Goodbye, Big Sister

When my mother died last year, I wrote a blog post that felt like it flowed through me. She was a lifelong smoker, so it had long left me dreading what would eventually happen: lung cancer.  When the disease struck, I had months to ponder my mother's life before she succumbed. Because of that introspection, I was able to quickly form all those thoughts and feelings into an essay I'm still proud of.

Today I find myself in a very different circumstance.  My sister Lisa has died, also after a battle with cancer. But I can't say that my thoughts are preprocessed: even with a couple months' warning, I'm still not ready to accept what has happened. She was supposed to have many more years ahead of her, and I can barely bring myself to believe that I won't see her again.

That false assumption may be what hurts the most. In recent years, we hadn't seen each other very often despite living about an hour from each other.  Life was busy, as it always tends to be. Stress piled on top of stress, and there was many miles to go before we slept. There would always be time later though. Maybe next year, or the year after, we'd make sure to get together and spend some quality time. The bitter lesson learned is that none of us knows how much time we have left, and tomorrow is a precarious place for plans.

But I prefer not to dwell on lost opportunities or wallow in sadness. I'd rather take a moment to celebrate my sister.

Lisa and I were yin and yang.  I was always quiet and shy and pragmatic; Lisa was outgoing and never let anything get in the way of her ideas.  I was the A student that studied all night; Lisa would calculate the lowest grades she could get in the last quarter of the school year to still pass and then party all night. I liked to keep to myself; Lisa enjoyed being with people. Yet when we were together, we complemented each other well. Lisa did an admirable job trying to pull me out of my shell, as much of an impossible mission as that was. I'd like to say that I also made her a bit more pragmatic, but again, she never let anything get in the way of her ideas.

Things got off to a rocky start between us.  She was seven years older, which is a prime difference for little brother annoyingness. Apparently there was even an incident that involved biting, though I don't remember it and am reluctant to believe it even happened. Still, many times over the years my mother would bring it up as the only time she actually spanked me.

But after a few bumps in the road, Lisa gladly stepped into the big sister role and guided me in the way only big sisters can.  She helped me get my first job at StoryLand and offered me advice on the perils of high school.  She even tried to get me to lighten up and party a little, though that effort failed. (All these years later, I wish I had taken that advice.)

After so many years of following our own paths, it's easy to forget how close a bond we had when we were younger. When my mother died, I looked through boxes of my old things stored in her attic.  In one of them I found a bunch of post cards Lisa had sent featuring pictures of heavy metal bands (I was the fan, not her) with anecdotes from a cross country trip she was taking neatly detailed on the back. (Our biggest difference is in handwriting: Lisa always wrote with beautiful, flowing script, and I can't even read my own writing.) This made me remember some of the silly things we did for each other, like how I'd leave little notes tucked into the front door for her to find when she came home late at night.

When I went to college, Lisa invited me to visit her on the weekends. After a short commuter rail ride, I'd be nestled in her big couch, watching TV and mooching food like only a college student can. (I ate a LOT of chicken fingers during those visits after I found a stash in the freezer.)  I never told her this, but those visits were a lifeline during the difficult transition of my college years.

After college, obligations came and time moved faster than it should. We saw each other less over the years, always relegating visiting plans to the purgatory of "soon." The most time that we spent with each other in recent years was during the long car rides to visit my mother during her illness. Sad journeys at the time, but I'm grateful for them now.

A few anecdotes are not nearly enough to express everything my sister was.  Saying she had a "heart of gold," may be a trite cliché, but it is also incredibly apt.  Lisa was caring and generous, and some of the biggest struggles she had in life stemmed from wanting to do too much for too many. A heart of gold, indeed.

I've always had struggles of a different kind. My pragmatism kept me focused on work to be finished and problems to be solved, and I spent a lot of time wrestling with dark thoughts on the edge of my mind and trying to make sense of things that don't seem to make sense.  Because of this, I lost time I could have spent with Lisa. But then, I always thought there would be tomorrow. I also didn't often make the effort to see Lisa simply because knowing she was out there in the world, the beautiful spirit that was the yin to my yang, was enough for me. I deeply regret thinking that way now, and I'm once again stuck trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense.

I don't feel I've done justice to the person my sister was, nor have I adequately expressed what she meant to me (nothing new for this shy little brother).  But in her honor, I say to anyone that reads this, beware what you expect tomorrow to bring, and hold tight everything you love today. There is no sadder phrase than, "too late."

"Aujourd'hui Maman Est Morte"

I remember reading that first line of Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class years ago in high school.  Tasked with translating a section of the book, I immediately got to work: I went to the library and took out the English version. While this was obviously cheating, I don't regret it because, instead of seeing a small piece of the book through the dirty lens of my poor French reading ability, I was able to consume the entire book in a couple hours.  A difficult, challenging work, it opened my mind to a school of thought well outside my small town experience. The protagonist Meursault, a true anti-hero, is in many aspects a deplorable character, and not someone to emulate. However, Camus used his experiences and actions to explore the role of man in the universe. I was enthralled.

I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus.  But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.

But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss?  Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears.  (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.

Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth.  What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia.  Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.

My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago).  I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan.  This was a blessing and relief for me.  I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.

As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother.  She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it.  Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage.  Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long.  I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house.  This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.

Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down.  I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship.  She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.

Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life.  Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities.  There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve.  I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.

I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured.  Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her.  But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.

However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home.  I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel.  Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.

I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel.  I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding.  And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up.  One of my favorite memories.

I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety.  She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and  often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home.  I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.

The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain.  I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing.  My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.

I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle.  I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears.  She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit.  She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end.  Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies.  That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote.  But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart.  She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally.  I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.

Impersonal Pieces of Data

I should call more often.  It's the right thing to do, the loving thing to do. And certainly, I often intend to, and never explicitly decide not to.  But I know in the back of the mind how I'll feel when I hear her broken voice, her complaints of pain. How someone else's suffering can hurt more than anything you experience yourself if you love that person enough.  And if anything is certain, it is that I love her.

So I find myself at the end of the day realizing I forgot to call, long after it's too late and she won't have the strength to talk.  Not an intentional oversight, of course.  Time just got away from me. That's what I tell myself to feel better, but it doesn't work.  I feel weak and cowardly, awash in self-loathing.

So I build a scaffolding of schedule to hold myself to, so there's no excuses, no way to hide from such minimal duty.  These are the days I will call, and that's the way it is.  I take a deep breath before I pick up the phone, prepared to feel the ache of powerlessness. I budget time after each call to recover, ashamed to require such a luxury when I'm not the bedridden one.

There are visits, of course. But I won't talk of these as some things are too personal and private to share. Though I will admit the worst parts of those visits replay in my mind, the machinations of a guilty conscience that exerts itself during some happy moments.  The human mind compartmentalizes to help us cope and continue to exist while bad things are happening, but it also holds a tormenting presence that finds such mental trickery reprehensible.  It's a house divided against itself.

My wife, supportive and loving, wants to help me but struggles with how matter-of-factly I deal with things.  "I feel depressed," I will tell her with same tone I'd use to remark on the weather.  Whatever storms of feeling are below the surface, they manifest themselves as impersonal pieces of data.  As someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, she doesn't know how to help when I process my emotions in this way, communicating them like an impartial spectator recounting an event on the news*.

I'm saying all this because I don't want to say any of it, and forcing myself  to talk about these feelings is (probably) a healthy thing to do, even if it makes me feel silly and exposed. There has to be some strength in admitting weakness, even if it doesn't feel that way, and strength is exactly what I need right now.

* I've written about some of the more difficult aspects of my childhood that may be part of the reason for this.  

Hiding Behind Fiction

My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.

The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.

Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.

When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.

"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"

I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.

"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."

As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.

"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."

As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.

"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."

I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.

On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.

"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."

After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.

I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.

"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."

I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?

"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.

You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."

It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.

But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.

It's the only way to end the war inside my head.

My Favorite Albums

Now that songs are just something you shuffle on your iPod, the age of the album is dead.

I have always been an album guy, and have fought the implications of the mp3 age, but even I find myself often just listening to a song or two instead of an entire album before moving on to another band. There was a time when I'd put a cd on and just listen start to finish. Back when artists had to actually worry about making enough good music to fill an album.

So in a sad celebration of a bygone age, I'd like to tell you about my favorite albums.

These albums are fairly diverse, but share some common traits. Foremost, they all have strong emotion. I react to music where an artist is showing true feelings, whatever they may be.

Emotion by itself is, of course, not enough to elevate an album to greatness. These albums also express those emotions through powerful lyrics and enthralling music. Lyrics are so important to me that I'll share a sample lyrics from each album that resonate with me.

So with no further adieu, in alphabetical order, some of my favorite albums.

Boys for Pele by Tori Amos

I have to admit, Tori Amos has always frightened me a bit, After all, if I'm to believe the album title, she wants to throw me in a volcano (google it). I was also never sure if the references she made to fairies was just being cutesy, or if she really frigging believes in Fairies.

Regardless of this (and some may say irregardless, because they're idiots), this album is phenomenal. The songs feature her on piano or harpsichord (yes!) with minimal accompaniment, and are uniformly haunting and mesmerizing. It's also a break-up album, which loads the album with the emotional outcry I yearn for in music.

The one knock I have is that the lyrics can get a bit surrealistic (what's this about the Pope's rubber robe?), but when she plays it straight, they hit like a punch to the stomach:

You say you packed my things
And divided what was mine
You're off to the mountain top
I say her skinny legs could use sun,
But now I'm wishing
For my best impression
Of my best Angie Dickinson
But now I've got to worry
Cause boy you still look pretty
When you're putting the damage on

Funeral by Arcade Fire

An album written in response to a series of funerals band members had to attend, Funeral drips with feeling. I'm a sucker for the moment in the song when the singer's voice breaks with emotion. When Win Butler sings, "Then we think of our parents, well what the hell ever happened to them?!" that's exactly what happens. Considering the inspiration for the album, it's just one powerful moment in an album full of them.

Sample lyrics:
You change all the lead
Sleepin' in my head to gold
As the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn,
The song I've been trying to sing

In the Aeroplane by the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel

Perhaps my favorite album of all time (and "Two Headed Boy" is a contender for my favorite song of all time). It has everything I look for, though the lyrics can lean a bit too surreal, much like Tori. Still, I love to put on my headphones and listen to this start to finish.

Sample lyrics:
And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me, me

P.S. This album also has the two most angst-filled lines in music history, imho:
Your father made fetuses with flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother were asleep in the trailer park.

P.P.S. Their only other album really sucks. Sigh.

Midnight Organ Fight by Frightened Rabbit

Depression after a hard breakup seems to be a gold mine of inspiration. That's what this album tells me. It takes some effort to get me to think, Dude, you're more fucked up than even me. You need a hug! but this album pulls it off.

But even as Scott Hutchinson wallows in misery, whether comparing himself to an emotional leper, or beseeching someone to sleep with him even if she doesn't know his name because he needs "human heat," there's the glimpse of hope that for me is the most powerful aspect of melancholy music. If the album was a series of, "Everything sucks and I'm going to kill myself," why would anyone listen to it?

Instead, we have these lyrics:
Am I ready to leap
Is there peace beneath
The roar of the Forth road bridge?
...
These manic gulls scream it's okay
Take your life give it a shake
gather up all your loose change
I think I'll save suicide for another year

O by Damien Rice

A guy with a guitar and minimal accompaniment singing his heart out. What else can I say? Bonus points because he's Irish.

Sample Lyrics:
What I am to you is not real
What I am to you, you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I'll ask for the sea

Plans by Death Cab for Cutie

I could say a lot about this great album, but it's all trumped by the time in my life when I got to know it. It was as if I was meant to hear this album at that time, to share hard feelings with someone else.

So all I can say is, as my grandmother lay dying in a hospital bed, I heard these words:
'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said, that "Love is watching someone die"

Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol

Interpol is easily my favorite of the rash of "retro" bands that came out a few years ago. They took the Joy Division mantle and ran with it. The album can feel a bit cold and distant, but that can convey as much as a voice cracking with emotion.

Sample Lyrics:
You are the only person
who's completely certain
there's nothing here to be into

Undertow by Tool

I've always been a fan of heavy music, but too often it's generic and juvenile. Variations on either "fuck you" or "I'm an elf prince" set to the same old guitar riffs you've heard for the last 30 years just doesn't cut it.

Back in the early 90s, I caught a video on a late night music show, and I was absolutely stunned. The music was heavy, but unlike anything I'd heard before. The lyrics were personal and introspective. And the video itself... holy shit. A new high-water mark in heavy music had been reached in my view.

It took a while to find the album since they hadn't hit it big yet (but they soon would.) When I finally did find it, the entire album was at the same high level. And more amazing videos would follow.

Sample lyrics:
Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start this over
I am just a worthless liar
I am just an imbecile
I will only complicate you
Trust in me and fall as well

The Wall by Pink Floyd

If I have to pick the album that has affected me most, this is it. Never is music more powerful than when it shows you that someone else has had similar experiences to you. When I first heard The Wall, I knew that I wasn't the only person that felt the way I did. You learn as you get older that everyone is struggling with demons, but when you're a teenager, everyone else seems to have it together. I knew I didn't. And apparently Roger Waters didn't have it together either.

The most important aspect to this album to me, however, is that it is a mountain you climb as you progress in your life. At least that's what happened to me. When I was an angry teenager struggling in what felt like a hostile world, the album seemed like a blueprint: If I build a wall around myself, no one can hurt me anymore. I'll be safe.

Then one day, when you're older and have gained more perspective, when you reach the peak of the mountain and see what's on the other side, you realize this is just what the album is cautioning you not to do. Roger Waters had built that wall, and it was a terrible mistake. The day I realized this, my life was changed. And that's why this is such an amazing album.

Sample lyrics:
All alone, or in two's
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

With All Due Respect by The Young Dubliners

This is an album of classic Irish folk songs (and a couple Pogues songs) done as rock songs. Being Irish, and a lover of Irish music, this one is a slam dunk for me. Especially since Irish music has the emotion I seek in spades.

Sample lyrics:
On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day
...
Oh I loved too much and by such, by such
Is happiness thrown away

(I have to say I love the repetition of "by such," which implies to me such emotion that the singer is catching his breath and has to start the line over. Of course, it's probably just filling a measure, but I prefer my interpretation.)

The consistent greatness dilemma

Several of my favorite bands are not on this list, and these bands of course have made some of my favorite albums. The problem is, I can't pick one of their albums as a favorite. So instead of listing of several albums by each band, here are a bunch of bands that have too many great albums to list (and some that suck, so be warned):

Eels
The Frames
Hayden
Iron Maiden
Jethro Tull
Okkervil River
Radiohead
Josh Ritter
Bruce Springteen

Tough Love for My Testicles

It was an event that has to happen every so often. Considering it's been eight years since the last time, it was overdue.

I had a physical.

Now, I have a queue of excellent excuses for why it's taken so long to get back to a doctor's office.

There was how my previous doctor canceled an appointment, leading to me procrastinating before making a new one. After all, I thought we had a special connection, and he went and just canceled. Was I supposed to go running back to his arms without letting him feel a slight chill from my cold shoulder?

Of course, he decided to join Doctors Without Borders (or something similar, hell if I can remember) before I could go crawling back, so that ended that relationship.

A replacement doctor took his place, so I was all set. Almost. Turns out, Dr. I-Can't-Remember-Her-Name-Because-She-Never-Saw-Me wasn't setup with my insurance yet, so I'd have to wait until her paperwork went through for another physical.

Then she left the hospital, and I was a man without a doctor.

Most people would rectify the situation, especially after the nagging letters started coming from the insurance company about needing a new PCP. But I had been burned twice, and my heart was still tender. I was in no rush to race back to a medical relationship that would leave me feeling so ignored and, yes, unloved.

Add on to this the fact that the worst news of my life is most likely to come in a doctor's office, and my subconscious mind had no problem whispering thoughts of procrastination into my hospital-phobic head.

So eight years passed.

Now, when it comes to medical mentality, my wife and I are polar opposites. When she gets a splinter, she wants to run to the hospital to make sure it won't make its way to her heart and kill her in her sleep. And if I were to cut off a hand, I would most likely explain to her, "If I just rinse it with water, it should be fine."

(This showed itself in one of the more horrific events of my college years. I managed to put a gash in head by being a total jackass. It involved a high jump down a flight of stairs with a low overhang. As I sat with blood literally gushing down my face, the EMT tried to take me to the hospital. When I attempted to talk my way out of going, he simply stated, "Do what you want, but you'll have to sign a waiver." Only the threat of Northeastern being free and clear of the lawsuit I had in the back of my mind made me agree to going to the Emergency Room. That low overhang was their fault, damn it, not my idiocy and deciding to jump down flights of stairs.)

My wife goes to a women's clinic, and is quite fond of her doctor. She's also sick of me blowing off routine medical checkups. This led to her making me an appointment.

So I went, and here's what happened.

I arrived at the clinic feeling a bit awkward. After all, it's a practice for women. Cathy had assured me that husbands are welcome, but when I arrived, the place was, as they say in French, sans sausage. I felt like the creepy guy in a movie that's trying to find his wife in a woman's shelter who had run away after years of abuse.

Pushing that feeling aside, the signing-in/waiting room process was quite nice, actually. Then a friendly medical assistant took me to the "pod" and did the whole height/weight measurement.

(I was pretty happy at this point, since Dr. "I'm going to go save the world" had basically called me a tubby son-of-a-bitch when we last met, and now I was 40 lbs lighter. This was also my first line of defense when this doctor made the old BMI reference and alluded to the fact I was still a tubby son-of-a-bitch. The "I just lost a lot of weight," angle was a sure-fire way out of the healthy living speech I'd heard way too many times already.)

So Dr. Y arrived after a long wait, and things went well. She did the usual interview. Family medical history, current medical issues, etc. We discussed my least favorite health topic, the numerous lipomas that dot my torso and arms, a chronic source of minor pain. She gave me the same advice I'd heard before: they were so small and numerous as to no merit removal unless they grew bigger or hurt more. No surprises there.

We moved on to the disrobing part of the festivities. There's a certain ritual to this process, one I almost disrupted by being ready to simply get naked as soon as she told me I'd need to put on a johnny. (When a woman tells me to get naked, I don't dilly-dally.) Then the voice of reason in my head reminded me that is was not appropriate to remove clothes yet, and waited for her to leave before I switched attire.

When she returned after what I have to assume to be another patient visit (it took a while), the typical poking and prodding ensued. Then she started talking about my testicles, and things went downhill fast.

My testicles are, by and large, my good buddies. Now Dr Y was telling me about all the horrible things that could happen to them, with cancer being at the top of the list. This kind of information makes me giggle nervously. (That's right, I literally start giggling. Sigh.)

She then informed me she was going to teach me how to give myself a testicle examination. I had heard tips in the past about this process, but this was going to be a show-and-tell.

It started innocuously enough, with her feeling the lymph nodes in the crooks between my legs and crotch, having me feel them as well. Then she proceeded to the Boys.

In my memory, I swear she said, "You really have to roll them around." She might have used a different wording than that, but she proceeded to treat them like a pair of marbles free to roll around in sack. My giggling really kicked in now, and I fought the urge to scream, "THEY'RE ATTACHED IN THERE!!!"

Now, one question I've been asked a couple times by women is, is there a risk of getting... "excited" by this attention? For me, the answer is no for two simple reasons:

1. There is nothing sexy about a doctor's office and a cancer exam. I don't care if a naked super model was giving the Boys a look-over, Mr. Happy is not going to salute.
2. While some guys may dig ball abuse (and some go as far as to pay for the service, I've heard), my little buddies do not like being worked over. It only makes me giggle nervously.

As a matter of fact, I have some free advice for the ladies: If your man is in the mood and you're not, ask him when was the last time he examined himself for cancer. He'll go from ripe banana to elephant trunk faster than you can say "flaccid."

(And also, I know every women reading my bitching is thinking, "At least you don't need an exam that involves a speculum!" I do not, and I'm very grateful about this. And I'm sorry you do.)

So anyway, back to my testicles getting worked over. The process was so uncomfortable for me that after she was finished, it took me a minute to realize that she had not proclaimed the Boys riddled with malignancy. Hurray, little buddies! You're not (currently) trying to kill me.

This brought us to the end of our little adventure. She told me to get dressed and head to the lab area to get blood drawn and a tetanus and pertussis shot. The lab tech proceeded to draw the blood and was ready to send me packing before I pointed out that the tetanus shot was checked off as well. (Gotta be on your toes at a hospital.)

Then I was off to the rest of my day, a bit sore, but otherwise in good health.

I may even do it again before eight years pass.

PS: That tetanus shot is hurting like a mother fucker right now...

Life of a Code Monkey

It happens at every party. I'm chatting with someone I just met, and he asks me what I do for a living. (It's always a he, women don't talk to me at parties.) I tell him I'm a computer programmer, and his eyes glaze over. For however long I decide to talk about my profession, he'll nod at the right times, and make the occasional "mmm" of interest, but he's checked out, judging at what point it would no longer be rude to talk to someone else.

This doesn't bother me, because if you're not part of the club, software development is a boring jumble of jargon and acronyms. Also, as essential as computers are, no one wants to know how they work. They're like cars: as long as they get us where we're going, we don't give a shit about what's under the hood.

But I've decided to explain the life of a code monkey, and you might just find it interesting if you come along for the ride. This will be no party patter full of vague pleasantries, this will be the straight dope. So just step right this way.

The most important thing I have to say about the software industry is that I love the former and hate the latter. Software can be exhilarating. It can even be artful, if you're not afraid to look under the hood. But just like any art form, it must be translated into a monetary value if you plan to eat. That means art becomes a business, and business is the domain of businessmen. For businessmen, there is no art, just products and profits. Welcome to the industry.

But for a moment, let's hold the beasts at bay and live in a code monkey utopia. For someone who really cares about software, how you build something is just as important and what you build. For the end user, it can be very hard to tell how well a piece of software is constructed. Certainly, if a program doesn't work properly and is filled with bugs, it's easy to measure its quality. But two developers could produce two programs that, in the user's eye, are identical. Yet one of them may be a masterwork crafted by a talented artisan, while the other is held together by duct tape and is just sufficient enough to earn a paycheck.

In a short period, this difference may not matter to the user, but if he has to live with an evolving piece of software over time, the difference will become apparent. Every change that is made will lead to many problems in poor software. In good software, the changes have much less effect and are much quicker to implement. When another code monkey comes along to maintain a product, he will curse the paycheck collector and praise the artisan. (Briefly, before complaining how much better it could have been done. More on that in a second.)

So for a software artisan, there is a passion to deliver what a user needs, and lay the groundwork for what will be one day needed. This will be done in as simple a manner as possible, but no simpler. It will be fairly easy to understand (compared to other code, at least) and it will be elegant. It will feature the latest ideas and patterns from the thriving community of other passionate programmers. For the layman, it will just be a piece of software that will be cursed when it doesn't do things as well as expected, and taken for granted otherwise. For a code monkey, it will be art.

Chasing this grail of great code is an intoxicating process. When I'm in the zone with no distractions, time disappears. The world fades away, and there's only the code emerging before me and the endless battle of making the computer concede to my whims. Suddenly I'll realize that the day is almost done and I haven't even had lunch yet. Anyone who has thrown himself into art of any sort will know this experience.

I wanted us to stay in my little code monkey utopia for a while. I was hoping the visit would last until the inevitable arrival of the suits. I could keep talking about the joy of making great software, the rush of struggling with a problem for hours to finally solve it, or the glorious feeling when a fellow code monkey looks at your work with awe. But the clouds have come, and the rain is starting to fall.

The price of chasing the software grail is the never-ending need for scholarship. The fundamentals of development evolve constantly, and how to apply them changes even more rapidly. Best practices and patterns have to be followed on an almost daily basis to stay current. Imagine being a writer and having to buy a new dictionary every few years because the current one just doesn't apply anymore. Imagine awaking from a ten-year coma to find you can't even read your favorite author's latest work. Such is the life of a code monkey.

Another problem is that even before we have to submit our creations to the product machine, we code monkeys have to co-exist. To keep the contrast going with writing, imagine writing a novel with ten other people. How far would you get before things would end so very badly. Even if you agreed to an over-arching plot and who would write which chapters, the fact is that disparate parts have to make sense as a whole. That means a lot of communication and compromise. And code monkeys, like any artists, have plenty of pride and ego.

Throw in a few writers who are just there for the sweet writer paycheck (okay, the analogy breaks down here, but let's move on), and suddenly you may feel like Cormac McCarthy writing the conclusion of a story that Dan Brown began and features a middle section contributed by Stephanie Meyer. (And if you're a fan of either writer, I'm very sorry, on many levels.) Even worse, imagine you have to add content between those writers. On a good day, you'll think you put Cormac's prose to shame, and on a bad one, you'll feels as if you abuse the English language even worse than Dan and Stephanie combined.

Despite these challenges, software can still come together in greatness, and despite all the brotherly fights amongst code monkeys, there's still mutual respect. If the only challenge was to deliver great software, developers could work together well enough to achieve that goal.

But software has to be sold. Which means it has to be done before someone else does the same thing. And even if you finish first, if someone else makes it cheaper or better later, you have to react or be put out of business.

There's the b word. Let's begin our descent into darkness.

I mentioned that, on a superficial level, code of vastly different quality can look the same. Better quality takes time, and time is money. That means that the quicker software is built, the happier the businessmen are. While poor code will be more expensive in the long run, and will potentially alienate users (now called "clients" in business parlance), to many profit-driven minds, the equation is simply that money now is better than money later.

Before I paint too bleak a picture, I can't say that every sales-oriented person in the software industry is short-sighted and greedy. There are many people who "get it" and understand the big picture. Some even respect the art of software.

But software has to be sold for software to be made. Someone has to sell it. That means the good guys have to compete with the slimiest, most dishonest jerk at the sleaziest company that ever managed to stay in business long enough to shit out some software (or at least promise to one day shit out software.)

Thus, the life of a code monkey is building something in the time frame that was promised in order to make a sale. To go back to the writing analogy one more time, imagine getting a call from your agent that you have to write a 500 page teenage vampire novel in four weeks. (Insert your own Stephanie Meyer joke here.)

So in that situation, what does a code monkey do? That's the hard reality of being a software developer. We care. We want to make art, but we also have to make a product. So we do our jobs the best we can, balancing what was sold with what we yearn to make. We deliver a book that's half the expected length in twice the promised time. We stick to the theme, but do our best to make it a meaningful, worthwhile creation. The client grumbles about the disparity between promise and product, but is satisfied in the end.

The result may be flawed, but damn it, it is art.

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.

"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.

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.

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!)

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.