddydom with this hellspawn. I'll drink with you. I might help you fix your car or build an addition onto your house. I'll help you move when no one else will. I'll even loan you money. But we all know that I don't really mean it: I only want your last beer or to see your wife/girlfriend naked.

So the next time you feel like calling me "nice," just remember: I introduced the Macarena once, and I'll bring it back if I have to.

Sincerely,
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Liked

Tweaking the Formula

2007-11-08T06:11:00.000-06:00

Ok, real quick...

I just got out of the shower and am sort of lackadaisically making myself prepared for work. As I was toweling off here in my bedroom I noticed my blog had several unpublished comments. Not wanting to waste a second I sat down to address the situation aaaand that's when inspiration struck.

First order of business after publishing comments: to look up "lackadaisically" to discover how many points that would be in Scrabble, but alas, the Oracle has failed me. I suppose I could play the game to find out, but I don't relish getting my ass kicked by some 10-year old in Sri Lanka. Besides I don't have that kind of time this morning.

Second: see if I can get a feel for what floats all y'all's boat in terms of boobage. After all, I want the finished product to be juuusst right. Besides, you've all been so nice to visit me lately and let me know you're eagerly hanging on my every next word (heh) and I think that deserves something dammit, don't you? Ahem, anyway. Exhibit 1:

So? Good? Bad? I think it has a certain "I need to be turned off for life before I join the convent" sort of quality to it.

Behind the 8-Ball

2007-11-05T10:36:00.000-06:00

Ok, I'm working hard *hehe* on the smut post, so just be patient people. I'm not just some Larry Flynt porn peddler here. I'm working on quality! But let me ask you, do you think it's really possible to fuck (sorry, there's just no better way of saying it) someone so energetically that you blow her earrings out? Just wondering.

ANYwho--- here's a couple things to ponder, snicker at, or dismiss entirely in the meantime.

Funniest thing I heard lately: "Ok, I'm going back to my penis poem." You know who you are: you funny.

Something I really did not need to hear someone say loudly from one of the stalls as several men were lined up at the urinals: "Woah, smells like someone's been eating asparagus!"

Other posts I'm working on as I can, either between my job requirements or being able to kick my son off the computer at home:

My take on spirituality vs. religion (yes I think they are very different things)
How to make a PB&J (a challenge from Superstar)
My urge to join a charity organization like the Peace Corps
A title I metaphorically call "Going Deep"
Another installment of my short (thank God) stay "inside"

As you can see, the queue is backing up. I feel like I'm online for a Hanna Montanna concert.

-----

But wait; there's more! How could I have forgotten? I'm also working on a post in which I detail a sure fire way to double, tripple, or even factor-ten your blog hits, virtually overnight! And this won't be some pithy commentary littered with thinly veiled attempts at humor and/or entertainment. No, people, this will be a hard-hitting expose on what it takes to make it in today's blogosphere: tits.

Yes, my friends, tallent and something to say that others find interesting will only get you so far in the modern world of the internets. If you really want to close escrow you have to have to be sans Y-chromosome and proclaim to love you some skin flute. Of course you attract the pervs too, but hey, even the carcass of the golden-fleeced ram attracts worms.

Never Let It Be Said I'm Not A Giver

2007-11-05T05:26:00.000-06:00

Because BottleBlonde asked, and I'm apparently vain enough to accommodate a woman who's not only startlingly beautiful, but funny and smart to boot, here's a close-up of my golden- colored eyes. It's the only redeeming physical quality I have (aside from, maybe, the fact that my shoulders, at their widest part, are 58 inches around). Picture quality sucks thanks to the poor-ish quality of the enlargement (a disappointment usually reserved until a woman sees me naked) and the fact that I have zero Photoshop skills, but you get the idea. I like the color of my eyes and I hope they remain that color and sharpness for the rest of my days. It's everything around them that needs to be redesigned. Heh. I'd better click "Publish Post" before I think twice about this.

UPDATE:: I changed the picture up there. I like that one better. A little cropping here, a little cropping there; but never changing the color. How would you like to see those staring out at you every day? Yes, I'll take my compliments as they are intended: gracefully. Unless you're all saying you like them just to be nice; like telling a fat person he's got a great personality. heh. I tried to find another picture of myself that might suffice, but I could only find this one:

Wherein you reply, "yep, the web's full of weirdos!"

2007-11-02T12:37:00.000-05:00

I originally received this tag from Pseudonimity, but in light of so much that's been going on in my life lately I've procrastinated. But yesterday Valerie tagged me with the same thing, so I figure I should let it go before I suffer annoying meme backup.

So here's the deal:

Link to the person who tagged you. Check.
List 7 facts/habits about themselves. Check.
At the end, tag 7 other people and link to their blog. Check.
Let them know they've been tagged. Oh geez, the pressure of picking 7 people... Ok, gimme a few minutes.

Ok, eight facts-slash-habits:

My eyes are a golden yellow color. No, I don't have hepatitis or jaundice.

I was in a motorcycle accident that resulted in lots of blood, staples, donated cadaver parts, and two surgeries. But I survived thanks to a kick-ass armored jacket and a full-wrap ceramic helmet.

I eat M&Ms by color. When I buy a bag, I dump them all out, sort them by color, decide on a "scheme", then eat them in order, always starting with brown. Brown is never in one of my schemes, unless it's nearing Halloween. For Christmas I'll eat all but the red and green. For Halloween, all but the brown, orange, and yellow. Easter is all but the yellow and green. If I'm missing the ocean, I'll leave the blue and green for last. I've done this since I was a kid and have no idea why. When I finally get it down to only those in my color scheme, I'll eat those so that there's always the same number of each color on the table. Weird, huh?

I've become kind of an adventure whore as I age. I've always loved having fun (who doesn't?), but I'm finding as I age that I'm enjoying "danger" more than I used to. Or maybe it's just the hint of danger. Or maybe it's me grasping at my youth. Who knows, who cares? I've always had a thing for jumping bikes (my BMX as a child and motorcycles as I got older) and still get a thrill out of all kinds of motorcycles. I've bungee jumped, gone zip-lining, survival hiking/camping, and intend to skydive for the first time next year.

I write really, really good smut; or so I've been told. ::author's note:: by popular request -nay DEMAND!- I'm writing a smut story now. They are actual stories; stories of seduction; stories of desire; so much more than "he threw her down and nailed her." You can tell me if I'm lying about being good at it.

Books and music, to me, represent actual places and memories, not just things to occupy my time. This is probably why I still buy actual CDs - as opposed to downloading tunes from the web - and keep every book I buy. When I open a book I've previously read or pop in a CD I've not heard in a while, the ghosts of where I was in life when I first experienced that particular media will jump out at me. And if you look at any of the commercially mass-published books in my library you'd notice many dog-eared pages and underlined phrases or words (I'd never do that to an antique book, of which I have many). I do this because I know I don't have a monopoly on excellent turns of phrase, so I remember those written by other authors to use as ideas in my own writing. And I luuurve me some reading in a hot bath.

And, well, since by the time I publish this particular post you'll have all heard it already, I went to prison once. If you don't happen to know the details, read down a blog or two. It was the darkest point in my life (till my wife left) and the effects not only lingered for a long time after the event, but served to change me in the most profound ways - nearly all of which were for the better, although it took a lot of hell for me to realize it and it certainly didn't feel that way at the time. Please, try not to judge.

There ya go. Seven things that make me whatever I claim to be.

Now. Who to tag...

Dang, I read a ton of bloggers; how to narrow it down to seven?

Well, it's going to have to be random. Since I'm and Excel geek, however, I'll create a random number command and let it pick seven numbers in it's hi-techie way...

Ok, here's what it came up with:

Nicole, Crystal, Jules, Betty, St. D, Kelly, aaand Debbie

Huh. It picked all women. I swear that was random. Well, I had to remove Valerie, but that's because she already tagged me. But other than that it was totally random. Seriously. Shut up.

Too numb for a title

2007-11-01T23:39:00.000-05:00

I thought it was ok to at least have hope.

I thought I'd come to grips with reality, even if I still maintained we could change it.

I thought I was finished feeling like a worthless piece of scum.

I thought you couldn't hurt me anymore.

I thought I had no more tears to cry.

But I was wrong. Again.

Why is it so important that I believe the same thing?

Not wanting to is not a fault on my part.

It's hard to "get past" when one has had many years to fall out of love with the ohter, and left when that process was mostly complete, but the other didn't have the same luxury.

Ten Things I Did Today

2007-11-01T11:46:00.000-05:00

Reviewed every single post I've ever made on this site
Deleted every single reference to my "alter ego"
Removed every single picture of me
Noted that I really fucking suck at writing sometimes
Wondered why in the hell anyone would want to read the insipid crapola I spew here
Realized that well, my writing seems to have improved significantly since I started EA
Noted that I have 127 posts saved as drafts in my archive. 127, people. Damn.
Decided Micheal Jackson would have a better shot at attracting women right now
Wrote a list of everything I could remember I did today, to distract my brain
Started writing a really, really steamy smut post

Quinta Essentia

2007-10-28T13:30:00.000-05:00

I've been getting dizzy lately. Not for long and not all the time, but just every so often; suddenly; for, oh, 30 seconds or so. I figured it was that whole "stood up too fast" thing, but then I realized it happens even when I'm not standing up. I'll be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly notice that I feel like I've had several adult beverages: can't concentrate, the room spins, blah blah blah. That sort of thing. And it's been happening more frequently lately.

And this last week or so, I've been feeling really tired, too.

That cinches it: I've got to stop listening to this.

Love Only Goes So Far, No Matter Who You Are

2007-10-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

Our past makes up our present

We seldom ever get a brand new start

So you can take your heart and run

But know that it's gonna leave a mark

We had the chance to change our trust

Each time we tried but got tangled up

I couldn't ease the pain of the hurt you'd had before

'cuz I've got history of my own, so I only hurt you more

I've always said I'm sorry

And I could swear to God it's gonna change

And I could tell you I will heal the wounds that cut you down

But you've got scars

And I've got scars

And I guess love goes only so far...

No matter who you are

Rock and Roll this Sunday!

2007-10-25T12:57:00.000-05:00

DON'T DELAY!!!

Anyone going to be -slash- already are in Houston this Sunday? Want to see Buzzfest XX? I have a spare ticket. The concert's sold out and has a whole list of excellent mainstream bands playing all day on two stages. More than one bank reunited for the concert and won't be around to see later. I'd even be willing to offer up a place to crash if you just need one. I should clarify, since you've read this blog, that the "place to crash" is a separate, private bedroom with a lock on the door. Jus' sayin'.

Just a taste of who will be there:

Smashing Pumpkins (reunited)
Chris Cornell (This guy ROCKS! He was founder/driving force behind Temple of the Dog, Soundgarden, and Audioslave).
Evanescense
Finger Eleven
Evans Blue
Fuel (reunited)
Sum 41 (reunited - I believe)
Alter Bridge
The Bravery
Earshot
Fair to Midland
Sick Puppies
Starting Line
And more!

Let me know if you want to be my guest. Well actually "our" guest since it's me and my daughter who're going. The concert's sold out and I hate to have it go to waste! C'mon, who'd pass up a free ticket! Are you insane?!?!!!

The Prophet Mellencamp

2007-10-23T07:50:00.000-05:00

I recently found Stacy's blog. I read many blogs on a frequent basis and have to say I rather enjoy popping into her world for a dose of inspiration. Her life is the kind I've always claimed to lead, but have really only tried to actively lead this past handful of years. Yeah, it's tougher to do nowadays as a solo act, but I still find I enjoy the satisfaction of experiencing what life has to offer; even taking pleasure in the smallest of actions. Oh, and I so want to hang out with her, too. It would be like being in an episode of Friends.

Anyway, something I read over there today, coupled with an opportunity that presented itself to me yesterday, reminded me of the chorus to a Mellencamp song (my favorite artist of all time, btw). He sings:

Days turn to minutes
And minutes to memories
Life sweeps away the dreams
That we have planned
You are young and you are the future
So suck it up and tough it out
And be the best you can

I remember the first time I heard those lyrics. It was 1985. Gas was $0.73 a gallon at the 7-11 down the street from my parent's house. No, there weren't dinosaurs roaming the Earth; we'd hunted those to extinction in the 70's. I was just starting my undergraduate program at the university, although at the time I was an engineering major. I had a new girlfriend, Becky; my first real serious girlfriend. Actually, my first real girlfriend, period. The few I'd been lucky enough to "date" previously turned out to be... well, they didn't work out.

I was sitting my truck* at school, listening to the "Scarecrow" tape (yeah yeah, I'm old; CD's were still a few years from mainstream) and reading the lyrics insert while waiting for my chemistry class to begin. Well, I had to go inside for the class, of course; it's not like the prof held class outside and we just sat in our cars while he lectured. Not that that would have been bad, now that I think about it, because that would mean I could have attended class in my underwear if I wanted to - well, if I wore any back then, but let's not stray off subject here.

When I read those lyrics in time with John's singing, something should have struck a chord in me. I had no way of knowing then just how prophetic John was being. Life does indeed sweep away the dreams we have planned, but the key is in how you strive to achieve even in the face of changing, or unrealized, dreams.

And I had a lot of plans then. I was going to be rich. I was going to be successful. I was going to someday marry Becky and we were going to have a dozen kids. I'd planned to take them all to Disneyland on vacations and teach them to ski and pole vault, just like their old man. Life was an open expanse of virgin territory and I was going to conquer it all.

At the time I had a poster on my wall at home that depicted everything I wanted in life. On it's glossy finish was the image of a huge mansion perched near the edge of an oceanside clifftop. In the foreground was a multi-car garage and parked within was one each of a Ferrari, Porche, Jaguar, and Corvette. In the background beyond the house was a helo pad, on which rested the sleek black form of a jet-powered helicopter. Finally, standing between the Ferrari and Porche in a skimpy bikini, was the final trophy in my collection, holding a frosty brew in her hand and a smile on her lips that said the beer was not the only head I was about to receive. Funny how so many of my "dreams" centered around the material. Huh. Well, I was 18 and it was the Reagan era.

But Life, while standing next to me looking at that poster, turned to gaze down at me as a kindly father looks upon his naive son. He mussed my hair with a rogue laugh, placed his hand on my shoulders and squeezed gently, then said "keep dreaming, bitch."

The timelessness of Mellencamp's words escaped me back then. As I sat there tapping my foot to the sound of his strumming guit-tar, the words wafting into my ears were just that: words. Words set to a catchy musical hook. They held no more real meaning to me than the Social Security debate or New Kids On The Block music. It's not that they were irrelevant, per se, I just didn't think about them. The same way I don't think about Bananarama.

Today, however, I pause and reflect over the sweeping curve that has been my life this last 22 years since and I realize the importance the chorus to that song has played in my life. In all our lives, really. Days do indeed turn to minutes. We go to sleep one night feeling young; vibrant; secure that the world will mold itself to conform to our desires.

In my home right now there's a picture on our living room wall. It was taken many years ago when BW and I were still dating. I believe we were engaged at that point, though. We had gone skiing with my brother and his wife at Boreal Ridge in northern California. During a rest break at the lodge my brother snapped a picture of BW and me, pressed cheek to cheek with our arms around each other's neck. We were smiling, as if the world was turning to suit us.

Then we wake the next day to discover we're 15 years older. The kids are no longer small enough to hang onto your ankles as you drag them laughing around the living room carpet. Your eyes show a little more wisdom; your body a lot more age. The woman from that picture on your wall no longer looks at you as her future and there's nothing you can do about it. You can no longer eat a Double Whopper without feeling like you've swallowed a 200-pound anchor. And you realize with a rueful nod that it's not the years, but the mileage that counts.

But looking back across the years to that person with all those dreams the thing is, you never did earn enough to afford that Ferrari or that mansion. The closest you've come to owning that helicopter was buying the AirHog RC chopper for your kid from a 3am infomercial (let's not kid ourselves: it's also for you). And when you see a girl like the one in the poster, with the perfect D's and trim waist and the smile that says she just can't wait for you to get her naked, your first thought is "heeeey, I wonder what her mom looks like."

20 years ago I knew I was going to be successful. 15 years ago I knew I was going to be married forever to BW. Five year ago I knew I was going to travel the world and live each day like it was created just to accommodate my desires. And last year I knew I was a good husband and father.
Instead, Life has served to prove the chorus right by often times handing me a sobering serving of shit burger, then standing there tapping it's foot as his co-conspirator, Reality, forces me to eat it. Minutes do turn to memories. Life does sweep away the dreams we make for ourselves. Today I'm financially sound, but I won't have a Ferrari any time soon. And that's ok with me. My marriage has apparently run its course and is ending, no matter what I want; no matter what I... well, just no matter I guess. And I wonder if time will prove me an ineffective father, as it often feels I was as a husband.

Suck it up and tough it out; and be the best you can. Well in that I certainly am trying.

Yesterday I received a phone call from a head-hunter I used to work with when I lived in Los Angeles. Ken the head Hunter knows I now do contract work because being with my kids is the single most important thing to me -even moreso lately- and we still like to see the world. Besides, I've been to the summit of Mt. Career and let me tell you it's cold, it's dark, it's fucking lonely, and there's always some 24 year-old MBA punk trying to push you off. I'd much rather be remembered for my contribution to parenthood and husbandry than how far up the corporate ladder I was able to climb. I make a pretty damned good living doing freelance finance work, although I admit get a kick out of telling people I'm a "temp." Yeah, ladies, I'm quite a catch.

Turns out Ken the Head Hunter has an opportunity for me to nearly double what I'm currently making AND pay me a $100 per diem for living expenses. The net effect would be to place my wages weeeell into the six figures. That bodes very well for the new dreams the kids and I have planned. Plus, it's paid on an hourly contract rate (and a double overtime rate), so the company is far less willing to insist I work beyond 40 hours a week. But it would mean temporarily relocating to Birmingham, Alabama.

We still want to travel, but FlyBoy has a problem with the size of our RV. It's just too small for him. While he agreed that one with more space would make him far happier about being on the road, the price to acquire one of them means it might as well be made of gold and come with personal valet service. The contract job would certainly solve that problem.

We've also expressed an interest in eventually settling in Colorado Springs, where my youngest brother and his family are moving this year. Buying a house there isn't impossible, but they, too, aren't nearly so cheap as Houston and I'm now facing having to do so on my own, while still being able to afford one large enough for myself and the kids. Given the state of the housing market now, I'm not sure I'd get enough from my house here in Houston to afford a decent one in Colorado. The contract job would solve that issue too.

The dilemma for me is what to do about the kids' mom. She's said she'll move wherever the kids go and while my 25% evil side tells me I should be more mean to her, go, and let her worry about what to do with herself, I simply can't do it. I'm not going to take the kids from her and I refuse to just "up and leave" if it means she won't get to see them. She's a good mother, so I can't bring myself to do something that would hurt her, even if it's better for me and the kids financially. So... what to do?

Of course it's still in the very early stages and verily I say unto you that it is unlikely to result in my getting it, but the job fits perfectly into what the kids and I want to do over the next few years. And it aids significantly in my desire to provide them a college education if they want one. With our life's-to-do list growing all the time, it would be a huge boost to make that kind of coin.
So I find myself dreaming again; making "what if" contingency plans. But in light of the meaning behind those lyrics, what do you suppose I'll know tomorrow?

----

*I never should have let me father sell that truck. It so freaking rocked. And I especially shouldn't nave used the money to buy my next car. Yeah, the people are all laughing because they can't believe that dude actually thinks it's sexy.

Everyone Loves Dyck

2007-10-21T17:25:00.000-05:00

Yes, tis true Virginia, there is a Santa Clause; and he looks like a freaky monkey in a clown suit. I've been a little maudlin on this site lately, and I'd like to give a shout out to the guy who gave me a chuckle recently. A man who gives the term "spanking the monkey" a whole new meaning. At least I think he's a guy; there's really no proof honesly. In my last post, Dyck requested that I post about celebrity boobies. And since I'm kinda tired and also a little drunk, I'm going to throw this out for his satisfaction, then go drive 90mph through a few school zones.

Without further preamble, celebrity boobies for the men:

Mmmmmm... nothing says "stab me in the eyes with an icepick" like those. Can I get an "AMEN!"

But I'm not about to leave the ladies hanging:

Yeah, that's a sexy bitch, right ladies? I hear he can also give you makeup tips and he's also seen often with his sexy counterpart:

Redheads not your particular cup of tea? Like them tall, dark, and intellectual? Ok. Never let it be said I'm not the pleasing type. I got your tall, dark, and intellectual right here:

And don't forget to pick up his latest book:

I hope this serves as satisfying Dyck's desire for celebrity boobies. If not, I ask you to consider this:

Not that this applies to him, necessarily; I'm just sayin'.

Seventh Circle of Hell: A Prologue

2007-10-17T09:02:00.000-05:00

I've been to prison.

What image does that conjure in your brain? If you're like most people you picture a person who can't be trusted; who's greasy and disgusting, either in person or whose soul leaves a stain when he rises from a chair; a person who'd just as soon sell your kids into sexual slavery as take the time to order the #2 combo meal at the local McDonald's drive through.

You imagine someone hooked on drugs? Or with a drinking or gambling problem? Or someone who deals drugs to 10 year olds?

Maybe you imagine a sexual deviant. Someone who slips pills to unsuspecting dates and then records himself raping them as they're incapacitated. Or a person who has sex with children?

Or a person who shot a 21 year old saint while robbing them of their gum money.

Perhaps you picture a greedy bastard who allowed scores, hundreds, or thousands of hard working families to fall into financial ruin so he could live the high life?

Maybe a gang member who killed a pregnant mother in a drive by shooting, perhaps?

Or, in the odd case, a person who's innocent?

Regardless of your particular Rorschach, you likely imagine someone who possesses a certain defect; something that makes them incapable of conforming to the rules of society. Maybe they're addicted, maybe they're just selfish; but whatever the reason, they are different from you. They are flawed and so possessing of a proclivity to do wrong for their own gain.

Before it happened I was just like you in that I believed with every fiber of my being that I'd never be there. I was good. I was decent. I was caring. I still am. I had a well defined sense of right and wrong (I still do) and c'mon, there's no way I'd ever do something that would land me in jail (but I did). I felt I was immune from those influences; just like you are. Nope, prison was a place for those with a fundamentally flawed character. It was for the predators who never developed a decency for their fellow man. It was where we disposed of the slimy underside of society until the law forced us to release them. Locked away; forgotten; forsaken; [spit] good riddance one and all. No matter the circumstances, I knew I would always know that right was right and wrong was wrong and I'd be able to determine the difference and continue down the path of righteousness.

Then I was there. And the overwhelming weight of my opinions and disregard for what it meant pressed down upon me. I'd let down so many people. I'd tried to make it right, even when it wasn't required, but it didn't matter. The hypocrisy of being a supposedly "good" man behind bars glared at me from beyond the meshed windows and razor wire fences, where the air was "free." Most days "inside" I spent curled up on my rack, wishing there was a way to will myself to die. If ever there was a soul lost in the blackness of helpless despair... In retrospect I think I wasn't even looking for a light in the darkness; just a way out, whatever that required.

I've struggled many, many times over the last few years with how to write about this; for many reasons. One, it's hard to articulate. It's an event that stirs a great deal of emotion and, for me at least, highly-charged emotion makes me write either very well or very poorly. I'm hoping this isn't one of those "very poorly" moments. I suppose I shouldn't really give a shit what anyone out "there" thinks of me regarding what happened or my ability (or lack thereof) to articulate it in the proper fashion, but the fact is, I do care. I don't mind so much if people have a negative impression of me (although I can't say I like it), but I do mind that it's the correct impression.

What's often lost to the stigma and stereotype of being a "con" is that so much of what happened those years ago was the culmination of years of strain, struggle and stress that had me at a place where I literally did not care if I lived from one day to the next. I was on auto-pilot, and for whatever reason (real or perceived) I felt that I couldn't turn to anyone for help. I was alone-sinking-and trying desperately to claw for solid ground. And I made a choice which was never good, but seemed my only option at the time.

No one who hasn't been there could possibly understand; not if they have a conscience; not if they care what kind of man they are; not if they've ever obsessed over "what this means." Only when you stand on the inside of a dark, damp, 8x10 concrete box as the guard closes the door with a look of "good, another scumbag off the streets", hearing the sound of finality as the steel of door and jamb meet, feeling your world crash about your feet in a smoldering ruin while knowing that you, yourself, burned it to the ground (and not just for yourself, but your wife and kids too); only then, can someone tell me they understand. I struggle today with determining the right way to tell you, while not underplaying my guilt.

Second, so much of the emotion has changed. As I eluded to above, from about, oh, a year to a year and a half before to about six months or so after I came home, I had no desire for life. None. Every day was waking up to a set of tasks that I felt I had struggle to complete for someone else. Life was about responsibility; about obligation. Keep in mind, this is not an indictment against anyone. No one made me feel this way and in fact my wife, my kids, my family; none! made any such demand on me. That I felt this way was borne of my own belief in what I was supposed to achieve in life coupled with past setbacks (being downsized, facing bankruptcy, the belief that my peers were advancing faster/further than me, the belief that you only "matter" in America if you have a big house, fancy car, etc., etc., etc.). I chose to accept the weight of the world on my shoulders, thinking it was expected of me.

Another struggle in trying to write about this is my audience. See, there's a fine line when you "blog" (if that's what I can be presumptuous enough to claim I do; as opposed to just verbally jerking off in a realm where far more talented writers get all the proverbial hot chicks) between not enough and too much. Too much or too little and I risk losing the message and/or the reader. Many days I sit and wonder what I can write that will make someone want to read, or better still, return later. Or, *gasp!* actually comment to let me know I'm not just casting pearls to swine. Blogging used to be - back when it was invented as a joint effort between Gore and the pied piper of mindless followers - a venue to communicate; to share ideas, feelings, beliefs, blah blah blah. Then it became mainstream and now, let's face it, blogging is the new black. Everyone has one and the success and value of each is measured largely in the number of comments left or insipid award nominations granted or flashy, unique blog designs. Now I have something about which to write, but I still feel the need to be careful in how much I reveal.

See, as an extrovert I like being around people. But I find that I rather enjoy those people to be anonymous people. I don't really enjoy people with whom I work or play to know too much about me. Could this be because on some level I wonder if perhaps I do have a faulty character? That if they did know me better they'd decide what so many in the past seem to have decided? Or that I'd forever be forced to explain it over and over again? Or maybe that I'm better liked when I'm not well known? Welcome to useless introspection; population: me.

It took a long time for me to lay down the guilt of having put so many through so much and having disappointed so many more. But some of that has returned recently, I'm afraid, when someone I thought had forgiven my criminally stupid lapse in judgement insinuated that I am, in fact, not forgiven. It's been a struggle for me to re-convince myself that there are people out there who have choosen to look past that event and see the man I truly am.

I'd be lying if I said it doesn't still bother me. Not that I went to jail or that people, when they find out that I was there, still instinctively erect a protective wall between themselves and me (further proof that in general, people consider offenders to be flawed in some fundamental way, the way evangelicals might view homosexuals or the KKK might view "minority" races). What bothered me most wasn't that I lost several months of my life to it. I wasn't bothered most by the fact that others would look down upon me. Sure, some few people gave me hope. Katrina said she knew about it and it didn't change her opinion of me one bit. She reminded me that I was there for her when her life took a turn for the worse and over the years she'd come to see me as someone very worthy of her support. She still provides glowing character references for me too. And Brett actually became angry with me when I finally told him what had happened; not because I had screwed up, but because I'd not told him sooner and that I'd chosen to go through it alone, denying him the chance to provide support. I don't see Brett as much as I'd like, but I'll go to my grave considering him a brother. Most of the rest I didn't tell either because I like them very much and selfishly didn't want to give them the opportunity to discard me like so many others have or because I was so humiliated and embarrassed by my lack of judgement that I couldn't bring myself to disappoint them that way.

No, what really bothers me, still to this day, is that I ever did something that landed me in prison in the first place. Just like everyone else, I believed - and do to this day - that my moral compass is fully operational. I have compassion for those in need; I bristle at the thought of anyone taking advantage of another; I still give aid and support to those who need it even when I might need it myself. What bothered me from the beginning was not "being caught" or being locked up (although yeah, that bothered me a lot) or watching someone bleed to death after being stabbed. It was that I had done something that led me there. Maybe society was right. Maybe I am fundamentally flawed and should do the world a favor and just die in prison. Maybe I didn't deserve a second chance. Certainly a great many people I considered friends turned their back on me when they found out. Maybe my family would be better off without me. I certainly didn't care. The overwhelming emotion I had for two years was self loathing. I literally hated myself for what I had done: to myself, to my future, to my wife and kids, to those who believed in me. Yes, the world would be better with a few less of "me."

The only thing that hurt more was knowing the burden my actions had placed on my wife and our two beautiful children. I had let them down most of all. I had promised them that they'd never have to worry about money or having nice things. But it was a lie. A lie I told and perpetuated. A lie I've mostly been able to forgive myself for, but has recently come back into my head. Oh, I don't hate myself like I did back then, but I certainly do wish there was a way to truly erase what I'd done.

In preparing to write about this I went back and re-read many of the letters I'd sent to my wife when I was gone. The pain is obvious. The self loathing jumps out at you from the page. The almost primal cry for help is there, too. As I wrote over and over in those letters, "what kind of father; what kind of husband; what kind of MAN does this?"

Today I have mixed emotions. That man seems like someone else entirely. He's not me; not anymore. I've forgiven myself for that transgression. I am a good man. I am a loving and caring spouse AND a damned good father (at least I try ever so hard to be; I hope time proves it true). But the cliche about one lapse in judgement serving to erase a lifetime of good makes me cautious about printing it here. The truth is I don't know who reads this blog. And while I try to be transparent in my writings, I'm concerned about people coming away with the wrong idea of what this "is."

That being said, I'm not going to tell you the details of what happened. Not the official charge or where they disposed of me for those months. No details of the actual offense. The more perceptive of you will likely be able to figure it out eventually, but I'm not going to reveal it in a venue that is akin to taking out a full page ad in USA Today. The details don't matter anyway. As far as those go, however, know that what I did was not in any way related to violence, drugs, abuse, or sexual deviancy. I didn't beat my wife or kids. I didn't get caught selling a pound of crack to an undercover officer. I didn't devise some private "game" between me and any child. You'd be surprised about what's illegal nowadays (I know I was), but yes, I should have known better. Regardless of the offense, it changed me in ways I'd have never thought possible before and I'm taking a huge risk in mentioning it here because I suspect some people who read this know me personally but do not know about this segment of my past.

What I am going to relate (not today, though; this entry is already too damned long) is what led me there, how it felt to be there, and how walking through hell served to make me a better husband, father, friend, employee, and human. And, hopefully, about how I overcame the relentless disdain that society heaps upon those who return home. Now I know the blogosphere is supposed to be funny an' all. But this is also therapeutic, so bite me if you don't like it. heh. Believe me, there were funny parts too. You want one? Ok, here's a hook: the day I was treated to a cow manuer shower when I activated the spreader from down wind.

Or, I could just keep it to myself and post endless pictures of celebrity boobies or my dog taking a dump. Your choice.

Two Words: Bore, Ring

2007-10-09T08:19:00.000-05:00

So I was perusing my "blog file" for something to write about this morning. Something that would take my mind off the overwhelming blaaaah I'm feeling this last couple days. Something's just not right. Well, that's not a surprise and I'm sure it has to do with my current set of circumstances, which I won't bore anyone with. I seem to make it worse when I attempt to articulate it anyway. Still, I feel myself regressing a little because I just don't know what to "do" and I've never been one to go through life without a plan. Oh well; it's not your problem. And I don't think you come here to read about mine.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you wish you could just get away? I suppose we all have. And mine's lasted for a few days now. Right this moment I'd love to be hitch-hiking down a long and lonesome road (ten points if you can guess from which song that comes). I'd like to be able to stop and stare at the sunrise over the open desert; to be alone with the ghosts of my past and dreams for the future. My, don't I sound like a bad songwriter. Well, perhaps it's an itch to get back on the road. Speaking of itch, I heard a great name for a punk band today: "Itchy Pickle." Heh. Made me chuckle.

Maybe the doldrums are because my life here in Houston has taken a major turn for the worse this year. Or maybe I'm just craving a clean slate. A nouveau départ, if you will. New town; new job; new chance at extroverted anonymity (where I get to have a lot of friends, but none that knows me very well); new chance to see new places. I've found that I really enjoy being out on the road. Something about it just seems to clear my head and put things into perspective again. I could write more about it, buuuut the sense of blaaah has overtaken me again so I'm not feeling much like sharing. Besides, there's that whole youdon'tcomehereforthat thing.

Anyway, as I scoured my folder of blog ideas, I found something that would allow me to write something that's not only a challenge for me (since I tend toward the verbose), but also allows my ass to be totally lazy. I think you know where I'm going with this, don't you? Yes, it's the ubiquitous meme! That becon of mostly random, often sophomoric information that makes readers the world over stand up and shout "how about a little less laziness and a little more shut the hell up!"

But, as this used to be the land of free speech (quick people, which Amendment is that?), I'm gonna do it anyway. Ok ok, I owe you guys at least something that'll make you come back again. Well, I don't owe you anything, but I want you to come back. So, how about if I drop a real bombshell? Something that's going to be a serious stretch of faith for me to even mention? Something that smacks of the kind of lurid details everyone wants to know about others but doesn't think will ever happen to them? An item from my past that has revealed a great deal about who my friends are and how fucking judgemental people can be; something that, for the only time in my life, had me living "for" others but not giving a shit if I lived otherwise. Something that, today, has me questioning what I "deserve." You wanna know what that is? Then tune in next time.

For today, however, I give you the insipid:

Two words. No explanations.

1. Yourself: Usually funny

2. Your spouse: painfully distant

3. Your hair: short, graying

4. Your mother: California horticulturist

5. Your father: staunchly conservative

6. Your favorite item: my tunes

7. Your dream last night: Disjointed, hazy

8. Your favorite drink: Dr. Pepper

9. Your dream car: Blue GTO

10. The room you are in: Open office

11. Your ex: in Washington

12. Your fear: losing kids

13. What you want to be in 10 years: happily married

14. Who you hung out with last night: my kids

15. What you're not: gay, boring

16. Muffins: fattening goodness

17. One of your wish list items: Eva Mendez

18. Time: passing quickly

19. The last thing you did: Talk smack

20. What you are wearing: office attire

21. Your favorite weather: rain, snow

22. Your favorite book: Don't have one (ok, so that's three words; sue me)

23. The last thing you ate: cold cereal

24. Your life: fractured, hopeful

25. Your mood: melancholy, pensive

26. Your best friend: left me

27. What you're thinking about right now: moving away

28. Your car: boring, reliable

29. What you are doing at the moment: blogging, thinking

30. Your summer: hot, rainy

31. Your relationship status: no comment

32. What is on your TV: son's helicopter

33. What is the weather like: muggy, warm

34. When was the last time you laughed: forever ago

35. Your mood: Kinda blaaah

Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon

2007-09-29T17:32:00.000-05:00

I used to do a lot of playing around when I was in college. I'm not sure what contributed to my limitless appeal, though. Some might say it's charm. Others, a huge shovel. Either way, I've never had a fear of meeting women. If you like me, great; if not I'll buy your drink anyway. And I won't even spit in it (unless you're that bitch Kathy).

For a two year period between my last serious relationship and when I met my wayward wife (I'm not sure what to call her right now, so that's the best I could come up with) I did an obscene amount of horizontal shuffling. Granted, not all of it was horizontal, but you get the point. Anyway, given my promiscuity, I always wondered if this day would come. Today I received a letter in the mail from a woman I used to "date" in the late '80s.

As I recall, Angie was a really fun girl: outgoing, funny, athletic, and smart. Among other things. I'd always wondered what happened to her. If memory serves she was going to law school or something. I don't know why we never took it further than we did; I mean, once you've seen each other's orgasm face, there's not much left untold, right? But we just drifted apart and eventually lost touch all together. Until today.

Today I trotted out to my mailbox, careful to avoid the fucking fire ant hills that my lawn seems to be sprouting like a teenager produces pimples. Among the credit card offers, just below Ed McMahon's promise that I may have already won $10,000,000 I saw it. The "letter."

I don't recall most of the contents because not long after the ubiquitous "I've tried to write this letter a million times" blah blah blah, there was this:

"We have a son together."

I was stunned. I still am. Another son? Damn, life is changing for me this year in ways I never thought possible. My wife has left me, my brother-slash-roommate has married a girl half his age and now they're expecting a new child, my daughter convinced me that rats make good pets, and now this: I have a second son.

My head swirled with questions. Where is he? Why didn't she tell me before now? What's his name? Does he want to see me? When can I see him? Holy shit, another son! Could he really be mine? I mean, how can I be sure? She could be just yanking my chain for child support. Although.... since I've been monogamous for 17 years, that would make the kid almost the age of majority, so if she's looking for child support now, she's one really crappy attorney, isn't she? What does he look like? Wait, maybe she included a picture.

I rummaged through the envelope and sure enough, there were pictures included. As I thumbed through them, looking for any similarity to myself, I ran across one of him and his mother that settled the boy's paternity once and for all.

Yep, he's mine. No question about it.

Kids, Stay Off the Drugs!

2007-09-20T14:07:00.000-05:00

You know how psychoanalysts believe that what we dream is indicative of the events we're currently experiencing? Well, keep that in mind as we continue.

I've had a recurring dream for years (I'd say, oh, maybe two or three times a year, thanks for asking) that I'm in college, it's the last day of finals, and I just then realized that I'm due to take the final exam in a class I'd forgotten I was even enrolled in. But in the dream I know that taking the final is unavoidable so I'm pittin' out about having to show up just to crash and burn horribly.

I've actually had this dream even when I was in college, which would explain why I was almost obsessive about committing my schedule to memory each semester. I believe this dream suggests I'm worried that I've done or forgotten something that will come back to bite me in the ass and I won't be able to avoid it; like sleeping with that witch Kathy in college or voting Republican in '92.

Then there's the dream in which I'm trying to get somewhere (chase someone, flee someone/thing, display my cat-like reflexes, etc) but no matter how much force I direct at my muscles I move like the air around me is as thick as molasses. So I'm forced to claw and grip the ground with my hands as I try to force myself forward. I suppose this one means I need to watch less TV and exercise more.

Last week, however, I had a dream I don't recall ever having before. And yeah, I do remember virtually all my dreams, so there. Like I said, I don't recall ever having a dream like this and I don't know what the hell it means.

It's dark. I'm chasing some guy in a, remarkably, molasses-free environment when we finally meet face to face for the epic kung-fu battle a la 70's martial arts movie. We're fighting in the courtyard of my undergraduate Alma Matter, but instead of being in Reno, it's perched on a leveled-off hilltop overlooking the southern end of the Las Vegas strip. I distinctly recall pausing in the fight (mentally, anyway) to ponder why my old university is somehow suddenly on the top of a mountain in Vegas that didn't used to be there.

Sensing I was going to ultimately kick his ass, my adversary turned to run, then... sudden scene change!

It's still dark. I'm still on my old university hilltop in Vegas. Me and my Lycra-suited side kick, Sonja, are fighting to keep pace with a stray dog who's running about the grounds. No, I don't know what kind of dog and it's not germane to the story, so focus. And yes, she does look hot in Lycra; we both do thankyouverymuch. What is germane, and frankly really freaking weird, is that every time this dog barks a vampire pops out of his butt. Well, not "pop" really, more like "oozes." And the only way we can stop them from emerging totally is to force feed a white pill to the dog just as the vampire begins to emerge.

Me: Sonja, get him!

Sonja: I'm trying dickwad (that's her pet name for me)

Dog: WOOF!

Me: Aw crap there's another one! Quick! Get the pill get the pill!

Sonja: [prying his jaws open, dropping in the pill, then holding it shut like she just dropped a grenade in there] Swallow you stupid mutt!

Me: Isn't that what your boyfriend says during sex?

Sonja: Watch it, doorknob, or you can do this yourself.

Me [looking at the dog's butt]: OK, it's back inside. Let's find something to muzzle him with.

Sonja: Hey, that's what your girlfriend says to me when you start talking.

Me: Har har

While trying to find something to keep the dog from barking, Sonja slips.

Me: Don't let go don't let go... aw dammit!

Dog: WOOF! grrrr WOOF!

Me: Dammit, the second one popped the first out all the way and he's prairie dogging again! You get the pill, I'll take care of the spawn!

So Sonja's struggling with this dog, trying to feed it pills to keep it from crapping out any more vampires, and I'm attempting to deal with the one that escaped the dog's ass.

Now I ask you, what the hell does that dream mean?

Hare Today, Gone Tomorrow

2007-09-05T04:41:00.000-05:00

Norb: Yeah, Jen and I were going to go to the event but I'm going alone.

Me: How come?

Norb: Jen's rabbit is sick.

Me: Um.... rabbit?

Norb: Yeah, we have a pet rabbit and it's been a bit ill lately. We took it to the vet and she's on the mend, but Jen wants to keep and eye on her in case she takes a turn for the worse.

Me: But you're going to go without here huh?

Norb: Sure, it should be fun. Besides, I have to go. It was supposed to be a couples event so I'll just have to give her regards to everyone.

Me: Oh, this is too perfect!

Norb: Huh? What's so perfect?

Me: Well think about it. When people ask you where Jen is, you can say "oh, she'd couldn't come. She had to watch her hare." [followed by much snickering...by me].

Norb: You moron.

(And I never even got to mention that if things didn't go well, they'd then be able to claim the "rabbit done died.")

Born to be Wiii-iiild!

2007-09-04T08:01:00.001-05:00

So what does a guy, facing a 3-day weekend...

With no kids to guide into adulthood...

Do with himself?

Not that you perv.

No, he rents one of these*:

Then he drives here:

To watch these

At this event! (what did you think those were? Locusts?)

At said event these guys are playing:

Who go by the name:

Where said guy hopes to maybe run into ~~one~~ some of these:

And really hopes she doesn't look like this in the morning!

I mean, it is Batfest after all.

----------------

And how does a guy who's had a weekend such as this wake up for work Tuesday morning?

Sore
Sunburned
Slightly hungover
More than slightly tattooed

*No, the spill underneath isn't from the bike; it was there before the bike was.

Compared to A Cartoon, I'm Hung

2007-08-29T09:10:00.000-05:00

I was sitting here about to write this heart felt post about my conversation with her last night, when I thought I'd pen - nay, type - a resply (that's my own word-vention for "response" and "reply") to the two people who were kind enough to leave comments on my last post. But, before I did, I noticed that I included a picture of myself in that post and it just so happened to line up with the WeeMee picture on my side bar, and it got me thinking (yeah, maybe I'm the one with ADHD, right? Not her?). Anyway, as I'm looking at those I'm wondering, does that WeeMee really look like me?

Well we both have a goatee, although I think mine looks better, so score one point for me. I've also got a more proportionate body. I mean really, my WeeMee has some damned short legs. I'll bet short pants go all the way to his feet. So we won't even comment on the size of his WeeNee, either. That's another point in my favor. Wait, make that two points. Any time you can say you've got a bigger WeeNee than the next guy, it's worth at least two points, even if that other guy is a cartoon. And by the way, look closely; why does it look like his fly is open? Now sit back and wonder to yourself "why the hell was I just looking really closely at a cartoon's crotch?"

Ok, so he's got a more visible six-pack than I do. But hey, I've still got one; I just keep it covered with this layer of blubber to prevent it from being scratched. He's also hairless on his chest, whereas I, being the manly man I am, have a healthy covering of fur for those lady types to run their fingers through.

I think the halo is over doing it, don't you? Coupled with those shades and that shit-eating grin, you just know he's been up to something. Which means he's exactly like me in that sense, althoug my halo is dented, tarnished, and doesn't glow quite so brightly as it did a few months ago. And he's got his Starbucks, also a reflection of me. Mmmmmm... grande non-fat two-pump white chocolate mocha with no whip. That's good eats there.

He's on the beach, too, which is where I want to be. Well, where I was, actually, but if that were a picture of me, you'd see dark clouds and high surf behind him. So maybe he's got me beat on that count.

What is the score now? 4-2? 6-9? 15-all? I dunno. Regardless of the score, I win because I have a bigger WeeNee than he does. Besides, at least my head isn't half the size of my entire body. How does he hold that mellon up? Must be why he's got no neck: it's been compressed into his torso by the weight of that bowling ball perched on top.

I do like his hair though. I wish I could get mine that color. But unfortunately people have this weird thing about trusting their finances to a guy who's hair looks like it caught the gout. Go figure.

Into A Broader World

2007-08-27T11:59:00.000-05:00

Yes, I am back safe from Mexico. Some might say that traveling into the path of a Category 5 hurricane makes me a "Dumbass" (who? Oh... my dad, mom, brother, sister, friends, mailman, that guy I met on the street last week, my brother's 3-year old step son, some strangers in the airport), but I prefer the term "adventurer." Just wait till I travel to an erupting volcano so I can get some kick-ass pictures! (and if you think I'm kidding, I popped out to the Oracle as soon as I typed this to see what's out there. heh.) Anywho...

Due to recent, non-Dean related events I almost cancelled the Mexico trip, but decided that if I'm going to emerge from this feeling able to love again, I need to begin healing, for myself and my kids.

And that means memories that do not include her. That means reminding myself why I'm worth being married to despite how broken and undesirable this has made me feel and sorting out all the thoughts swirling in my head. It means accepting my role and the fact that she's going to say and do whatever she feels necessary to justify the results and heal herself. It's not all my fault, but it's not all hers either. It means letting go of the pain of feeling like a victim, both because I know I'm not and because it's counter-productive. And it means understanding that despite how uncaring it feels, she is, for now, going to display more understanding, compassion and caring for just about everyone else than she does for me, although she likely believes she's treating us all the same.

Finally, it means remembering I'm a good man, a good husband, and a good father and that while I may have my share of baggage, it's not so much that it requires an army of porters to haul around despite the fact that I've often made a bigger deal of it than it really is, but in reality it's only one bag, and yes, it will fit into the overhead compartment. If someone wanted to, they could of course point to any number of issues from my past in an effort to compile a laundry list of transgressions (of mine and my family's) to use as a reason to deem me unworthy. What I need to do now is remember that the list of positive qualities is far greater, and have a much greater impact on those around me.

I have many, many stories to tell, from trying to find a way to dodge the hurricane to trying to avoid getting lost in the streets of Cuernavaca. I felt like Hemingway sometimes (in spirit, not in talent): sitting in cafes in small towns writing longhand in my leather-bound journal while watching the rain fall and sipping Mayan Coffee.

I met some amazing people along the way: three Belgian girls backpacking across Mexico; a Brit who comes each year to keep up on her Spanish; a Merida school teacher who showed me around the town square; many people fleeing the hurricane; and a French-trained chef who taught me to make tamales and other authentic Mexican cuisine. Oh, and I got to watch Cars in Spanish, too. You know how funny it is to hear Lightening McQueen say "Ca-chow!" with a Mexican accent?

Each day I attempted to write in my journal. I received a very nice leather-bound journal for my birthday and took it with me to record my ideas, experiences and thoughts. And I had many of all. I figure I'll share those with you by reprinting them here. This trip was an odyssey of discovery in more ways than simply being in a country I've never seen before. I realized things about me - both good and not so good - that have helped bring me another step closer to self-retribution. But I'll mention that a lot more in the actual posts. Glad to be back, although not so glad to be back at work. heh. But, I've got bills to pay.

One thing I did realize while gone is that travel is all I want to do going forward. I want to take FlyBoy and the Puffinator all over this wide world, so we're already planning our next trip, sometime early next year. Much closer to today, however, I have to find something to do with my three day weekend this weekend. Any ideas?

Ik hou van jou,

A footnote in my own story

2007-08-17T22:11:00.000-05:00

I just keep getting it wrong. But every time we go over it, I learn more. Save yourselves; I go no further. Ok, stop. I know it sounds self-piteous, and there's nothing I can do about that, but I'm now convinced it ended because of me. All me. It's done, because of my actions and reactions. She didn't start out wanting to fail, but now she has no faith, no belief, and no trust; and that's all my doing. Now the only thing to wonder is:

What happens when you yourself become the enemy? When the thing you most thought was destroying your chances turns out to be you? How does one live with that? When all you can do is recount times when things were different?

It's funny [he says with an ironic smile] but believing in Karma the way I do, it can't be a coincidence that my solo trip to Cancun comes at a time when Dennis is making a bee-line for the city. Whatever. Bring it on, God. You couldn't be more ashamed of me than I already am of myself. What, I don't warrant a Category 5? Whatever. I'll see you on the beach when your wrath makes land, Mister.

You think I'm wallowing in self pity? No. Self pity is for those who feel sorry for themselves but don't really believe they are at fault. I accept this blame, and I don't feel sorry for myself, I just feel sorry. Sorry for all I've done to push it over the cliff. Self pity? No. First, spend a day knowing what I do about what I've done to one I should have treated differently. Then tell me of self pity. Until then, it's just fact, plain and simple. And in these words, I disgust myself even more; what used to be considered a gift, now feels like something I use to twist events to my own benefit. It's one thing to destroy someone's trust; it's entirely another to destroy their "church." There's no coming back from that.

Save yourselves people. Because you never know when it will all crash around yer feet. Yes, I am truly... a piece. of. work.

I'm out. Mi Aime Jou.
K.

Three Things

2007-07-31T08:54:00.000-05:00

I received this in my inbox today and, considering our situation, thought it fitting.

-------------------
Three things in life that, once gone, never come back
1. Time
2. Words
3. Opportunity

Three things in life that can destroy a person
1. Anger
2. Pride
3. Unforgiveness

Three things in life that you should never lose
1. Hope
2. Peace
3. Honesty

Three things in life that are never certain
1. Fortune
2. Success
3. Dreams

Three things that make a person
1. Commitment
2. Sincerity
3. Hard work

Three things in life that are most valuable
1. Love
2. Family & Friends
3. Kindness

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I suppose that sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own pain, our own uncertainty, that we forget that much of who we are and wish to be is dependent upon how well we remember these Three Things.

Oh, and I ran across this blog yesterday and just couldn't stop reading her. Take special note, should you decide to throw caution to the wind and click that link, of her philosophy and why it's all "pink" in this entry.

Profound Thought

2007-07-11T21:30:00.000-05:00

"Seldom or never does a marriage develop into a lasting relationship smoothly without crisis. There is no birth of consciousness without pain." -C. G. Jung

I can think of nothing more descriptive of both what I'm feeling lately and what I hope for the future. I feel as if I'm traveling blind down a dark road, at the end of which may be the gates of Heaven... or perhaps the entrance to Hell.

"We Two Form A Multitude" - Ovid

2007-07-10T21:29:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I'm afraid to even hope anymore, and I hate the fragmented feeling that gives me, as if I'm unable to move forward alone because she may want to return but unable to move forward together because she may not. And it's worse when I feel as if everything I do - or don't do - is another step in the wrong direction. When am I allowed to start hoping again?

"Perfect love means to love anyway, the one through whom one became unhappy." - Soren Kierkegaard

Baby Steps...

2007-07-02T12:40:00.000-05:00

Originally posted on the FreeRangeFamily blog on 6/27, but moved here.

Ya know, I’ve begun several times to write this post, and just keep deleting every attempt. So I’m going to shoot from the hip, just to get my thoughts on the page and see where it takes me, even though I’m sure it’ll end up far longer than I want it to be.

BuddhaWife’s now in her own place and the house, especially our closet, seems entirely too empty now. Frankly, I don’t really even want to live here anymore, but her being gone isn’t the only reason why (a story for another time) and I’ve decided that a scenery change is in my not too distant future. I’m also trying to get used to having so much space to myself in the bed and moving about my day when everywhere I look is a ghost of her. My counseling is going very well, though, and I’ve come to realize a great deal already about not only what's goind on, but who I am, who she is, and more importantly why we are the way we are. I've started to identify things that are either my fault and I can correct or are not my fault but for which I’ve both tried to compensate or take responsibility for.

For my part, I’ve acted like an idiot over this last handful of weeks. But before I travel down the road toward self-abuse (a historical habit I’ve recently broken), I should note that BW and I have been together so long that the last time I was confronted with anything like this experience I was still a veritable child. Back then, few of us really even know what love is, let alone how to handle feelings of rejection or abandonment. When I started to feel her drift away, I played in my mind the events from back then and acted the way that child would have acted. Not good. But what is good is that I’ve been able to realize that while it may have been sophomoric and certainly not something I ever care to repeat, it’s also water under the bridge and all I can do going forward, now that I have the tools (and am learning how to use them properly), is continue to nurture this far more productive means of understanding and expressing my hurt feelings.

Isn’t it both tragic and ironic that often the most meaningful growth comes on the heals of the most painful experiences? I remember a calligraphy card my grandmother had on her fridge for years following the death of one of my cousins that read “what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.” At the time I misread “stronger” to be “stranger.” I guess either could be true depending on the person and circumstances, huh? Anyway, my reaction to this situation hasn’t been what I’d call stellar. Fear and pain have driven me to a place I don’t enjoy being. Not all the time and not every day, mind you, but too often. Sometimes I’ve been ok, other times not. I’ve never physically lashed out at her; I never have and never would do that. But sometimes reactions to situations we can’t control cause our feelings to get the best of us. And when the uncertainty and pain tried to overwhelm me, I found it hard to cling to the joy I feel inside over finally knowing where I want to be in life, over finally having let go the past without trying to shoulder the weight of every screw-up I’ve ever made.

I suppose you could say I was “watching the tree,” which to me can be summed up by imagining driving on a deserted road when suddenly your car slides out of control and you become aware that you’re headed straight for the only freaking tree you’ve seen anywhere on the stupid road. As your eyes lock onto it, your car makes a beeline right for it. And because that’s where your focus is, that’s where your unconscious actions (steering, braking, screaming “oh my God we’re gonna die!”, whatever) will take you. Instead I should have been paying more attention to where I wanted to go. I suppose it’s normal that in moments of panic or unusual stress we fixate, too often, on the worst case scenario. I’ve done too much of that this last month; I’ve been watching the tree.

Well, I have discovered that sometimes words are pretty weak vessels for saying I’m sorry and for my part, I have three things I need to continue to work on.

I haven’t given her enough of a voice. This stems from my occasional insecurity (itself rooted in a belief that I didn’t “matter” if I didn’t have financial means) and it has made me force her to avoid talking or joking about subjects I didn't want to face. If we're to have a strong marriage, she needs to be able to speak her mind, even if it’s about something I don’t enjoy hearing. That’s a partnership, that’s a mutual respect. Silencing her is not.

I have to listen to her more, not just hear her talking so I can respond. I'm a man, which means I want to fix things. When she talked, I would search for buttons to push or levers to pull that would make it all ok. If things still seemed broken, I’d return to the same conversations and questions in a search to discover why my "fixes" didn't fix anything, which just frustrates her more.

Finally, I need to trust her. I've been hurt before. And when those people left they made very personal, very cruel statements that cut deeply enough that I've never allowed the wounds to heal completely. When this all blew up on BW and me, I returned to those painful memories and tried to fit those results into this experience. If we're to make this work, I need to trust that she's trying to come together again. I need to be serious about it and not repeat the same patterns that helped lead us here. Yeah, she's got work to do as well, but that's her. All I can do is work on me and hope she recognizes that I am a man she can be happy with for another two decades. She’s told me more than once that her doing this is not a means to escape our marriage, but a means to determine how we can be married and still feel that she has a connected, healthy individuality. Whereas I’ve been watching the tree. And it’s caused us to be afraid to be around each other because we’re both afraid of not knowing what we’ll get from the other when we’re close together.

She's my Family, so no, I don’t want to go forward without her. But I understand that I can’t make her stay. More importantly, I don’t want to make her stay. I want her to be happy. Yes, I want her to be happy with me, but I want her to be happy regardless. I don’t want to enjoy my new-found perspective on life alone and I firmly believe we have far more reason to stay together than be apart, but that’s really neither here nor there is it? Because I will enjoy it regardless of what she decides, even if it may not feel like it in the beginning.

My focus now is living the life of the man I feel I’m becoming and allowing BW to be the woman I fell in love with all those years ago. I want my life to mean more than just what I can acquire. I want to do things. That much has been a part of me for the last few years. What is different is that I no longer begrudge those who "acquire." What’s different is that I no longer loathe myself for my past mistakes. And I don’t feel the need to hate those who’ve hurt me in the past. I accept that there will be times when my inner critic will try to assert itself, sure. But I know what to do to defeat him and it gets easier every week. Liberating? Absolutely. But also a little sad that it took this to force that final step. Oh well, also neither here nor there. At least it’s done.

What we need is time to heal. Our union cannot survive as long as that fear between us exists because eventually the only path that will feel sane, for either of us, is divorce. We need to stop feeling as if we have to eggshell around each other just to be in the same room so that we can begin to remember why we love each other so much.. Without healing, there can’t be any compassion. Without compassion, no understanding. And without that… how can anyone move forward together? And that right there – healing, compassion, understanding – has been the piece that’s been missing for me. And I have wonderful friends who have helped me see that. I wonder how I ever got so lucky to have friends like you. You’ve helped me see that sometimes the most profound, truest testament to loving someone is the one that scares you the most.

That being said, I’m submitting myself totally to her will. As someone else dear to me recently put it, tongue in cheek, she’s “the boss.” I haven’t trusted BW enough in this, despite her having never given me a reason not to, even now. She's made it clear numerous times that divorce is not the goal, even if it is a possibility. I need to stop making it a greater possibility by stopping myself from being so nervous around her and just giving her space. I'm convinced that's one reason she left. Even the mere anticipation of being around each other caused our emotions to amp up to the point where we're depressed just to come home and I didn’t leave her alone enough when we were together. So she got her own place to act as a sanctuary, not as a means to escape our marriage. It is what it is. Only time will make that better. She doesn’t have to return; she doesn’t have to stay. Yes, it will be a new and uncertain future without her by my side, but I want her to be at my side because she wants to be, not out of obligation.

"I have embarked on a wide ocean, boundless in it's opportunities, but in which, perhaps, no safe harbor is to be found." -George Washington, 1775

One Toe in the Water...

2007-07-01T12:38:00.000-05:00

Things here are tough, on both of us. I know we still very much love each other. But the feelings are too raw to maintain perspective when we're orbiting each other every day. She needs space; I need a chance to evaluate where I fit into this big universe.

This last several weeks has been torture. I have felt helpless that one of the most wonderful people I've ever been blessed to know appears to be drifting away from me. I have been scared. I have felt insecure. And it has made me feel insignificant and abandoned and act in ways I'm not proud of.

But through it all I've also come to realize things about myself that I was never willing to face before. All I can say is I am coming to grips with how to handle my emotions when I'm hurt, but it takes time; time that I hope and pray she's still willing to grant. Most times I feel stronger, and for the first time I can recall, I finally know where my solid ground lies.

We've been through a lot, she and I. She has inspired me to challenge my conventional ways of thinking; to open my eyes to the greater world around me. But something always seemed to be missing. I felt as if I'd gone 8/10ths of the way there, yet just couldn't make that final step. BW once posted on our travel site that she had finally found her "church;" that in the process of the most mundane task her epiphany came and she knew where she fit into the universe. I was happy for her and a bit envious because while I felt significant and worthwhile, I didn't feel that I mattered.

So it is now that I realize what wonderful friends I have found over the last few years, some of whom have stood where I stand now. I don't know how I got lucky enough to have the friends I do; friends I didn't even realize I love so much until this last month. I wish I had them here every day to hug and laugh with. They all mean more to me than I'm able to articulate here and I hope they understand when I see them this weekend if I hug them just a little longer than I used to.

From their thoughts and heartfelt affirmations of support I have found comfort and hope that BW and I are not over yet. In the words of one:

"...I have always enjoyed the beauty of how different you and [BW] are and yet how perfectly you fit together. It is a falsehood and a lie that either of you would be better off without the other. There is hope for your situation brother…it may not look like it to either of you right now, but seeing your situation from the outside, I assure you there is hope!"

Clearly the way I've dealt with my feelings is not productive. I have learned so much already but I need to continue to learn how to silence my inner critic who just loves to fill in the gaps and write his own endings to the things BW doesn't say. As another dear friend advised:

"...Are you being true to yourself? Are you willing to work for this, even if it means coming out of your comfort zone to the point of complete breakdown of all your thoughts on how this is, should be, or would be? It's hard to cry, think, share, and go through the emotions if you are not able to be in a space where you can be authentic. It's a most selfless act to stand by someone's side like that. And it's a gift of love, respect, and courage for one to support another like that. It's not giving up or a final decision. It's space."

And she's right. I have not been true to myself. I've let my fear and insecurity command my actions. Sometimes I've been in control of them; other times they spiral right out of control again. But changing that isn't a one-time event. You can't weed your garden once and expect it to stay weed free. It'll take time; it'll take work on my part. But in the interim I need to remember that some of the hope I have can come from what BW has not said. She hasn't said she wants a divorce. As a matter of fact, she's said "that's not what I want" when the subject has come up. Yes, we both accept that it's a possibility, but there are so many other things that would have to happen (or not happen) in between now and that step. I know there are no guarantees, but I choose to believe this is not the end of us. She is my best friend. She makes me laugh.

She is my Family. I choose to support her, even in this, even if it sometimes
makes me want to cry myself into a coma over fear that it's another step toward
never waking up next to her again.

She told me once not long ago that I was making this a bigger deal than it really is. I think we both agree it's serious and she's pulled no punches in saying there's a chance it won't work out. But at the same time we both know there are many reasons to stay together; it just has to be happily together, because neither of us likes the person she becomes when she feels disconnected from those she loves or the person I become when I feel like I don't matter to her.

It's just space. It doesn't have to end in divorce, but I do understand that she's been dealing with her issues too long to just accept that on faith. I'm going to have to show her I'm serious about being true to myself and letting her be who she is because I do not want to change her. I married her for who she is, not to change her into someone
else. And that means I have to deal with my own insecurities, on my own. And
when I think about it pragmatically, she's not acting like someone who wants to
escape me forever; she's acting like someone who's tired of the same conversations and just wants her own space and time to figure things out. As she said yesterday, it'll be just one toe in the water with me for a time. I think if I focus on the positive and try to understand not only how she feels but how I interpret and react to both our emotions, we have a chance to continue forward together.

So I accept that the heartache of this change, challenge, and grief, is NORMAL. That I must embrace every feeling as an accomplishment to healing. I know now that it's the storm within that allows for the calm to come. If it were not for this, how is growth measured? What would we have for those that need our experience in the future? This time is something that should not be minimized or thrown away. We allow, we grieve, we conquer, and then we share for those that need it later.

So I ask.....What is good? That can be the daily question to build upon. For me, today, it is my final understanding that I have a place in the universe that doesn't hinge on my ability to be envied by others for who I am or what I own. It is an allowance for the love I have for my son and daughter in continuing to build upon that new found security. There are people in my life that look to me for their growth and with that I choose to grow myself. I finally see a change in the way I view the world that I find
exciting. I am alive, and I have choices, dreams, ambitions, goofiness, and laughter. I will continue to love, honor, and cherish my wife. She's not perfect; neither am I. But she's what I want. And more than that, I want us to be happy together.

Five Reasons to Run Screaming for the Hills

2007-05-20T21:45:00.000-05:00

I've been reminded several times by Jules that I have neglected answering the interview questions she sent me. What the hell, you might ask, am I talking about? The 411 is that this is a slightly different take on that whole meme thing that's been going around like a particularly virulent strain of syphilis. The way it works is, you read the answers to the five questions Jules asked me. Then, if you want to participate, leave a comment to this post asking me to send you five interview questions of your very own. It'll be your opportunity to feel like you're on Access Hollywood or 60 Minutes.

In your answers post, you link back to this blog, mentioning that I'm the one who sent you the interview questions and make the offer to others blah blah blah you know the rest. As you read mine and say to yourself "Gee [insert your name here], you should partake in this exercise in self-promotion too!" you might be tempted to raise your hand in request that I send you five pressing questions the world wants to know about you. But as you do, keep two things in mind: First, if you ask, you have to answer. Second, if you ask me to give you five questions, and considering what site this is, you never know the kinds of questions I might ask. So here we go.

1. Why do you consider yourself "average" when the rest of us consider you sub-par? -zing!- Ha, you kill you! In consideration of my answer I'm reminded of a quote by Jean Giraudouz, who said "only through mediocrity are we always at our best." Why do I consider myself average? Well, I've never broken the school record, won against losing odds, been on anyone's short list (at least not in the good way). I wasn't blessed with remarkable good looks (at least I don't think so), wasn't given a 12-inch penis, or the ability to stir others to thought or action with my words. I don't think I'm overly charismatic, remarkably intelligent, or naturally predisposed to excel at sports. I wasn't born rich, nor have I ever come up with a new twist on an old idea. No one's ever come into my office and said "I came across [insert opportunity here] and your name immediately popped into my head." As a side note, this particular attribute is worse for me because I married a woman so remarkable that "how'd you end up with her" is usually within the first three questions people ask me when they meet us.

I've never had a woman become speechless upon seeing me for the first time. I've never had someone remark "you've got nothing to worry about, you're [insert favorable quality here]." I can't think of any body part of mine -save maybe my eye color- that someone might call memorable. I can't recall a time when I've saved the day, come to the rescue, or stemmed the tide. I have no one famous in my lineage (unlike BuddhaWife, who is -I'm not kidding here- a direct descendant of Charlemagne, more royalty than a deck of cards, and whose ancestors came to America on the Mayflower).

Everything I've achieved in life I've done through exceedingly hard work and even then I'm not among the best, only slightly ahead of the rest. Being one of the bovine herd just seems to come naturally to me. I'm barely memorable and easily forgotten. In that one aspect do I never have to try. I'm average, effortlessly.

2. Do you really travel around the country with your family or are you on the lam from the law, and for what? I'd tell you, but then I'd have to skip town before you could notify the Feds. You'll never catch me alive coppers!! I told you, she never told me her age!Seriously, yes I do travel around the country in an RV with my family. For most of my adult life I was focused on the same thing as everyone else in U.S. society today: being the Jones'.

Then, a few years ago, nothing seemed to make sense anymore. We had all the stuff: the overpriced cars, the expensive house FAR bigger than we needed, taking expensive vacations, riding in limos to and from airports or meetings, working toward the purchase of my first vintage Ferrari (which I thought would signify that I'd "made it"), spending $4,000 a month on our American Express gold cards. But none of the purchases seemed to fill the hole I felt inside. Something was clearly missing.

I suppose some would say people envied the life we led (which I suspect is why most of us live the way we do: we don't really want the big house or expensive car as much as we want OTHERS to SEE us with the expensive car and big house). Yet, we were distant as a family. From this point on in this answer, we can all recite the story by heart. Say it with me: "I didn't know my kids. My wife and I were on autopilot. They barely saw me and when they did I was obsessed and worried about work all the time." The problem is that while we can all relate to that situation, so few of us step outside our next major purchase long enough to wonder how to change it.

All those years I spent working to make a bigger paycheck than last year's; it's so many years I wish today that I could have back. Anyway, while I pay a lot of lip service to the concept of being just "every man," I can say with modesty that I sincerely try to be the most kick-ass husband and father my family could ever want. I hope I'm succeeding. But in seeking to give them the best financial life I felt I could, I failed them by not being there socially, romantically, physically. It was always money money money and I figured with each new promotion I'd finally be happy. But it never happened, which made me do things I'll go to my grave loathing myself for. Then BuddhaWife -who has always been the best part of my conscience as well as my companion and lover- commented that if I were to take that final step of removing myself from their lives by having a work-stress-induced heart attack and dying, the only thing that would change for her would be that she'd then have to start feeding the dogs herself; everything else she already did alone.

So, as a family we resolved to recapture our life together. They, the three of them, reminded me that I used to have dreams for our family. Goals. Aspirations. Desires that stretched far beyond the material crap we could bring into the fold. But somewhere along the line I lost sight of those goals, blinded by the hollow, and unattainable, goal of corporate "success."

We sold everything we owned, pulled the kids out of school, bought an RV, and now spend every day we can moving around the country, gaining a perspective on life we'd only dreamed of before. This all sounds awfully preachy, I know. I find it hard not to sound a little sanctimonious when I recall all the lost time spent trying to climb the corporate ladder, knowing nearly all those with whom I battled are still engaged in that fight. I'll leave it to my former colleagues to chase that elusive goal of "freedom" by thinking more money is the only true path. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already there; but I'll save ya a seat.

3. How do you manage to travel with a wife and kids in an RV and not leave bloody body parts strewn across the roadside, or hang windchimes made out of ribs? Who says I don't? It's just that I've realized it doesn't have to be their body parts or ribs. Now that I think about it, that sort of gives more insight into Question 2, doesn't it? We manage to avoid killing each other by making sure we don't spend too much time cooped up in the small space of the RV. On line for 2007, however: a big, roomy bus!

4. There are you and two women left in the world. Rosie O'Donnell and Ann Coulter. Which one do you do? Yikes. Hmm... how about if I let Rosie do Anne and I just kill myself? But wait. Let's not be too hasty. I mean, the alternative is abstinence. So really, why would I eliminate my only alternative to dating my own right hand? The idea of never getting it again is worse to me than getting if from an loud mouthed attention whore (I'll let the reader determine to which I refer), and that ain't happening so what the hell, I'd nail them both. But only because they were the only two left. There are far better alternatives otherwise. I know, I'm married to one.

5. You said you were nominated as most likely to suck dick for money. I'm assuming you go down on your wife, so why is the idea of sucking dick so bad for you guys? And just how much money would it take? Cuz I'd stand in for you for half. Are you saying you'd go down on BuddhaWife for half the price I'd blow a guy for? Well alrighty then, I call that win/win.

I'm a firm believer that everyone -EVERYONE- has a price at which they'd do just about anything. It may take some a lot more than others to perform any given deed, but all of humanity is corruptible, so it's really only a matter of price in my mind. And I don't consider myself any different, so the real question here is "what's my price?" Hmmm... that's difficult to answer. I suppose it would depend on the guy; and if I could conceivably pick an alternative torture instead, like jabbing a fork through my eye or watching an O'Reilly Factor marathon on the Faux News Network.