Category: general

Where I put something when I’m too lazy to categorize it.

Posted on

they weren’t that far off


Well, it’s 8pm on Wednesday night and I’ll be leaving for the airport in about 30min to retrieve my wife and daughter. At long last, our family reunited. Sharaun’s feeling better, but not 100%. She called from Chicago during her layover, and I heard Keaton in the background playing in a rocking chair. Taking a suggestion from a friend more thoughtful than I, I stopped off after getting a haircut today to pick up a mylar Backyardigans “Happy Birthday’ balloon which I’ll use as a welcome home prop for Keaton at the airport. I didn’t get anything for Sharaun, I hope that’s OK (that’s OK, right blog?). Anyway, I wrote just a tiny bit upon getting home from work today (I split a little early for lack of concentration). Here it is, be warned: I took license.

It’s been a thousand years or more since I bedded the woman under the sun.

I remember it fondly because our communal joy was used as the basis as a new religion, the point-infinity of zero-time in which the people of that world consider consciousness to have begun. As trees thrashed in the soil, our wrestling drove up mountains, broken and shattered peaks looming around us in the midst of our eternal ecstasy. Our fantastic perspiration dotted the firmament with a flood of salty oceans and seas. Living beings sprang forth from the union of our flesh, animals winged and legged sprouting where we brushed, budding from the rich loam of our combined corpus, pushing through that single-skin and living, breathing. The sound of our tryst established the pantheon of world-language, each rumbling low and trilling high adding depth and soul to spoken word, the genesis of communication.

Each coordinated push of our bodies establishing the regular cadence of time, the cradle of eternity, the friction of our motion warming the surface of the world and giving life to all manner of plant and flower. Beauty bloomed around us, tickling our ticklish bits as it pushed through to touch our flesh and bend to the sun of our union. The fluid results of our strained efforts being the Philosopher’s Stone, that golden egg from which all base and divine sprang and will one day return – Aqua Vitae. As breath filled the first lungs ever to breathe, some of those infant-beings glimpsed our culminating love and the imprint of that God-Union was burned red-hot into their consciousness, destined to be collectively passed down and re-interpreted throughout time, understood and misunderstood by the legacy human froth spilled foaming from our joy.

They called it the Big Bang, and they weren’t that far off.

How’s that for blasphemy? Goodnight and happy Lent.

Posted on

you can likely guess


Last day of my bachelor weekend. I didn’t clean anything, didn’t lift a finger. I’m not surprised at all. The motivation is weak with this one. I’m sitting here listening to some Steely Dan the iPod deigned to shuffle up, sounds good in the early evening of a lazy Sunday night. Seriously, when I say lazy, I mean lazy.

My entire day’s activities: Woke up, filled up the Ford on the way to church, church, home, put on the iPod and unsuccessfully fight napping for five hours before going over to Melissa’s for a fine meal. It was a shamefully unproductive day, with so much time wasted – I loved it. Sharaun and Keaton get home tomorrow, that is, unless she decides to push their flight back a day because she’s not feeling well – last time I talked to her she was battling a 102° fever. Not fun flying with a baby on your lap in those conditions, I’d think. We’ll see.

Today I figured I’d lead the week with a long-overdue update to my sixty-days-on-penis-pills adventure. I know it’s been a while since my last update (here, for those who’ve already forgotten or are new to the bit), but I just haven’t had the urge to do the all the ruler and GIMP work that’s necessary to make an entry. But, with a weekend home alone to kill and not spending my time doing anything productive, it seemed like a fruitful time. Now then, let’s catch up on what this whole thing is actually about: I’ve been taking the “natural male enhancement” pill Enzyte now for forty-five days.

For the full backstory, read about the original Enzyte idea here, and check out the first and second set of results I’ve already reported).

During this forty-five days many fun and wonderful things have happened in my life. Unsurprisingly, none of those many things has been measurable penile growth. Yeah, that’s right, absolutely nothing has changed… not a single centimeter. Not that I expected much. So, as I’m sure you already expected, here’s this update’s visual-aide graph of my growth. Showing all of nothing.

(Learn how to interpret this chart here.)

And, folks, you now know why I’m not so hot to update the progress every week. I decided a few weeks back that these pills are bunk, and don’t expect a thing in the world out of my last fifteen days. And, if the Enzyte industry tries to offer me another free thirty days… well… maybe I’d take that, you know, fo rth e skae of th bolg.

Goodnight.

Posted on

topic-jumping


Hi internet friends (and real life friends interacting with me through the internet at the moment). Feeling a bit on the mend today, I managed to bang out a few hundred words on the computer in between sleeping and going through the sweating/freezing cycles. Kind of a patchy entry today, with an iPod-only bit that I wrote split out and posted randomly yesterday between then and now (scroll down if you think you might be interested). Splitting that out is part of my new plan to optimize some parts of content for search results, I’ll talk more about that sometime later if I remember. Let’s do this.

I’ve told you guys here before about Sharaun’s recent involvement in this “teen moms” program. She volunteers one night a week to get a bunch of women together to cook dinner for young teen mothers. During the dinner, the moms get to drop their kids off with provided childcare, and then get a chance to visit with the older women – where they presumably teach them basic life-management skills like balancing a checkbook or getting whites their whitest (or, for you feminists, snaking a drain, changing the oil, or negotiating a hostile takeover). As I commented last time around, I see this as quite an admirable donation of time and effort, and I’m glad she’s the kind of person who wants to help like that (Lord knows it’s not my bag, at least not as a full-time thing).

Anyway, she told me a “funny” story about her last session. Apparently, two new teen moms showed up for the evening, and she was directing them to where they drop off the babies prior to dinner. I guess some of the young mothers sometimes bring nothing but their kids, meaning no bottles, no diapers, no nothing. Just a baby and themselves. These girls, however, had both brought diaper bags and left them with the nursery workers, mentioning that there were snacks inside for the two and three year-old kids should they get hungry. When Sharaun heard that, she said she gave some silent applause in her head for a couple younger moms who were thinking ahead and prepared, unlike some of the others. Turns out though, that she later learned that the “snacks” the moms brought were a bag of Cheetos and a baby bottle full of soda. Yeah, that’s right. Cheetos and soda. Oh dear lord, it almost made me wanna cry. Hopefully this support group reviews the FDA pyramid at some point…

Gonna be a topic-jumper tonight, here we go.

I hate the unpredictability of male urination. What happens 95% of the time when I pee isn’t necessarily what will happen the other 5% at all. Most of the time everything goes OK. But, there’s the element of the unknown that you’re always up against. Will something, seen or unseen, somehow deflect your flow? If so, will your compensation fail when that same something, seen or unseen, disappears mid-act, returning your flow to it’s normal trajectory? God forbid that some something, again seen or again unseen, actually bifurcates your flow into multiple sub-flows, each one as unmanageable as the other and no one safe place to aim the distribution. Women seem to have this a lot easier, sitting down, apparatus entirely contained… Maybe it’s the Lord’s way of making up for the whole childbearing thing. Wouldn’t want to have to do that…

And now I’m done. But…

Before I go, I wanted to pass along a couple links I stumbled on while infirmed on the sickbed in our living room. First, remember my old fascination with the “pizza bomber” case? Well, I’d heard there was some break and that the whole thing would be tied up nice and tight soon, but this MSNBC article whet my appetite for those closing details. I’m sure someone like 48 Hours or Dateline has their episode dedicated to this bizarre crime all written and shot but for the ending. C’mon March. Next, and last, this list of humorous children’s science fair projects had Sharaun and I laughing today. Funny stuff.

Well, I’m spent. Time to hit the hay and hope for better feelings in the morning, because I’ve got to go to work one way or another. Goodnight.

Posted on

a nice way to start the day


As the doors of the elevator slid closed this morning at work, entombing me momentarily with four strangers, I had a head-snapping moment: I got a waft of the large blob of a woman who had taken position next to me.

Globular and short, she appeared to be experiencing much higher G-forces than the other passengers and I, for she seemed to be smooshed down into herself, her neck all but disappeared and her legs compressed to stubs. As I pondered the dimensional aberration she must have unwittingly stepped into, wondering just how much more gravity weighted her down inside that anomalous hole in the astrophysical norms of the universe, her scent brutalized my nose.

Now, here, I’m sure you’re expecting me to make a crack on this poor woman’s odor as somehow related to her size – not so, though, dear readers. The scent that tickled my nose was not objectionable in the least. In fact, she stank ripe and sweet of some familiar perfume – the perfume of a girl I used to think I was in love with. It was such an olfactory revelation to smell that scent again, a tug on the lapels from times past, flooding thoughts of the present with old memories instead. So powerful is that tie in my psyche that I actually had to take another look at the woman beside me. Nope; still large and largely unattractive; bummer. And anyway, the lumbering cables hoisted us to where we were going and we parted ways.

Was a nice way to start the day.

Transition.

Today we traveled.

After two hours of delay in California, including a repaired hydraulic line, boarding and a taxi out, finding out the repair introduced air in the line and trashed the pump, and a taxi back in to move everyone to a new plane, we’re finally in the air and on our way to Oregon. Keaton held up well considering the long wait and lack of nap, her spirits buoyed by an ad-hoc dinner of chicken nuggets and a lot of walking around in the terminal. She’s restless now in the empty seat between Sharaun and I, but at least she’s behaving. At this point, I just want to be there (Keaton and Sharaun too, I’m sure.)

Back in California, the warm sunny weather is making me shamefully aware of the sad state of my yard. Winter weeds, fed by constant rains, have completely overrun my planter strips and any other patch of bare ground capable of sprouting seed. My grass is coming out of its cold weather hibernation and brownly awaits some Spring fertilizer, and my downed fence is still ghetto-propped with 2x4s. Plus, that the 10′ x 10′ patch in my front yard that’s gone unplanted since I had to drive machinery over it while building our retaining wall is really starting to get to me. I’ve decided, then, that I’m going to spend some money and fix it all. Gotta get things in shape for summer… Beer. Beef. Summer.

Goodnight from the North friends, think of me tomorrow in your sunshine as I’ll be mired in the rainy gray of Oregon.

Posted on

my geriatric symphony


(I think I’ve stolen that image to accompany a blog before… right?)

Monday night and it’s a bit of a jostled beehive here as we’re realizing that we have to leave for Oregon tomorrow and have little time to get ready. With morning obligations, packing has to happen tonight. But… we’re not packing, neither of us. Sharaun’s working on the computer in the kitchen and I’m sitting here on the laptop. By my estimates then, we’ll be up late scrambling to get things in order. It’s a longer visit this time, five days in all staying at my folks’ place. Work at the local sawmill promises to be busy, with two meetings of import Wednesday and Thursday. I know things will go OK, because I plan to a fault… but I still obsess… I still obsess.

I have only one topic for the night, and barely got that one down to boot. Feel lucky you’re reading anything at all, OK? OK.

Tonight, unfolding myself from my nightly position on the couch (leaning sideways into the upholstered arm that holds the laptop from which I suckle my nightly diet of bits and bytes, legs tucked up into myself and knees pulled close to my chest), I arose from my gargoyled perch to a loud crack! from beneath the flesh, blood, and atrophied muscle of my shoulder. My bones. The snap, crackle, and pop of old age set into my joints. While I’m ignorant of the physiology of the phenomenon, I do know that it’s as good as a warning shot fired off my bow by USS Death. Sometimes at work, I’ll turn my head sharply and hear the same auditory harbinger of my pending demise. And I’ve even noticed that, as my foot makes its small pushes on the gas pedal, my knee will often pop in protest of the minuscule motion. It’s like God is communicating to me in some secret language of clicks and pops, telling me I’m neglecting myself… urging me with with creaking bones to get out and run a mile or jump rope.

I’m listening, Lord. I’ve tried Morse Code, I’ve tried that clicky language they speak in the Gods Must Be Crazy movies, I’ve even tried dolphin – but I can’t seem to decipher the message. Maybe I should play the lottery? Eat more greens? File for medical leave and drop off the grid as an experiment to see how long a company will pay an employee who’s MIA? Perhaps I only have a piece of the decoder, and I’ll need to augment my popping joints with the growls and grumbles of my aging gut or the scraping sound my hairbrush makes on my bare scalp in the mornings to reveal the true message. A full sonic testament to old age, my geriatric symphony played right through the instrument of my corpus.

I offer you a wet old-man kiss through well-used lips as a heartfelt “goodnight.” Wish us luck in our travels, and I’ll type to you next from Oregon.

Posted on

the perfect housemate


Sunday afternoon and the weather is so perfectly sunny and blue-skied that it’s hard to believe it’s the very heart of February. Instead of building snowmen or cursing frozen toes in bed at night, I feel like I should be hosting friends in the backyard for a barbecue, maybe running in sprinklers or chasing the ice cream man. As much as I love it, I’ve so far squandered it, sadly. I think I’m subconsciously waiting for it to be a little more predictable, another couple weekends of this I’ll be convinced. I’ll retire the jeans and call up the shorts from the reserves, stop checking the chance of rain before work each morning, and work on my flip-flop tanlines. It’s coming… I can sense it.

Roughly a week from now, I’ll drop Sharaun and Keaton off at the airport where they’ll navigate their way to Florida to our newborn nephew, and Keaton’s first cousin, baby Hobson. Then, for five whole days, two of them being weekend days, I’ll be a complete and total bachelor. And, as much as I’ll miss them both, you have no idea how much I’m looking forward to this time. See, I have a plan… a scheme, a grand idea I’ve been machinating and devising ever since we booked her trip. If all goes well, I plan to use those four days to clean. Yup; you read me right: I want to clean. And I don’t mean dust or vacuum, although I’ll likely do those things; I mean clean. Harsh-sounding or not, I’ve often found myself plotting just how I’d bring the house back into order if Sharaun were to just “disappear.”

Don’t worry, I’m not considering looking for shady ex-cons on Craigslist or anything, this is just a fanciful line of thought I sometimes turn to when the place is overwhelmingly disarrayed. See, after Sharaun disappears, I immediately set to work bringing the house in-line with my expectations: things have a place and when taken from that place are subsequently returned to it; clean is the “base” state and all ongoing effort is reduced to simple tidying; and things that are trash or arguably trash are thrown away instead of ferreted into corners or stowed for no reason. I figure, given a week without anyone undoing all my doing, I could have this place in a state I’d be happy to come home to each day.

So, in what I feel must be a test, I’ve been given that week by the powers on high. I’ve decided now that I’ll use that time to bring this place into that “base” state of clean. My plan of attack: Before Sharaun leaves, I plan on investing in about twenty or so moving-size cardboard boxes. After she’s gone, I’ll label the boxes in groups: trash for sure, why not trash, storage, and donate. Then, with my time, I’ll go methodically through rooms and parts of rooms in the house, bucketing items into boxes accordingly, striving for some kind of Godly top-to-bottom Spring cleaning. I’ll leave the boxes in the front room before doing anything with them to give Sharaun a chance to veto any of my choices, but the goal would be to either have them stowed or gone not long after she’s back.

Think it’ll work? Yeah, I have my doubts too.

Goodnight friends, I love you because you laugh at me.

Posted on

please, will you bow with me?


Hi internet friends. Thursday night and I could use a little more week to get things done at work. But, were it offered, I’d turn it down.

Was a beautiful day today in Northern California. The air is still nippy, but with plenty of sunshine to warm your bones it seems more crisp than cool, and that makes me feel like we could be on the road to Spring. In fact, day by day, as the rains begin to break here in Sunny California, my brain is steadily considering the coming change of seasons and the spring and summer activities that come with them. Camping, for one thing, is something I’ve been daydreaming about lately. Back to the outdoors, this time with Keaton a little older and likely able to enjoy it a little more. I know she won’t be remembering trips for another couple summers, but I’ll still enjoy being able to see her get a little more out of them.

Please, will you bow with me?

Oh lord, we exalt Thee. Review time at the sawmill is over, and the joyous occasion calls for an endless celebration rich in fermented drink and empty carbs. There will be drunkenness and dancing, we’ll kill the fatted calve, and exchange fists in sport to the cheers of frenzied onlookers. We’ll raze buildings to the ground in a kind of tidal joy that peaks as unintended anarchy, but we’ll regret it in the morning. Women will part with clothing freely, and bed whomever smiles widest and has the strongest breath of wine. Legs will be parted and shouts will rise to Heaven, where you, Dear Lord, can look down on this bit of creation and know – review is over. And until that painful time strikes anew a year later, we’ll banish the memories to the corners of our minds. Thank you, Father, for your wise benevolence in quelling this torture, we give all praise unto you.

Amen.

I was thinking today about how much I love elective methods of communication. Phone, e-mail, and instant-message; all these wonderful keep-in-touch tools are great for enhancing communication, making it more instant and available. But they possess an unsung virtue: The are all elective. Meaning, if I don’t want to respond to them, I don’t have to. As opposed to something like a knock at the door, running into someone while out and about, or someone popping into your office at the sawmill – I can simply choose to ignore them. Oh, and I do. When I don’t want to, I ignore all of them. Maybe it’s a jerk move, but to me it’s an exercise in personal freedoms.

Goodnight my friends.