I was working in the yard yesterday. I had let things go over the winter and each Saturday lately I was gradually making my way around the perimeter as my Green Waste container permitted.

My final challenge was blackberry bushes on the final side of the house that I had let take over. The patch was 10’ wide and 20’ deep. It was going to be tough and I didn’t feel like ripping it out, but I needed to because it was growing so fast.

I ripped out about 10’. It was no easy task. It was hot, about 85?; it was intertwined and the roots were deep. After 10’ I was exhausted.

So I rested on one of our deck chairs. I drank lots of water and observed nature as I rested; I listened to it. I felt the wind blow over me, refreshing me. I imagined it was God giving me strength. I closed my eyes and the usual sparks and flashes beneath the lids became a face, vaguely. Was God talking to me?

I got up again and went to work, clearing 5 more feet of blackberry bush before becoming exhausted again. So I sat in the deck chair again and did the same routine: drink water, listen to nature, feel the wind and think of God… believing God was giving me the strength to continue.

I got up and knew I could finish that last 5’. I got down to just a few vines and then the chills wracked my body and I started puking my guts out… Heat Stroke.

Later in the evening after I recovered I started writing down the experience. My wife asked me what I was writing and I told her. She said “God doesn’t work like that; God doesn’t help me with the laundry!”

July 1, 2011

When I first met him, I didn’t know at first what he was. He was the size of a rat running across the apartment quad, tiny tongue flapping out the side of his open mouth. When I got up close, I could see he was a little puppy… a happy dog.

Inside our apartment, I used to get down on my hands and knees and dangle my long hair over him; he played and nipped at it.

He was so proud to climb up the stairs; he just didn’t know how to get down. Even when he learned how, he would always be timid and cautious doing so.

When I fell asleep on the couch he would curl up on my neck just behind my ear and stay there until I got up. In bed, he slept right up against my side… a hot little coal.

Over 17 years, our lives were indelibly stained by his presence. He greeted us when we came home and he helped us garden and with chores around the house. He was our companion on the couch when we watched TV and he was our companion when we slept.

He was our constant companion.

Winter was coming. His aging and arthritic body wasn’t going to make it through. As our family vet administered what was to be his final sleep, I could see he was a little puppy… a happy dog.

April 2, 2011

The little girl dancing backwards
Me dancing backwards
The Spring blossoms backwards
Me dancing backwards

Who am I what am I
What am I who am I

The snow falling backwards
Me skipping backwards
The leaves falling backwards
Me skipping backwards

What am I who am I
Who am I what am I

The sun shining backwards
Me walking backwards
The sea rolling backwards
Me walking backwards

Who am I what am I
What am I who am I

As I grow I am stolen
The falling snow
The restless leaves
As I grow I am stolen
The shining sun
The groaning sea
As I grow I am stolen
The backwards girl
The dancing me
As I grow I am stolen
The Spring blossoms backwards

March 6, 2011

There may come a day when you become a zombie. On that day there is a pretty good chance that most other people will become zombies, as well.

Becoming a zombie isn’t pretty. In fact, it is a horrible, degrading experience. Think of the worst thing that has ever happened to you. It is infinitely worse than that.

When you become a zombie, you will first experience dying. That, in itself, is a painful enough. But then it gets worse.

Because you will arise again in a state that is neither living nor dead. Or, to look at it another way, you will be both living and dead… at the same time. This will drive you horribly mad.

Your body will rot as in death — a slow, aching rot. And you will feel it, though somewhat numbly. It will be a genuinely creepy sensation. You will become abhorrently disgusted with yourself. But because you will be insane you won’t know what to do about it.

As a zombie, you will be a walking figment of your former self. Your blood will cease to flow in your veins and will become clotted, black and thick. There will be no thump in your chest because your heart will have ceased functioning. All of your other inner organs will cease functioning, as well. You will still be able to walk, maybe even run somewhat, but your muscles and joints will be stiff and it will be painful. But most of your senses will still work to some degree.

You will still be able to see, but your eyesight will be cloudy and it will hurt to move your eyes. And you will be confused by what you see. Objects will seem familiar to you but you will not be able to work anything or even remember that things worked a certain way. This will cause you to become aimless and bumbling. You will be familiar enough with manmade places to be attracted to them, but you won’t know what to do when you get to where they are.

You will hear sounds, but you won’t know what they mean. Sudden or loud sounds will draw your attention, but the source will generally reveal little interest, unless the sounds are generated by living humans. Your response time to sounds will become greatly inhibited and the confusion behind what they are, their cause, and your abridged response to them will give you a sense of insecurity and will generate much frustration.

As a zombie, you will still be able to smell, but only marginally. And most of what you will smell all the time is the corruption of rot and death that permeates your insides and surroundings. You will not register that what you smell has any meaning. So you will not rely on your smell for navigation or information.

Your mouth will cause you much distress. Your lungs will no longer breathe but they can still take in air. So you will rasp in a parody of breathing, even though you won’t need to breathe. It will just be an action that you still think you need to do. When you become frustrated or want something you will still make sounds, but they will be grunts and groans and idiot sounds that won’t make sense to even you. You will still be able to taste, too. But all you will taste is the putrid essence of the filth and decay inside your mouth.

But the sense of taste goes much deeper for a zombie. You will feel so appalled by the barren emptiness of your body and stomach, so fouled by the cruddy and sour fetidness of your taste, that you will crave only two things:

Blood + Flesh

But it goes even deeper than that. Your driving goal will be to end the state of your zombification. When you see a living human, you will be so filled with primal jealousy that you will seek to either absorb their life force through mastication of their flesh and the devouring of their blood or you will want them to destroy you.

On this, the zombie will force the issue every time. Living human flesh will tear easily with your undeniable intentions and it will taste warm and good in your mouth, relieving it of the normally awful taste. And living blood will soothe your parched and ragged throat, filling your stomach with wholesome relief.

But this satiation lasts only briefly. For what comes out of a living body dies very quickly, and you will feel the aching empty horror of your desecrated body come roaring back. This will cause an overwhelming dismay.

Zombies who exist for any significant length of time soon come to desire not the brief respite of consuming the living, but rather they long to be given what only the living can provide: death. And they will cavort and clamor their way to any weapon, trap, or danger that the living can devise and thrust upon them. For though you will feel an unimaginable desolate torment at being a zombie, and you will hate yourself and your existence, zombies are incapable of knowing how to kill themselves… except at the hands of a living human.

Living creatures, other than humans, do not attract a zombie’s attention or taste. This is because zombies have a limited attention span, even more so now that they are zombies. Think about it. Animals are around us all the time. How many people actively notice all the birds or cows or bugs around them throughout the day? Most of them don’t, unless they have pets, work on a farm, or work with animals. Most living humans concentrate on other living humans.

So it is with zombies, except even more so. A zombie, due to their nature and taste, is even more attuned to human activity and even less aware of other living things. Such is the curse of the zombie. But it is good for other living things, just not so much for living humans.

Living humans are deathly afraid of zombies. So much so that they will kill them without hesitation and with no regard that the zombie was once a living person. Zombies make humans sick. Because let’s face it, zombies are disgustingly loathsome. But when humans are in a relatively safe place, their fear of zombies can turn to humor.

Humans will mess with zombies if they can get away with it. They will take pot shots at them with weapons from rooftops. They will corral them into fortified rings to fight one another. They will cut off zombie extremities just to see how the zombie will react and embarrass itself. And all the while they will laugh and joke about it at the zombies’ expense. They’ll even use a zombie’s head as a sports ball and kick it around, carefully avoiding the mouth.

Humans know that a zombie’s brain is the only thing keeping it going. And their sense of superiority allows them to exploit the zombie for personal amusement. This is particularly embarrassing and degrading for the zombie, and it fills them with a great frustration and hatred of living humans.

There is a certain sense of revenge humans harbor for zombies for ruining their world and making existence more complicated than it used to be. But the same sense of revenge resides in zombies, as well, but on a more rudimentary level. This sense of revenge unites both zombies and living people on a common path: either a path of survival or a path of death. The difference is that living humans have more options to express themselves regarding the matter, while zombies are severely limited other than their sheer numbers.

I don’t think anyone knows exactly how long a zombie can live (or should the term be “persist”). But if you live a long time as a zombie you will probably regret it. As a zombie you will have to contend with the fact that you will eventually just rot away. As your ligaments freeze up and your muscles and skin slough off you will eventually just become a zombie head. For the brain in a zombie is the last thing to go if a living human or circumstance doesn’t get to it first.

At that point you will just be a rolling skeletal zombie head and there will be no doubt that you will be very disturbed and incensed at your fate. Which is why, if you ever become a zombie, you should go to where the humans are. There is a good chance they will kill you off and put you out of your misery. Although you might be inclined to, don’t go wandering off somewhere to decompose alone.

There is little honor in being a zombie. And there is even less in dying alone as one.

November 8, 2010

My brother, almost 4 years my senior, is a bully. Now that might not be a great thing to admit and out him on my blog, but I haven’t spoken to him in over 3 years so I doubt I’m assassinating his character… not that he will care.

Did you catch that? I’m still concerned about him. Despite over 40 years of mental abuse, sadistic games, and hurtful words I still care about him. But he has shown no remorse for the hurts he’s inflicted. And he certainly has shown no concern to anyone that I am no longer part of his life.

That’s fine. I’m done. I made the split and it suits me fine. Why?

I don’t have to worry about what new mind fuck he will pull out on me at family gatherings. I no longer have to hear his thinly veiled taunts about my weight or my accomplishments. And he can no longer target my wife with his garbage.

And the fact that it still bothers me indicates how deep his bullying has affected me. Is it just me and my wife he’s bullied? I don’t know. He’s still married and has kids and is on good relations with the extended family. So either I was the sole target or he has another outlet. I believe the latter.

Because the problem with a bully isn’t that they bully. The problem is apathy. It is the indifference to emotion in others. They bully to feel something, but that something always ends up empty. They don’t care that it is wrong. The apathetic bully lacks empathy. Maybe it has never been displayed to them or maybe they’ve been bullied by a higher power and they think there is some satisfaction derived from it, no matter how temporary.

And there is. Learned behavior delivers satisfaction, just like a cigarette does, or a crack pipe does, or a shock and pellet does.

But the satisfaction is transient. So the behavior continues. And the illusory satisfaction continues to self, not others. That is the apathy.

So what is the solution to the apathetic bully?

Exactly. Don’t look to me for answers. You don’t ask a person traumatized by bullying for the answer. They’ll just tell you they want the bullying to stop. They want the bully to care about their feelings.

That answer will just make a bully keep on bullying.

October 31, 2010

Boo. It’s Halloween. All the goblins, ghosts, and gremlins are emerging for their yearly shopping bag doses of high octane sugar. It’s great. It’s fun. It’s one of my favorite holidays.

And this year, I’m not celebrating.

That’s right. No lights. No candles. No webbing. No decorations. No candy. Why? What could have possibly changed me from a ghoul loving treat dispenser into a hermetic Halloween humbug?

Because I already experienced the scariest thing in my life this October. I almost lost my wife.

My wife, Shandell, had a brain hemorrhage on October 3rd while getting ready for bed. She didn’t know that’s what it was. At first she just felt like someone hit her in the back of the head with a 2X4. Then came the vomiting… all night long. She thought about calling for an ambulance, but she decided to tough it out until morning. I was in a beer-induced slumber from watching the 49ers march into their worst opening season record I can remember.

In the morning, I drove her to the doctor and they said it was the flu. Stay home for a few days and get plenty of rest. Her head hurt so bad they had to dose her up on pain and anti-nausea medication. We went home; she went to bed. The headache never went away. She tried different meds, but by Wednesday evening when I got home from work, she was ready to go to Emergency. I had a bad feeling and it stayed with me the whole drive there.

About five hours later, after tests, scans, and interviews, the Emergency physician came back with the results: bleeding around the pituitary gland in the brain. With those words my world crumbled around me for the first time. He went on about it for a bit, but all I could think of was to wonder how serious it was, even though I knew it was the most serious thing ever. I asked him. He said it was very serious. They were assembling a team down in the Neuro ICU of UCSF and she was being taken there immediately by ambulance. The doctor’s stony countenance said everything I needed to know: there was a significant chance I’d lose the love of my life.

Don’t worry. This story has a happy ending. But the waiting for answers was the most nerve wracking experience ever. I had to have her dad drive me back and forth from San Francisco the first couple days because inside I was wigging out. I was scared. From the multitude of tests they learned that it was a Type I Brain Hemorrhage, the best kind to have if you’re going to have something pop in your brain. They said it was kind of like a blood vessel popping in tour eye or in your leg. It will eventually be re-absorbed by your body and the chance it will ever happen again is next to none.

She ended up staying 6 days in ICU for observation because after these instances there is a risk of stroke. Then there is a month off with rest and then a re-test. I went back to work, but mentally I took the month off with her.

I’m sort of sad to be skipping Halloween this year. But I’m very glad to still have my wife.

September 26, 2010

Generally, I don’t feel old. I’m in my 40s now and, aside from the occasional aches and pains from exertion, I don’t feel much different now than when I was in my 20s. But if you spend much time around younger people, sooner or later they will say or do something that exposes your age.

My wife and I have enjoyed the company of her younger cousins for many years. Since they were very young, they came over to our house on a monthly basis to spend a weekend with us. They are now grown up and have recently moved away from their parents to pursue their course in life.

But one weekend about five years or so ago, while they were still in their teens, we went over to their parents’ house to pick them up for a weekend stay at our place. While we were waiting for one of them to gather his things, the older cousin asked us if we wanted to see a drawing he did of a sick cat.

We thought it was odd that he would draw a sick cat, but agreed to see an example of his artistic skills.

He left for a moment and soon returned with a small sheet of paper which he handed to me. We examined the drawing. It was actually a type of etching. The rendering of the cat, while modern in style, was very well done. It didn’t look sick at all. It looked very well, in fact.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “It doesn’t look sick at all. It looks just fine.”

“No, man,” he said. “It’s sick… like cool, ya’ know?”

That was the first time my wife and I felt old.

by Portia Nelson

September 19, 2010

I read this a long time ago a recently discovered it again. It is a nice reflection on most peoples’ lives and common experience. It was written by Portia Nelson (1920-2001), who was a singer, songwriter, film, stage and TV actress.

I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost … I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place
but, it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in … it’s a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V
I walk down another street.

September 11, 2010

“You learn to love the rope, that’s how you beat them. That’s how you beat people who torture you, you learn to love them and that way they don’t know you’re beating them.” ~ Major Charles Rane, Rolling Thunder (1977)

Every day we have a choice. We have a choice in how we act; we have a choice in how we think and feel; we have a choice in how we respond to others and the events of the world. It is easy succumb to the chaos of fear because it whittles down your choices and you have a target for your uncertainty in life. It immediately solves the ‘why’.

It is much harder to form the discipline to love. Love forces you to think about your choices. You begin to own them and they become the ‘why’. And that is the reward.

May 16, 2010

The other day I got sucked into a movie I didn’t want to see.  It wasn’t because I don’t like the movie or that I was humoring my wife (well, okay, I was… a little).  It’s because I didn’t want to cry… and I knew that movie would make me cry.

There are certain movies that make me cry, guaranteed.  And Steel Magnolias is one of them.  Go on, laugh.  But you watch it again and you’ll know what I mean.

You see, the first time you watch a movie that makes you cry, you don’t cry like the second time, or third time, or fourth time you watch it.  That’s because the first time you watch it, it’s unexpected.  It either sneaks up on you or hits you all of a sudden, and the cry just kinda comes out of you from surprise.

The next time you watch a cry movie, you know you are going to cry.  From the minute the credits roll, you know there is going to come that scene or scenes that will open the flood gates to your heart.

Crying isn’t bad.  In fact it is very healthy.  But crying when you don’t want to but you know you will is awkward.  Because you cry when something is true, but it is so goddamned sad, like when Sally Fields finally breaks down after her daughter’s funeral with her untethered tirade about how unfair and senseless death is. 

That is very true.  And it is so goddamned sad.

The upside to all of this is that most movies that make you cry usually also make you laugh… for the same reasons.  Like when Dolly Parton says: “Time marches on and eventually you realize it’s marching across your face.”

That is very true.  And it is also goddamned sad.  But it is exceptionally funny.

March 21, 2009

Vision. What is it? How do you create it? What is yours? Who do you share it with?

Vision accounts for the artist’s rendering, the leader’s direction, and the lovers’ commitment. Vision accounts for success. It is what attracts business and followers and it determines the longevity of the relationship.

Vision, like success, sounds singular, but it isn’t. It is an ongoing process. You don’t have a vision and then it is over. A person isn’t one day successful and then all is said and done. A vision drives you forward, creating the ongoing success you desire in relationships, in knowledge, in work, and in yourself.

Nobody can create your vision for you. They can help you find it, but ultimately you are responsible for creating your own vision… or not. When you create your vision, and you believe in it, you will find that there are other people who share in and believe in it, too. These people can help you execute your vision.
But remember, not all visions are successful. Deceptive visions will end in destruction. Visions that lack motivation or commitment will end in failure. The successful visions always seek to help more than yourself.

Put simply, a vision is what you want to see and be in the world. It starts in your mind, grows in your heart, and stays in your words and actions. It guides you. And as long as you hold onto it and believe in it, you will see it manifest in your life over and over again.

But it isn’t easy. Most things worth doing rarely are. And as soon as you give up on it… *poof*… it is gone.

March 14, 2010

Spring blossoms
And shortened sleeves
Summer gardens
Petals and earth
Autumn breezes
And restless leaves
Winter bluster
Comfort in dearth
My mother’s ear
There when I need
My mother’s love
There since my birth

February 28, 2010

As I understand it, in Quantum Mechanics, the smallest particles are merely probabilities that cannot be observed without changing them. They function as a wave and as soon as you observe them, the wave function collapses and your observation settles on one probability that you determine is reality. All of those other infinite probabilities get lost in other alternate universes.

The change isn’t outside you. The change is in you.

February 21, 2010

All relationships are meaningful. The fact that a relationship doesn’t mean much is itself meaningful.

I’ve had friendships, acquaintances, loves come and go and stay in life. Each one has added to my understanding of myself and others. Some of the most intense and short-lived relationships have had the most meaning.

I don’t think you can judge the meaningfulness of a relationship until you understand how it has affected you. With every relationship you grow in some dimension. And sometimes you don’t see the reward or the missed opportunity until it is over.

That said, I find the most growth and reward comes when I am honest with my feelings, even if my feeling tell me that the relationship should end.

January 24, 2010

I miss Muzak when I am shopping. I miss not really caring what dull, canned ambiance was filtering through the speaker system in a store. It was just flaccid innocuous noise.

But now they play real music in stores; songs that you hear, or used to hear, on the radio.

I’m not a big shopping fan to begin with. In fact, I generally despise grazing the malls with the herd. It’s like an anxiety with me.

But I don’t mind grocery shopping too much. Maybe because I get to pick what I want to eat and drink for the week and eating and drinking is generally pleasurable, as well as necessary.

But this idea struck me about how much I miss Muzak in stores when I was pushing the shopping cart along to the song: ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ by Green Day.

I’m not a huge fan of Green Day, but I like several of the songs I’ve heard from them over the airways. This song in particular is a favorite of mine from them because I don’t hear it too often and because it is rather sad and melancholy.

Some say the song is about September 11, 2001 (I don’t think I need to explain that). But the singer, Billie Joe Armstrong, says the song is about the death of his father.

Regardless, it is a sad and haunting song which makes it a rather unusual, if not morbid, selection to be played as the backdrop to a crowd of sullen basket jockeys shopping for sustenance. I felt like I was participating in some half-baked music video commenting on the quiet desperation of modern consumerism. I felt awkward looking at the other shoppers’ faces as they pretended that they were not hearing and experiencing the same oddity of perception that I was regarding the song.

But perhaps they didn’t notice; which is a different kind of sad.

The song is begging for connection through its melodic isolation. Music tends to evoke certain emotions. Apparently, most shoppers want to avoid that.

I don’t know whose brilliant decision it was or when it started, this piping of real songs into grocery stores instead of Muzak. But I think it should stop. When I’m shopping for groceries, I don’t want my emotions toyed with.

Muzak does not toy with your emotions.

January 10, 2010

January embers
Nestled in the hearth
Fueling warmth in our souls
Deep is the winter
For those kept apart
Smoldering love’s captive coals

The winter offers
Little reprieve
From the harsh and swirling chill
February sweets
Tucked under sleeve
As a lover’s delight to fulfill

March breathes renew
Into creatures of slumber
The stirring of motherly natures
Sanguine in spring
The seeds in their umber
Draw up to the season’s allures

Showers converge
Clean fills the senses
Foliage sprouts verdant and lithe
April’s ballet
Through flowery fields
Our sprits encouraged and blithe

May in the slender
Satchel of flowers
Offered to maids in waiting
Suitable tenders
To active desires
Drawn to the pull of the baiting

Lemonade stands
And grasshopper songs
Inspire warm summer musings
June passes slowly
Active and long
To the whim of every soul’s choosing

July soon arouses
Sweat to the brow
As picnics alight on the lawn
Sprinkler rainbows
And firework shows
Carry our courage along

The dog days of summer
Stifle our hearts
We long for the beach and a beer
August vacations
Humid and hot
Alas, a new season draws near

September sends us
Back into schedule
Summer fades slowly away
Rough leather pigskin
The crack of the bat
Warriors resume the year’s play

Autumn leaves
Crackle and fold
Full of fiery brightness
October breezes
Chilly and bold
Our shadows blown steeply behind us

November passes
With giving of thanks
Providing a measure of asking
What does it matter
When passion is frank
And love is not lost in the masking?

Rain and snow
And days of fog
The fleeting of daylight and time
December passes
With festivals bright
And notions of treasures and pine

January 3, 2010

2010.

Out with the Zips and in with the Teens.

Yeah, I said Zips, not Aughts. I hate the term Aught for the first decade of a new century, even if it was popular at the turn of last century. This is the future; that is why it is Zip.

There was a lot of bad planning in the Zips. By the end, everyone and their mother’s brother’s cat was reassessing their Plan A and falling back on their Plan B or Plan C.

You know what plans are, right? Plan A is your game plan, your go to plan for life success. Plan B is your back-up plan, like those re-writable discs you should be copying your important files and pictures to in case your laptop crashes. Plan C is your contingency plan, in case Murphy’s Law somehow gets past Plan A and Plan B.

You may or may not be familiar with the lesser known plans. There’s Plan D, which is the dummy plan. It’s what you kind of make up on the fly because your Plan C failed and it usually isn’t too sophisticated. Then there is Plan F, which is failure. But since nobody plans for failure, it’s usually something that falls unexpectedly in your lap.

There is no Plan E, because E=empty, okay?

But there is another plan that you have. Everyone has it. I don’t care if you don’t plan anything in your life or if you really have planned everything from A to F. Everyone, and I mean even your mother’s brother’s cat, has a Plan Z.

Time magazine called the Zips the Decade from Hell. That’s a nice sentiment and all, but it wasn’t an accurate moniker. No, you’ll know Hell when you are deploying your Plan Z.

So what is Plan Z?

Plan Z is the plan of No Options.

When the Zombie Apocalypse arrives at your doorstep and one of those mindless puss bags bites your arm, whoever is with you is going to take you down with a machete. There are no other options.

That’s Plan Z.

When you mix a dog with a fish, you’re going to get something weird. When that happens, you better be warming up you Plan Z, okay?

I mean, I’m a pretty patient and tolerant person. I could probably handle a world with cycloptic dogs. But if you throw two-headed, sword-wielding, bat-winged apes in with that… well, there’s only so much I can take. I’m going to have to load up on ammo and get my Plan Z on.

So, while you may be steadily working your way to Plan F, keep in mind that there is a plan beyond that. Because if you have never imagined a world of No Options, then when that world arrives you might just become somebody else’s deftly executed Plan Z.

November 29, 2009

Some may disagree, but when you are drunk on a Saturday night and you’re in the mood for a good standby movie, something lighthearted and fun with some good laughs and a little intrigue, “So I Married An Axe Murderer” fits the bill. Mike Myers (of Austin Powers and Wayne’s World fame) plays Charlie McKenzie, a man afraid of commitment until he meets Harriet (Nancy Travis), who works at a butcher shop and may be a serial killer.

Those familiar with the movie are familiar with Charlie’s penchant for beat poetry and his short performances backed by a 3-piece ensemble at a local San Francisco coffee house. His “Woman” poem seems familiar with the customers as he stands before a backdrop photograph of his latest lost flame, accompanied by a familiar, if iconic, jazz riff, as he blurts:

Woman
Whoah man
Whooaaah man
She was a thief
You gotta belief
She stole my heart and my cat
Betty
Judy
Josie and those hot Pussy Cats
They make me horny
Saturday morny
Girls of cartoons
Will leave you in ruins
I want to be Betty’s Barney
Hey Jane, get me off this crazy thing… called love

Then he blows out a votive candle. Funny stuff. There are two more poem performances in the movie. One is after Charlie breaks up with Harriet after suspecting her of being a serial killer. It’s in the same club, with the same musical accompaniment as the first (and likely the same audience), with a large photo backdrop of Harriet behind Charlie:

Woman
Whoah man
Whooaaah man
We had love, not just sex
Is she Missus ‘X’?
I had to run for my life
Jane, get me off of this crazy thing… called love

This time he considers blowing out the votive candle, but doesn’t, leaving it burning on the barstool next to him instead. And then there is the last poem that Charlie chants to Harriet on her rooftop apartment, as he tries to woo her back:

Harriet
Harry-it
Hard-hearted harbinger of haggis
Beautiful, bemused, bellicose butcher
Untrusting
Unknowing
Unlove… ed?
“He wants you back,” he screamed into the night
Like a fireman going to a window that has no fire
Except for the passion of his heart
I am lonely
It’s really hard
This poem… sucks?

Ha, ha… it never gets old. But did you realize that there is a fourth poem in the movie? It never becomes part of Charlie’s performances, but it is in the movie, nonetheless. It is a darker poem; one that shows Charlie’s true fears of Harriet’s presumed identity. Don’t remember it?

When Charlie first breaks up with Harriet we find him sitting by the water at night writing in his black bound poetry book. We briefly see what he is writing before he swiftly scratches it out and closes the book. You wouldn’t be able to read it; the scene goes by so fast. But if you pause the movie just right, the poem is quite telling:

O butcher lady
Killer of sheep
And men
Untrusting
Unknowing
Unloving
THIS POEM SUCKS

Obviously, he revises elements of it and it becomes the latter poem to woo her back, but what a candid view into Charlie’s thought process at the time and what an interesting insert into the movie! Watching the scene at face value, you might think Charlie is pining for Harriet, remorseful for rejecting her.

But really, he is struggling with Harriet’s identity as a cold blooded killer and how he could possibly fall in love with someone so monstrous.

It is somewhat Tarantino-esque.

November 22, 2009

There’s a lot of talk these days about branding and I’m sick of it. I understand what it is for: name recognition. But that doesn’t make it any more palatable.

I just think the concept has gone too far. Great, I get it. You think soup, you think Campbell’s. You think of cola, you think Coke or Pepsi. You think of soft ass wipe, you think Charmin.

Or do you?

Just because you know the name and what it’s associated with, does it mean you use it? Does it mean it’s the best?

Here’s a test for you: Beer. What brand did you think of? How about this: piss-water Beer. I bet you thought of Coors or Miller or Bud, didn’t you. It doesn’t matter whether you like those beer brands or not. Piss water is synonymous with cheap beer, even though those brands aren’t that cheap anymore. That isn’t how they want their brand known, but someone said it somewhere and it stuck in the collective consciousness.

I can’t say that I am particularly loyal to any one brand. Sure, in my house you will find Triscuit or Pepsi or Xbox360 among many other brands. But I haven’t always used those products and I can’t say with any certainty that I will continue to. I drive a Saturn now, but my last car was a Hyundai, and the one before that was a Plymouth, and the one before that was a Ford.

I have pretty varied tastes and opinions. I like to experiment and explore. I will give for awhile to consistency, but surprise can just as easily wrench me away. It really just comes down to value and relevancy in my life at any particular given time.

Am I alone in this?

Maybe so. Because now there is “Brand You.” Now you get to be just like a product: consistent in sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and memory. Now you get to be packaged and mass consumed. All the rage is to brand yourself.

Here’s another test for you: Paris Hilton. Yeah, that’s what I thought. She will never break out of her brand, no matter what she does.

I’m not a cow. I don’t want to be branded. Do I want name recognition? Sure, it wouldn’t hurt. I could sell a few more books. Think Danielle Steel. Yeah, I don’t want that kind of name recognition.

You might think I’m nuts, but the day I become consistent in what I produce is the day that I lose my soul. I know a lot of people will disagree with me. They are all busy working up their personal brands. Good for them.

I have a word of warning, though. Watch what you get known for. Vince Offer… ShamWow! anyone? He’ll never shake it.

November 15, 2009

My ear is a hollow
Through which the wind mourns wistful tears
The leaves on the trees applaud
Their shadows rippling along the worn path ahead
Someone has been here
Someone has been here

My legs move
And I don’t think
My arms swing
And I don’t think
My lungs breathe
And my mind wanders
My mind wanders

A small lake opens up before my eyes
The way the plane of its surface continuously recedes
I could fall
I could fly
But it’s only the wind
It’s only the wind

November 8, 2009

Fine hair
Bright eyes
Dark trees
Ash skies
Wind calls
Leaves dance
Owls screech
Footsteps
Branch creaks
Wings flap
Whispers pass
Eyes dart
Hands search
Fog parts
Mist laughs
Clear tears
Lost lives
And eyes
Blue
Blue

October 26, 2008

Autumn leaves
Crackle and fold
Full of fiery brightness
October breezes
Chilly and bold
Our shadows blown steeply behind us

And so it looms before us. Halloween. The height of Fall. Another chance to whistle past the grave as the season brings about the death and slumber of the natural world. Oh, it is nothing to feel down about. Death, as much as life, defines our experience… makes everything precious. Is it any wonder we have a holiday that celebrates death, in a way. Not just as an ending of things. But as a transition that life undergoes to allow for the birth that is Spring after a long Winter sleep. That transitional gate is Halloween and it’s gatekeeper is Halloween Jack:

Halloween Jack

When the moon glows full
And the night burns black
And a bone dry wind
Covers fresh laid tracks
From a cemetery gate
Hinges creak unoiled
And the earth feels moist
With an unseen spoil
The misty air is thick
With the scent of the dead
And the little ones trick
With a sense of dread
Through the twisting branches
A firefly dances
From the depths of his hollowed out head

What a frightful grin
What a ragged tooth gash

Halloween Jack
Halloween Jack
Head picked fresh from a pumpkin patch
Watch it roll forward
Watch it roll back
Watch it roll back and
Laugh
Laugh
Laugh

October 25, 2009

From John Carpenter’s 1979 movie “The Fog”:

Stevie Wayne: “Good morning, Andrew. Did you have a nice time last night?”
Andrew: “Yeah. Old Mr. Machen told us ghost stories.”
Stevie Wayne: “Did you thank Mrs. Kobritz for bringing you home?”
Andrew: “Yes, ma’am. Mom, can I have a stomach pounder and a Coke?”
Stevie Wayne: “After lunch.”
Andrew: “OK.”

So what exactly is a stomach pounder?

Every once in awhile you run across a reference to some type of food and you ask yourself what it is. So you go get a cookbook, or you call up your mom, or you go to the internet and you get the recipe.

But nobody knows what the heck is being referenced in John Carpenter’s movie. A stomach pounder. Sounds yummy, huh? It sounds like some thick, meaty type of food that would bust your gut, like a cheeseburger or lasagna. In fact, if you try to look it up on the internet that is what some folks think it is.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

Why would Andrew want anything of substance after lunch? Wouldn’t he be full after lunch? A Coke would go down good after lunch. So would a stomach pounder, apparently. A Coke is sweet. People eat sweet things after meals. So rather than something of substance, wouldn’t it make sense that a stomach pounder is something sweet?

The movie is from 1979. A candy was introduced in 1975 and then pulled from the shelves in 1983. The candy fizzed and popped in your mouth as it mixed with your saliva. Rumors persisted during that time that eating it while drinking a coke would cause your stomach to explode. In fact, it soon became legendary to causing the death of famous Life cereal commercial spokes-child, Little Mikey.

Wrong. The actor who played Little Mikey is alive. And the explosive confection was not pulled from the shelves because it busted people’s guts open and killed them. It didn’t. It is the same nonsense about not throwing rice at weddings because birds will eat it, drink water, and die from the expanding rice. It is an Urban Legend.

The candy was pulled from the shelves because of poor shelf life. Due of its popularity, it was being re-sold and unauthorized redistribution caused out-of-date product to reach consumers. So what was this volatile treat?

Pop Rocks.

A kid from 1979 would likely have Pop Rocks and a Coke after lunch. The term “stomach pounder” served as a colloquialism to add flavor to the script, in addition to referencing the myth surrounding the candy’s gastronomical effects. Mystery solved.

Thanks go to my wife, Shandell, for figuring this out.

October 18, 2009

Our cat Max, for lack of a better term, is an asshole. However, he is the sweetest damn asshole of a cat you will ever meet. He will marinate on your lap for hours, just a-purring away. He is big and fluffy and loves to be scratched. But he also knows how to give a mean stink eye and he’s the kind of cat that needs a time out in the bathroom once in awhile.

So this week I interviewed him to get a better dig on his world perspective, and this is what he told me:

1. Some people think their shit doesn’t stink… but it does.
2. People do a piss poor job of covering up their shit.
3. My own shit does not stink. In fact, I like to share my aroma.
4. Girls are hot.
5. Sometimes, guys are hot, too.
6. I take my cat food straight and I like my baby treats.
7. I need fresh air. I need space. I need breathing room.
8. I’ll let you know when I’m not happy with you, believe me.
9. There are things that are yours and there are things that are mine. Learn about it.
10. Don’t even think about moving me.

And though Max is a hard ass, the funniest thing about him is his meow. He sounds like a little baby girl.

When the world has moved on after the coming Apocalypse and you are sitting at the last clean water source in the wasteland, like any civilized soul you are going to wish you had a paper cup. Well, thanks to you reading this blog you will be prepared. All you need is a standard 8 ½” x 11” piece of paper. Just follow the directions below and you are on your way to a satisfying experience of rehydration.

December 14, 2008

So I hunkered down and rapped with Monkey the other day (Monkey is my cat… and I don’t mean a cool dude; I mean he’s a real cat… and he is also very cool). I says “Hey Monkey, you are a cool carefree successful type of cat. How did you get this way?” And he says “Well, let me tell you, Pop.” (he doesn’t really talk, but I can tell that’s what he says):

1. Always make sure you are the first one to go when the litter box is changed.
2. Get plenty of rest. You never know when you will be required to jump high or climb.
3. Bathe regularly. Of course, it is better if you can get someone to do it for you.
4. Try different foods — you will be surprised what you like.
5. Play with others, but only when they are in the mood to play.
6. Always greet your loved ones with a sweet voice and a soft rub.
7. When someone scolds you, don’t take offense — it is better to forgive and forget.
8. Cooking is entertaining, dabble around a bit.
9. Dogs are different, but you just need to learn how they like to play.
10. It’s ok to indulge in a little catnip now and again.
11. Water is better in a cup.
12. Say hello to the fish.
13. When all else fails, hug the cat.

September 27, 2009

I was going to post the last blog entry from my old blog today, but Sunday rolls around quickly and the urge to write something new and connect with my readers (wherever they may be) tugs at my instincts. As usual, the idea of what to write often dawns on me the morning of writing and this morning is no exception.

I didn’t sleep well last night. My body was sore from doing a month’s worth of yard work in two hours and a lot of thoughts danced in my brain. I awoke several times during the early morning hours and every time I laid my head back down to sleep strange dreams took over.

I’ve talked about strange dreams before in this blog (see ‘Paranormal?’ and ‘The Sleep Study’) but all of the dreams I experienced last night (and there were many) concerned my family. I get along with most of my family well enough, but we aren’t super tight and we don’t visit or call that often, and I really don’t dream about them all that often either.

In the first one I remember I woke up from a dream (in the dream) about my mother and father separating. It was early Sunday morning, still dark, and I decided to slip out of bed, get dressed, and WALK to my parents’ house (without telling my wife, who was sleeping right beside me). I’m in Windsor; my parents are in Sebastopol… it’s a good 20 miles away.

Needless to say, I get there later in the day. My parents live on a half-acre on a hill, so they can pretty much see anyone coming up the road. As I get closer, I see the four young children in our family (my brother’s and my cousins’) come running from the house dressed up in cow costumes, excited to see me (I almost never see them in real life).

But as I reach the driveway, they are all gone and it’s just my mother and my dad. My dad is packing his truck and my mother explains to me that dad has decided to leave her. She’s not all that upset about it (I think they’ve been married close to 40 years). In fact, she’s rather pragmatic about the whole affair.

In the dream, my dad doesn’t want to talk; he just keeps loading up his truck. My mom explains that it was his idea to leave. She says he feels guilty for what kind of husband and father he has been. Yeah, he was a hard dude, but I think we’ve cut him some slack over it through the years.

Anyways, my mom is going into town for a few things and offers me a lift back home. When I get back home, Shandell isn’t all that mad that I left (and that I WALKED). She also seemed to care less that my parents were splitting up.

Through a few more interludes of family dreams I come to one about my brother. We haven’t spoken in over two years (this is true); we don’t exactly get along in real life. In the dream, my brother has broken that silence and made first contact by sending me a message over the phone that can be viewed on my big screen plasma TV (I’m not exactly sure if that’s possible, but in the dream it is kind of cool).

So I indulge him and he’s on the screen with his kids showing me this new game where you stick in these big slides into a plastic consol which projects city streets on to the wall. You can drive virtual cars on them with controllers, but the action lasts only a second or two, because you have to keep shifting the slide, ala Viewmaster-style, to get to the next street image.

I’m kind of laughing at this because in the dream (and for real) I have an XBOX 360 and he’s playing with this “new” technology that wouldn’t even be able to compete with a 1976 Atari 2600. So I kind of shine him on and ask him what he’s been up to.

Then he pops through the garage door with a cell phone to his ear! He’s been in our house this whole time! He walks over to the front door and lets his wife in. She is carrying paper plates and Tupperware and stuff. I get furious and yell at him, asking him what he is doing and he replies all matter-of-fact that he just stopped by to see me and share some dinner. My wife and I start screaming at him about his audacity to come over unannounced and we shout at them to leave.

They leave, but my brother doesn’t seem to understand why I’m making such a big deal over it.

And I suppose that’s really how it is in the conscious world, too. All of these surrealistic scenarios are describing real life themes, whether actual or projected. Our hopes, desires, fears, and perceptions play out as abstract dramas within our sleep world and yet somehow we retain our balance over reality when we wake.

Or do we?

I’m a big believer that dreams have a tremendous amount of meaning to the self. I dream pretty vivid and strange and I would have to say the two dreams I’ve described here were rather plain fare, except they depict realistic events that have never happened and are likely to never happen. But the fact that I can describe them means that they did happen… in my head.

And the fact that they are tethered to the characteristics and psychological themes and perceptions existing in the waking world means that they have more substance than would appear. So I suppose that there is some credence to that age old saying: “Life is but a dream.”

September 20, 2009

Shandell and I don’t have kids. We’ve always had cats. There have been 13 cats in our lives together, and I suppose if you believe a black one crossing your path portends doom then you might attach some significance to that inconsequential factoid.

Our newest members are Sproggles and Flower. One of our favorite cats (and don’t give me the “don’t you love them all?” rap… of course we do, but you know damn well you have favorites), Bug, recently passed away from cancer. Bug was a certain type of glue: he held things together. He was the gentleman of our commune. We sometimes referred to him as “The Continental.” If you like Christopher Walken and SNL, then you know what I’m talking about.

So the kids needed some glue, and Monkey needed someone to keep up with him. So we found ourselves at the Humane Society in Sebastopol with a Flower on Shandell’s head and a Sproggles on my lap. I always wanted a Sproggles and Flower insisted we take her home.

It never ceases to amaze me how each cat’s personality is unique and special. Anyone who boils down groups of people into personality categories is a complete and utter moron (wow, I think I just said something ironic). Every person is a character, and so is every cat. It just sucks that every cat’s lifetime is so God damn short.

The Humane Society gets so many cats in that the spay and neuter operations are like an assembly line. Imagine getting your junk removed at six weeks old. When we took them home, Flower ended up getting an infection in her spay wound. She had to go back for a second round of surgery. Then we had to isolate her in a room with a cone on her head so she wouldn’t worry her stitches.

Man, she was pissed.

Hell hath no fury like a baby girl kitten scorned. Many a night I slept on the floor with her. When you are a six week old baby kitty, all you want to do is play. I constantly worried how this trauma would play out later in her life.

Sproggles didn’t have it easy either. Flower got better, but Sproggles picked up a respiratory infection. Great green gobs of greasy grimy Sproggles snot. Poor little guy got rope-a-doped from sneezing so much. He went through two rounds of 10-day treatments just to knock it back.

Like I said, baby kitties just want to play. When they have issues so early on… I get scared. We don’t pick our cats like we would a piece of fruit. Our pets have always picked us. And like any soul born into this world, they just want to be safe and loved.

All of this feeling, fear, and love tears at a person in a way that can be hard to bear at times. But nothing worth anything in this life comes easy. Watching these little goons romp around and rip up the house is worth every gut wrenching moment of worry.

I suppose it is the same for people with real kids. But not having any, I guess I wouldn’t know.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwRw7dSp8N0

November 30, 2008

He glared down upon the sprawling lights of the city from the 34th floor of his high-rise apartment. She left by plane to California six hours ago. There was only one chance left. She said she would call only once by telephone: three rings; then one. His stony countenance betrayed no hint of the anxiety masticating his stomach.

The phone rang.

One.

Two.

Three.

It stopped. One more ring and it was all over. Suddenly, the lights of the city perished before his eyes. Would he ever know? A single tear traced down his cheek as he closed his eyes.