Christmas at My Mother's House

It's a little after nine in the evening when we pull into the driveway. The porch lights are on. I let our dog, Bo, out of the back seat and take him around the yard. In the dim light I can barely make out his stream of urine melting the snow, leaving a bright yellow hole.

My wife, Cathy, coming down with a cold, lingers in the car. Bo and I climb the stairs of the porch, and I wrestle with the two doors to let him inside. My mother stands in the yellow light of the kitchen, and breaks into a warm smile. She's seventy now, her hair salt and pepper. I can smell cigarette smoke. For the rest of the visit, she will do her best to smoke discreetly, sneaking out the the sun porch, but the time we get home our clothes will still smell.

She's wearing a bathrobe as she often does, but this is a different one. For as far back as I can remember, she wore a dark blue robe. When I was small she would hug me and sway when I was upset, and I would get lost in the folds and warmth.

Cathy comes in soon after, and we smile and talk. Cathy and I talk about the previous two days at Cathy's parents, and my mother tells about her visit to my brother. My brother had come to pick her up on Christmas Eve, and they had just returned shortly before our arrival. My mother is physically capable of driving but rarely does because of paralyzing anxiety. She only leaves the house when she has to.

In the living room, the television is on, tuned to Fox News. I will be doing my best to ignore it for the next couple of days, and I hope that Cathy and Ma won't argue over politics. For the moment, all is well as we sit around the dining room table catching up.

There is no tree or decorations. The entire family used to gather for Christmas at my grandmother's farm, and the house was full of decorations, presents, and people. Some years as many as twenty people would cram into the kitchen for the holiday meal. When Nan died, so did the our family traditions. Everyone does their own thing now. My mother chooses to mostly ignore Christmas.

As we sit and talk, the topics become melancholic. My mother is lonely, but trapped by her anxieties. She talks fondly of Christmases past, and glances to the present only with resignation. As we always do, Cathy and I will later talk about what we can do to help, but there's nothing that can be done. Every offer will be refused, every suggestion ignored.

As I lie in bed that night, I feel the weight of my inability to help, and I ponder what I can do to save my mother from herself. I have no answers.

The rest of the visit is pleasant, though tinged with sadness. I can still see my mother's strength and spirit beneath her sorrow. She was always calm, wise, and stoic, one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. While my grandmother was the emotional center of the family, it was my mother's strength that protected us. But now she was lost and without purpose, her fears no longer reined in by necessity.

When we leave, my emotions are mixed. I'm ready to get away from the sadness and cigarette smoke, but I ache with guilt for feeling that way. Once, Ma held me in the warmth of her blue bathrobe, and when she swayed the problems of the world faded. The bathrobe is gone now, as are so many things.

Excuse Me, Sir, But Your Pants Are Falling Off

Riding home on the bus, and some kid is sitting there with his pants hanging down low enough that it looks like he's taking a dump. I watch him get off the bus, holding his pants up. (What else do they have keeping them up if they're under his ass?)

This is fashion? This is what someone considers to be a good idea?

This has me rethinking my staid opinions on clothing. Perhaps I need to take my look in an exciting new direction. Underwear over my pants, perhaps? Or I could try a shirt 3 sizes too big. (Or 3 sizes too small. Genius!) Maybe I'll wear my pants backward. (Oh right, that one's been done. Kriss Kross will make you jump jump.)

No need to stop with clothing. How about the one eyebrow look? Not just for the guy that passed out at the party first anymore! (Whoever just made the crack about my mono-brow: fuck you.) How about shaving all facial hair except what's on my neck? Gross, you say? Awesome, I say.

Now, I'm no fan of couture fashion, or being part of the hive mind. I don't buy clothes every year to keep up with trends, and I'm not too concerned about what people think of how I look. But wearing your pants so low you have to hold them up? That's neither stylish nor smart in any way. It really has no redeeming qualities at all.

Except to say, I'm a complete fucking moron, laugh at me!

Congratulations, sir, mission accomplished.

"There ain't no devil, there's just God when He's drunk." - Heartattack and Vine

I resign myself to the fact that everything I have to say has already been said better by Tom Waits. (Full disclosure, I really mean Tom Waits and his wife, as they've been a songwriting team for over twenty years, but I hear his voice in my head. And his older stuff was all just him.)

Who else could cram so much pathos in three lines?

"It's a battered old suitcase
In a hotel someplace,
And a wound that would never heal."
- Waltzing Matilda

Shit. I couldn't convey that in an hour long drunken ramble.

How about these gems:

"They all pretend they're orphans,
And their memory's like a train.
You can see it getting smaller as it pulls away."
- Time

"You haven't looked at me that way in years,
But I'm still here"
- I'm Still Here

"I will leave behind all of my clothes,
I wore when I was with you.
All I need's my railroad boots,
And my leather jacket,
As I say goodbye to Ruby's arms
Although my heart is breaking.
I will steal away out through your blinds,
For soon you will be waking."
- Ruby's Arms

Throw some amazing and depressing music and melodies in the mix, and holy crap. Grab the booze if you want to make it to the end of the album.

So why is it that depressing music resonates so well?

I think it goes back to the old adage about crying alone. Happiness overflows and is shared like exploding champagne, but sadness can feel like trying to draw water from an empty well when you're dying of thirst. We may lean on others and find comfort in family and friends, but in the end, the hard times we bear alone.

That's where Tom Waits and all the poets of pain come in. You may be alone, but you can connect to someone that has been through similar things to what you're struggling through and is unafraid to share it with you.

I remember sitting in my grandmother's kitchen after she'd gone to bed, listening to The Wall by Pink Floyd over and over. Songs of hope and happiness would have rung false, like some cruel mirage, but to hear someone talk about the things he'd gone through brought human connection when it was needed most. I was not able to say things I need to say to another person, but Roger Waters was saying them to me. Finding that kindred spirit was the hope I needed.

However, there's an important corollary here: there has to be that little tinge of hope (or at least a lesson to be learned from the lyricists woe.) This may not be in every song, but there will be something on the album to latch onto.

This is perfectly demonstrated in The Wall, which ends with "Outside the Wall":

"Outside the wall, all alone, or in twos,
The ones who really love you,
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand,
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists make their stand.
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all, it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall."

Here Roger Waters shows the tragedy of his fictional character, Pink Floyd, who, despite all he's endured, is still loved. In letting his struggles build the figurative wall, Pink has blocked off the people that could have helped him.

I was that guy, building my wall. And Roger Waters came along and saved me from myself.

So give me sad songs sung by damaged souls, and raise a glass to their courage to share what they have endured. They survived, and so will we.

I don't need a happy song to convince me of that.

Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine

I stumbled upon an ad for the "Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine."

Where do I begin?

The first thing that pops into mind is those toy rock tumblers I always saw in the Sears catalog growing up. Throw some rocks in and hours later, they're worn smooth. Exciting!

Now I had to assume this invention wasn't to make meat smooth. Delving further, I discovered the tumbler both rotates the meat in a bath of marinade, but also sucks out the air in the container to marinade your meat in as little as twenty minutes!

This glorious, nay, indispensable item was a mere 54 dollars with free shipping.

Thank God someone has finally saved me from having to marinade my meats over night! The wait was unbearable. Sometimes you get home from work and need marinated meat, stat.

Now that I got the sarcasm out of my system, I want to know who would buy this item? (If you did please leave a comment, so I can mock you.) What people meet the following criteria?

• Enjoy marinading meats
• Think marinading takes too long
• Have 54 bucks to spend on useless junk
• Enjoy watching meat tumble
• Don't live with anyone that would mock them incessantly for buying a Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine

Since that narrows it down to, in my estimation, one person in America, I say enjoy your tumbler, my friend. Let the good times (and meat) roll!

In the Middle of a Proverbial Marathon/We're Out of Control

Hello, my name is Mike. I'm still fat.

We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.

I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.

But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.

That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.

Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.

Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.

We're out of control.

You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.

How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:

We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.

And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.

Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.

I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.

In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."

And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"

P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!

Random Thoughts Interspersed with Song Lyrics

The poets down here
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"

I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.

By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)

We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"

One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.

The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.

Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"

Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.

I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.

I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"

When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.

Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.

Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"

When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)

I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"

Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)

Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.

If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?

You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"

In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???

"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.

But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.

I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"

In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.

It's true, I swear.

On Turning 32

Next Wednesday the Mike odometer will flip over to 32. Some festivities are planned, but the date of July 15th, which once had such resonance in my life, is mostly just another day.

If anything, it's a time to reflect upon the things I've lost along the way, and appreciate the things I still have. Which is why I'll often have larger get-togethers around my birthday but save the actual day for a special, low-key evening.

When I turned 21, I received a birthday card in the mail from my grandmother. Inside, in her incredibly small writing, it said, You're a man now. Love Nana. A simple declaration, but profound to me. There are people in the world that can change you with only words.

I didn't know it then, but that card was a harbinger of the transition into adult life. College had been the last stop of my childhood. When I graduated, I was more confident, wise, and prepared, but many things were lost.

I could try to express what changed, but I can't really capture it in words. The world was simply less magical. There was less time to dream, less energy to do so even when there was time. Life became a series of jobs that had to be done.

I could pretend that life really hasn't changed. That I haven't lost much of the magic and excitement of childhood. But every July 15th serves as a reminder. Gone are the days when July 14th meant a sleepless night. When my head hits the pillow next Tuesday, I'll fall asleep quickly. And the next morning I'll get out of bed and catch the bus, because I have a job to go to. That's what adults do.

Song Demo: "Storm Coming"

First, let me explain what the difference is between and "Song" and a "Song Demo."

A song is a fairly rare occurrence. It's something I've written, play all the instruments on (except drums), and usually sing. Songs are indicative of a serious musical effort, something that represents whatever it is I'm trying to say with the musical abilities I have.

A song demo is something I come up with much more often. I use software to play around and write short pieces of music which are usually some combination of technical exercise, seed of a future song, or a raging slab of irony. The parts are all generated by the software, so there's no human playing going on.

The beauty of this is, unlike the old days of recording on an analog four track recorder, I can hear the songs before I've done all the work of recording them. When you record all the parts yourself, finding out that the song just doesn't work after several hours of recording is a bummer. Also, for me to really nail parts takes quite a few tries, so the software is great to hear things played well before I try and do it myself with dozens of takes per part.

So without further adieu, a song demo: Storm Coming

I was attempting to take a simple piano part and give it a much more active drum/bass background, with the timing a little weird to give a "skittering" effect, hopefully in a good way.

(More music can be found here.)

It Sucks To Be Sick

There is a very fine suite of medication I employ to feel healthy when illness hits me (more on this later), but sometimes, the offending malady is too strong and downright evil to be stopped by any amount of drugs. In this case it's a nasty head cold.

I thought I was going to escape major damage this time around. The drugs were keeping the worst of the symptoms in check. But then, last night hanging out with Cathy celebrating her charity 5k fun run with her co-workers, the shit hit the fan. I felt like total crap.

This sucked on many levels. For one, I was suddenly doing my best zombie impersonation. Secondly, what was a celebration time for Cathy now had one less than festive participant. Lastly, Cathy works with a really good group of people that I rarely see, so not being all there for the get-together was a bummer. Sorry guys.

Fast forward to last night as I was trying to sleep and coughing incessantly. I kept waiting for the pillow to cover my head so Cathy could put me out of my misery and get some sleep. At one point she asked in a groggy half-awake state, "Why are you so mad at me!" as if my coughing was an act of antagonism. When I did get to sleep, I started to dream about being sick. Also, probably because of how deeply I've been thinking through a coding project at work, I will admit with embarrassment that I dreamed that there was a bug in my breathing code, and until I fixed it I would continue to cough. I guess androids do dream of electric sheep.

Fast forward further to this morning and one of my least favorite things: waking up after a long night of cold mucous plugging up my head and lungs. The ritual is then a fresh does of drugs and the waiting game. Am I feeling well enough to go to work?

A few words about sick days. I never took a sick day until my mid-twenties. This had a lot to do with my mother, who is tough as nails and has the New England work ethic. She never took a sick day (as opposed to my dad, who didn't mind taking the odd year off of work). Part of the reason for this is simple: when you're making hourly wages (minimum wage, I might add), you don't get paid if you don't show up. There's no allotment of sick days like us salary boys get. Beyond that though, my mom just didn't need sick days. This is, after all, the woman who has been known to pull her own teeth to save dentist fees.

Because of this, I feel like a big wimp when I take a sick day. But what I've learned over the years is that I can't code when I'm sick. There's just too much mental processing, too many balls in the air at once, and all it takes is one cough or sneeze and you've lost it. Then you're spending several minutes picking them up and getting going again.

Also, when you cough all day, your co-workers want to lynch you. And if they get sick from you, they really want lynch you.

So when I decide to pull the plug on going to work and admit defeat to my head cold, I'm left with deciding how to best get through the day. Sleep would be good, but I just can stand the feeling of filling up with mucous. I also can't really focus long enough to do anything fun like read a book or watch a movie.

So I'm writing a blog entry. I think this must say a lot about how I write. That it's really mostly a stream of consciousness that requires very little active thinking. (This is kind of true, I just sit down and write in order, then read back once for typos.) And that I can lose focus repeatedly (like the 2 minutes I just spent feeling sorry for myself for being sick) and just jump back in where I left off . That's the beauty of writing: your words don't have to compile.

So I'm either going to resign myself to trying to sleep and all the grossness that will entail, or I may just wing out a couple more of these babies.

As promised, a word on drugs. When I have a cold, I use two things: an antihistamine called loratadine (aka Claritin) and the world's greatest decongestant, pseudoephedrine (the main ingredient in some, and formerly all, versions of Sudafed). For brevity's sake, I'll refer to pseudoephedrine as PE going forward. (As pointed out by my blogger buddy MommyDoc, Sudafed now has a non PE version that they've dubbed Sudafed PE, so just be aware that my use of the term PE is different than that of Sudafed's.)

PE is amazing, but it's now hard to get and many drug companies have stopped using it in their medication, replacing it with another drug that doesn't work as well (for me at least) and makes me drowsy (PE is actually an upper). The reason for this? PE is now strongly controlled because it is one of the ingredients needed to make meth. This means you can only buy one box at a time, and only at a prescription counter where you have to show id. My hunch is this will lead to the end of PE being used by drug companies eventually.

Now, I'm all for not allowing people to buy a dozen boxes of the stuff, but can't I at least buy one or two without going through a long process? If some drug dealer wants to run in and out of CVS stores buying two boxes at a time, I just don't care. I'm for educating people on the dangers of drugs, but you can't legislate common sense (or morality). And nothing is as sweet as forbidden fruit.

Oh God, that must be the cold medicine talking, since I hate political rants. Oh well, now you know how I feel about the "war on drugs." And that I hate being made to feel like a criminal because I want to buy medication that improves my quality of life and that I have no intention of abusing. And that I'm pissed that the difficulty of acquiring PE will most likely mean that it will eventually not even be available as a cold medicine.

Blame the pseudoephedrine. Perhaps we need to ban this dangerous drug all together. (Please don't, I'm only kidding. I need my PE!)

The Tale of Spanky McHanderson

Here's a story I tell with childish glee over and over, so might as well get it out there for everyone in one fell swoop.

This happened a few years ago.

I shared a long room with several developers at my job. We were coupled on long desks such that glancing to the side would allow you to see the other guy at the desk, and glancing the other way would look out the window. The angle my deskmate "J" sat made it easy for him to see a nearby hotel.

As you can imagine (and I bet your already did, you dirty bird), lots of shenanigans occurred at that hotel, and the occupants were often kind enough to leave the blinds open for us to enjoy the show. One fateful day, we got a show we didn't want to see.

J was typing away at his computer when he decided to take a quick window break and just look outside for a few seconds. I was typing away myself when I heard him bellow, "OH MY GOD!" before slapping his hands over his eyes. He turned his chair around and jumped up, walking away from his desk.

The immediate reaction to the several people in the room was, of course, morbid curiosity. We scampered around like animals at feeding time at the zoo, hustling to the window. Since I sat next to J I reacted quickest, looking over at the hotel, and witnessing a man I have since dubbed "Spanky McHanderson" in my mind.

First off, the windows at this hotel were floor to ceiling, so when the curtains were open, you had a full view of the goings on. Especially when the occupant was in the corner room, as was Spanky.

Mr. McHanderson was standing in the window, buck-naked. He looked to be middle-aged and slightly paunchy. He was also flogging the dolphin. Terms that come to mind are "going to town" and "with reckless abandon." This was not a sweet romance Spanky was having with his little fellow, this was a passionate tryst.

In short, McHanderson was really enjoying the view of Boston.

Exclamations of disgust erupted through the room in a shockwave, bringing more rubberneckers from beyond our room.

One person who came in had the immediate reaction to laugh at the sight, and then to reach for his cellphone to take a picture.

Quicker than you can say, "Dude, wtf are you doing?" (which we did in chorus), Spanky seemingly sensed his potential capture on film and disappeared, leaving us all both amused and traumatized.

Ever since that fateful day, I've pondered whether Mr. McHanderson hadn't realized people could see him, but that seems unlikely. It seems to me (in a horror story twist) that he wanted to be seen, and he was excited about it. The kind of excited you can go to town on. Shudder.

I feel so dirty. Spanky, wherever you are, you and your spanky ways have molested my eyes and scarred me for life. I hope you're happy.

Scary Things Pointed at My Head

Went to my bi-annual dentist appointment today. I had a sinking feeling throughout the day before my visit that this would be the time that all the warnings of, "We'll have to keep on an eye out on that next time," would finally catch up with me. I feared horrendous issues. Dates with drills and other sharp, scary things.

Turns out that my teeth were just fine, thank you. Things seemed to be so good, as a matter of fact, that I didn't get the usual warnings about my bad oral habits. I was shocked, to be honest.

But, there was one bump in the road. My hygenist informed me that it had been five years since my last set of full oral x-rays. She also explained that they had moved to a new computer based x-ray system. "It's easier because I don't have to develop x-rays anymore," she said happily, before noting, "But taking the x-rays is a bit harder."

This caught my attention, since the travails of x-ray development had been hidden from me, but, by golly, the actual taking part involved me and my poor little mouth.

She brought out what looked a bit like the usual apparatus: a metal bar with a large plastic loop on the not me end that was used for aiming the x-ray cannon. (I call it x-ray cannon because that's what it looks like when it's pointed at my head.) On the business end, where once had been a simple little piece of x-ray film, was a hunk of plastic with a rather intimidating cable protruding and running to a computer. It was about to be my joy to bite down on this sucker eighteen times.

First was the lead flak jacket for my chest (and more importantly, my genitals). After that was thudded into place, my first command to bite down was given, and with that uncomfortable hunk of plastic in my mouth and the x-ray cannon pointed at my head (my chest is protected, but what about my brain?), she ran from the room to pull the trigger.

I have a pretty strong gag reflex, so this exercise in painful repetition required a force of will on my part. Beyond that, for a couple of the x-rays, it hurt pretty ******* bad.

In case you're wondering, the word replaced by ******* is "fucking."

Now, this would all have been perfectly awful enough, except for one exciting twist. When I'm in a painful, awkward situation, I tend to giggle. Giggling is not the best way to go about having oral x-rays taken. It potentially messes up the x-rays, which can lead to more cannon fire, and more melted brain cells. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or my good friend and fellow blogger MommyDoc may have told me that.

Anyhoo, another symptom of giggling in the dentists office is you look pretty silly (or sexy and macho, at least that's what I tell myself). Based on the exasperation of my hygenist/sadist, I'll have to bet on silly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had been looking forward to torturing the poor sap that need the full x-rays to end her day, and here he was, laughing. I guess that's like hours of foreplay not only not leading to an orgasm, but resulting in an anti-orgasm where your genitals explode. Needless to say, she was not pleased with my inability to suffer properly.

After the last x-ray, I had the urge to proclaim, "That was the oral equivalent of a prostate exam!" In a rare moment of self censorhip, I did not.

The rest of the exam was unremarkable. Just the usual insufferable pain caused by sharp, pointy things digging into my gums under some pretense of dental health. Then the cameo by the actual dentist to pull at my lips as if I was Mr. Ed before patting me on the head and assuring that everything was just fine, scooter! (Okay, there was no patting of the head and the word scooter was not used, but it sure felt that way.)

So with the good news of no impending oral doom and a throbbing mouth, I made my escape, never to have to go back. Until January 5th. Fuck.

Greetings from the Gas Station

A quick walk to the corner gas station always lowers my faith in humanity.

First off, about the only reason I go there is to get soda and/or junk food, so I'm already in a self-loathing mode. This self loathing is further helped by one cashier that likes to remark on my purchases. "What, no Slim Jim today, buddy?" he'll ask with what appears to be a sincere, non-sarcastic smile. This throws me off. I'm always prepared to be mocked, and I'm ready to fire back. But he genuinely seems curious why I just don't want a Slim Jim today.

Which leads me to realize with a twist in my stomach that I buy so many Slim Jims at this place that not doing so is a remarkable event. Now my self-loathing gets a topping of shame, and I'm in the perfect mood to witness humanity.

There is always (and I really mean always) someone in front of me, often of advanced years, picking out scratch tickets with the intense scrutiny of a teenage boy that just found his dad's stash of Playboys. The sucker in question is staring those little pieces of cardboard down like there's a sure big winner in view and all it takes is a good look-see to find out which it is. Our gambler is basically undressing those poor, helpless scratch tickets with his/her eyes.

I'm standing there, jonesing for a sugar fix, staring at the back of the sucker's head as if my intense frustration just might make it explode. (If this ever works, I'll let you know.) Every time I fight the urge to explain the economics of scratch tickets. It's pretty simple: If you buy every scratch ticket on Earth, you will lose money. Therefore, if you buy a fraction of all the scratch tickets on Earth, you will most likely lose money. The only hope for profit is buying a few, hitting a winner, and quitting on the spot.

This doesn't happen. How do I know this? Because all those suckers buying tickets scratch them off mere seconds after purchasing them, and turn in any winners for more tickets. This leads me to wonder if someone hits a ten thousand dollar winner, will I see them everyday feverishly blowing through the winnings in hopes of more winnings? I think I know the answer to that.

I know I should feel bad for these people, since they are most likely addicts. I should also feel bad for smokers who come in and drop eight bucks for a pack of smokes that might last a day. Often, it's the same sad-sack getting both cigarettes and scratch tickets. And to be honest, I do kind of feel bad for them.

But you know what, I'm a lard-ass because I'm in a gas station, buying soda. If I keel over in ten years, it's my own damn fault. We reap what we sow, simple as that.

Speaking of weight problems, one more life-affirming anecdote. Yesterday, I was getting a soda, and I hear a young girl behind me ask her mother, "Can I buy this gum?" The mother's response: "No, because it's full of sugar and it will make you fat."

Beyond the debate of how fattening gum that you spit out actually is (and the cold, delicious soda in my paw has it beat for sure), telling a young girl something will make her fat is not what I'd call a recipe for a healthy self image. I'm sure the girl is glancing over at me and thinking that if she's not careful, she too will end up as tubby as the creepy guy lustfully gripping sugar water. I'm also sure this is not the first time her mother has warned her about becoming fat. The same impulse that made me want to lecture the gambler makes me want to really go off on this woman for destroying her daughter's fragile ego.

Then a voice in my head says, You know, drinking soda is really bad for you, so I pay for my poison and go my not-so-merry way.

The True Face Behind Many Masks

The most unsettling aspect for me of this modern age of social networking is that it removes the context of interaction. We all wear different masks in different situations, may even seem like completely different people. But when we lose those contexts on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs, do we remove all those masks and reveal our true selves, or do we instead adopt a one-size-fits-all persona, constructed to be the most comfortable for us regardless of audience?

This leads to even thornier question: who am I really? Which person is me? Husband, software developer, friend, family member, artist, loner. Each is subtly different (ok, maybe not so subtly different in some cases). Am I somehow all these things? This doesn't seem possible at first. However, I do think that I really am all these things, that I'm not "faking it" in certain situations, because the context is so important. When I'm at my work, I feel confident that I can perform my job and be a leader for my team. As an artist, I struggle with anxiety about the difficult questions of life. I can have contradictory feelings because I'm feeling them about different things.

What does that mean for a blog? I think it means that depending on the topic, different aspects of my personality will come out. Since my goal is to discuss art and life more than software development, you will see the artistic side of me more. I'll be more introspective, anxious, and moody. In other words, an artist. This makes sense since, frankly, the "get it done" side of my personality that comes out when there's a job to be done has no patience for rambling rants, instead preferring action.

Beyond all this, there is still an invisible wall that each of us have. For some, we may hide much more behind it than others. This is the place we keep our innermost feelings, and our history of hurts and weaknesses. I have in my life made a big transition. Much more is outside this wall than it once was. However, the artist in me wants to share more. (If you don't want to share parts of yourself, do you really want to be an artist?)

So, if you're willing to come along with me, you'll get a chance to know things that I have largely kept secret. There are some topics I'd like to one day discuss if I find the strength and confidence. And find the trust in the big scary world that lives on the side of the Internet. (You're all good, caring people, right?)

I'll give you a brief peek behind the wall. Some things I may one day write about: my father's alcoholism; my grandmother's death; a medical condition that causes chronic pain; and of course, gobs of insecurity, guilt, and occasional depression.

Lest you think this blog will be nothing but a drag, I'm still a world class smart-ass and can even be witty on occasion. And I will have art to share: fiction, poetry, and music. So stick around and see what happens.

I'm dying to know myself.

Here I Go Again

This is my second attempt at blogging. I created a rudimentary blog on my website and did some periodic posting, but my minimal effort in coding ensured the functionality was pretty lame. So I'm throwing in the towel and using a real blog site.

Before I get into the types of things I'll be talking about going forward, the first thing to state is why I'm bothering to do this at all. I claim no wisdom that the world needs to hear. I think I'm reasonably amusing, but I make no pretense that I will be the funniest, wittiest blogger you will stumble upon. My reason for wanting to blog is simple: I have always felt compelled to write, but have found the process so miserable that I rarely do. Instead of focusing on why I feel compelled to do something that makes me feel so miserable (that has to be some sort of mental illness, right?), I instead want to find a misery-free way to write. The hope is that when I get my mojo going with some not-so-serious blogging, all those short stories and *gasp* novels clogging up my head will have a chance to erupt forth. And if not, I'll have a nice forum to bemoan my clogged misery.

So, the stuff I want to write about: writing, of course; music, both things I love to listen to and thing I create as a hobbyist musician; life in general, and how bewildering it can be (hence the title); and, on occasion, thoughts on my day job, software development. Don't worry though, there won't be snippets of code and treatises on best practices. There are many resources that have far more knowledge in those areas than me. If anything, the area of software development I'd most like to discuss is the human side that is so often ignored. Software, after all, is made by people, thus communication and actually being able to stand each other is key. And well worth talking about, since both areas often don't go too smoothly.

Once caveat going forward: I may love to write, but that doesn't mean I'm great at spelling and grammar. I'm also a master at typos. Accept it people. That's why [sic] was invented, for people like me!

So, I hope at least a couple people follow along and have a little fun along the way. And if not, that's okay too; it reinforces the miserable writer thing.