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.

November 23, 2008

It’s Fall. And what happens to leaves in Fall? That’s right. They FALL. And when you live in Sonoma County, Fall can be both warm and wet… so grass still grows. And if you have a lawn, you still need to cut it.

I’ve got nice neighbors. We don’t talk much, but we’re square with each other. The other day we arrived home in our driveways at the same time. After hi, he commented “if only leaves were money, huh?” I looked at his lawn: cropped with a sprinkle of dead leaves. I looked over at my lawn: shaggy beneath a carpet of leaves that crawled onto the sidewalk and driveway. I can take a hint. Time to get busy.

Now when my neighbors cut their lawns it looks like an ordeal. They bring out their lawnmowers, their leafblowers, their rakes, their brooms and dustpans, their croppers and their clippers and their kitchen sinks. Half a year later they’ve got a yard to crow about. Does it really take all that work?

When I manicure my front yard I’ve got one tool: a lawnmower. It’s really all you need. The lawnmower has a bag so crap doesn’t go everywhere. Cuts the lawn just fine. Lawn needs edging? You just lower the wheels and edge it. Bushes need a trim? Tilt the mower up and trim them. And the leaves? You just mow them up. It might LOOK a little silly… some clown mowing his driveway and the sidewalk. But it works. Because it’s simple.

Sure, there’s a little bit left over: some crumbles from the leaves; some grass shavings. I could break out the broom and dust pan, but why bother? I’ll just use my leafblower… The Wind.

San Bernardino made me want to drink. This relic of lost culture. Long, flat, and heavily polluted. There was a perpetual twilight to the place. Or maybe it was the ever-present haze, moving in a facsimile of clouds and weather, but laid brown and grey and stale over the city like the culmination of all the failed endeavors of its citizens to parody the act of civilization. Not a normal person walks its streets — only caricatures of a consumption based video culture: the Thug, the Vagabond, the Whore. Except the consumption is that of destitution and poverty and the video a pornography of abuse and despair.

The pen I fell into still bore the signature stench of a smoking room turned non-smoking. It leveraged down its saturation upon me as the city leveraged down the despair upon its denizens… a sullen semblance of routine that to them was a way of life; that something better always belonged to a distant privilege or a different race. Out the window sprawled an empty lot, a flat graveled testament to something that once was, something now demolished. Beyond rotted an abandoned mall whose second existence seemed fitted to the main backdrop of an apocalyptic zombie movie, should some prominent B-movie director come strolling by to receive the inspiration and glory.

Behind the internationally recognized name of the hotel I retired the night to stood the fire-gutted skeletal remains of an apartment complex, desperately clinging to the notion that it, too, could be reduced to a vacant lot… perhaps to be built up again anew for some brief respite at mediocrity. And across the way from my transient abode Mr. Lee’s served up cheap, greasy chow mien and cloyingly sweet orange chicken from behind barred and gated windows. I bought it, along with tall cans of beer from the local anonymous market — and I choked it down gratefully. For one pathetic, self-indulgent night I embraced my new found abnormality — the sick underbelly existence of a dying American in a dying nation.

I gazed with paranoid fascination through the door peephole at an empty hall. Another bland door stared back at me. I listened furtively to the bumps and clanks resonating from beyond my walls, most of which I presumed were human activities, but which could just as easily have been acts of beastiality or Cthulhuian summoning rituals. I parted the gauzy curtains to reveal a neon patchwork of vacant tension, periodically broken by the warbling determination of distant sirens. Occasionally, a dark hooded wraith slumped along the sidewalk below with a rhythmic gait. Why my life should be any different…

For one night I tasted a despair and defeat both alien and familiar to me. For one night I embraced it.

September 13, 2009

Pronunciation: \?bo?k sometimes ?bo?lk\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English balke, from Old English balca; akin to Old High German balko beam, Latin fulcire to prop, Greek phalanx log, phalanx
Date: before 12th century
1: a ridge of land left unplowed as a dividing line or through carelessness
2: beam, rafter
3: hindrance, check
4 a: the space behind the balkline on a billiard table b: any of the outside divisions made by the balklines
5: failure of a player to complete a motion; especially: an illegal motion of the pitcher in baseball while in position

Let me introduce you to one of my favorite words. Now, we all have our little idiosyncratic terms that we use to express ourselves or sum things up. Many of us borrow from what is trendy in the lexicon of popular culture. This word probably falls in the archives somewhere. It is quite old, but seems to have missed its opportunity as a staple in the urban dialect, like “cool” or “for shizzle.”

For years, I had only heard this word on occasion from my dad. Every time I did, my ears perked up. I would marvel at its uniqueness and often wondered if my dad had concocted it himself. Later in life I found this nugget working its way now and again into my own speech. It popped up unexpectedly here and there like an old familiar friend.

You can look up its various references on your own time. I’ll give you the skinny on the matter at hand here, and the particular nuances I attach to it. To ‘balk’ is to be obstinate, contrary, or obstructive. But it is also more than that, and I hope you begin to see the humor and attractiveness inherent in its usage.

Anything that doesn’t go your way can be considered a “balk,” as in “what a balk!”

If someone is preventing you from doing something or getting somewhere, they are “balking.”

A person who consistently blocks others or exhibits a high degree of disagreeableness can be considered a “balker.”

It also acts as a fine interrogation tool, as in:

“Did you just balk?”

“Are you balking?”

“Why are you such a balker?”

The beauty of the word ‘balk’ lies in the fact that it simply and elegantly expresses dissatisfaction while also almost sounding profane even though it isn’t. So if your mouth is particularly prone to potty language and you possess a desire to clean it up, or if you are just looking for a nifty new word to toss around and impress, I suggest you try ‘balk.’

Of course, you could just ‘balk’ at the idea. But then you would be ‘balking.’ And you would be a ‘balker.’

November 9, 2008

1 cell searching merging with another
1 heart beating out the sound of its own drum
2 limbs bending stretching marking ground
1 moment over another has begun
I am 5 as I am one

1 discerns a fragrance foul fair or fine
2 orbs bleeding light into the mind
1 void transmits sound into the air
2 caves recognize the message that is there
5 digits feel a world so alive
1 soul searching where to dwell
I am 12

Gone are the 4 Kings courting the Sun
Gone are the 4 Queens kissing the Moon
4 rogue Jacks have left this town
4 Aces high have gone to ground
1 Spade turns the earth around
1 Clover’s luck has come
1 Diamond rough at last is found
1 Heart beats out its drum
1 Joker bears to witness
I am 21

24 hours to get things done
2 hands race around its face
4 seasons merge and melt as one
10 companions lost in space
It all seems such a mystery to me
I am 40

My name is Scott Byorum. I was born November 9, 1968. Today is my birthday. I am 40 years old. Thank you for sharing time with me.

November 2, 2008

I put my faith in the people I interact with. I have faith that they are good, honest people with positive intentions. In most cases, this has led to successful engagements and results. In turn, I find those that I have faith in also have faith in me. In some instances, my faith has been taken advantage of and squandered. It has hurt, but it’s ok, because it tells me who should not belong in my life.

The reason for my trust is because I have needs. I am not self-sufficient. I don’t have all the answers. So, in order to survive, to define my perceptions, and to create success I need to rely on others. And in order to get from others, I need to give as well. It takes less energy to give trust and take it away later, if necessary, than it takes to hold back trust until it is “deserved.” I tend to think others are trying to survive, define themselves, and create success just like me. So trust is the opening of the door, the handshake and smile to aid one another in obtaining these 3 things. It is the old adage: “The more you give, the more you get.” And giving and receiving require trust.

There have been times in my life when I didn’t trust myself. I try to stay out of situations where I don’t trust what my reaction will be. But mainly, I trust myself because I am not anyone else and I am not a puppet. If you don’t put faith in yourself, if you don’t trust yourself, you will make unnecessary mistakes and be open to be played the fool or preyed upon by those who do not have a concept of trust… who lack respect for what trust is. If you don’t trust yourself, then you will not learn from your mistakes and you will repeat them. If you don’t trust yourself, then you will not create success, you will not know who you are, and you will endanger your survival.

Whether it is a person, event, or thing, I feel that trust is the belief in a positive understanding of the outcome. Lack of trust is the belief in a negative outcome and a path to folly and confusion. There are times I have both, but I put stock in trust first, until shown that I should distrust.

I would say that a friend and advisor is one who is consistent in helping you create positive outcomes and furthers your understanding; one who has shown to be an invaluable resource to your success, your knowledge, and your survival. But the key word here is consistent.

September 6, 2009

The only thing I considered important about my body growing up was my hair style. One side of my hair feathered well, but the other side didn’t. So I admit that I sort of fussed with it. I suppose a lot of kids do.

Then puberty smacked me upside the face and opened up a can of whoop-zits on me. I didn’t get it as bad as some, whose faces ended up looking like cheese grating experiments. But I would get these big gnarly zits. And I fussed with those, as well, which tended to make them look worse.

I didn’t think about my weight until I was a Junior in High School. Oh, I heard about my weight; my brother made sure of that. But I was never really a fat kid. I wasn’t exactly thin either. I have a round face and somewhat of a big head (literally, not figuratively). But during High School, my brother made mention of my weight quite often, so that it became an issue with me.

So I lost weight. Not through any special diet, mind you. I just stopped eating. I figured by doing so, my brother would stop mentioning it (I’m being polite here, because he never really did stop mentioning it; for him it was about me, not my weight… but that’s another story).

My dad grew concerned over my sudden weight loss (I lost 30 pounds in 30 days; amazing what not eating will do for your figure) and made me go to the doctor to get a physical. The doctor pronounced me tip top. By my Senior year I had leveled off at 145 pounds and 6 feet tall.

I stayed around that weight for a couple of years. Smoking and some unmentionables worked to keep me slim. Then I met my wife, Shandell. She was thin, too, but she loved to cook. I never knew a better cook than my mother, until I met Shandell.

The thing about living with a good cook is that you begin to appreciate not just the taste of food, but the pleasure of eating. It’s better than eating out every night. You look forward to eating in.

So I started to gain weight. And then my grandfather’s genes kicked in and I gained more weight. Then I quit smoking and yep, I gained some more weight. It sat on me fairly well, pretty evenly displaced. But by the time I reached 30, I considered doing something about it. So I began working out.

I’m 40 now. I never did lose any weight working out. In fact I gained more (that’s when you learn that muscles are heavier than fat). I’ve got pretty good muscle tone. I can walk 4 miles at a brisk pace and not get winded. I can do 50 pushups and 6 sets of 100 curls with a 12 pound weight on each arm. But I am overweight by a large margin. Damn that good home cooking!

Now that I’m getting older, weight is a bit more of an issue. It has raised my blood pressure and I know down the road it will probably cause some issues. I am not one for diets, but in August I lost 20 pounds. Did I stop eating? Nope. I tried a diet plan that lets you eat a lot. Wow, Scott! Where do I sign up?!

To call this diet brutal is putting it mildly, but I’m actually developing an affinity for it. How can eating all you want be brutal? I did “The Sacred Heart Medical Diet.” No, I am not a spokesman trying to sell you something and yes, there is some controversy regarding this diet. And yes, it is brutal.

I tried this 7 day diet a year ago and only made it through 4 days. Sounds fun, huh? Well, this time I was a little more determined, but the important thing is that I wanted to train myself to eat better (and drink less, wink wink). Is it a permanent fix? No. You lose 10-17 pounds in a week and in all likelihood it will come right back once you are off.

But that’s the secret, or at least I hope it is. I’m going to try it every month or so to see if it works as a maintenance plan (the soup itself could be used as a decent meal substitute). Will it work out? Well, if I knew that then I’d probably be playing the stock market rather than dieting.

We will see. If you want to engage in some self-abuse and try the diet for yourself, go to: http://www.noaw.com/HP/S%20Ht%20Diet.pdf. Let me know how you fare.

October 19, 2008

My 2nd October poem this month involves the most supportive part of ourselves… the human skeleton. Besides being a harbinger of death, the skeleton has a lot of positive attributes: it defines our height, it bears our weight, it anchors our muscles’ tethers, it protects our organs. It is a marvel of natural engineering.

The skull is the most fascinating part of the skeleton. It is the fortress of our senses. Our expressions ripple over its surface with fluidity, only to return to the confines of its shape. The face of a skull bears the gamut of human emotion: happy, sad, thoughtful, mad… whatever our inner perceptions wish to project upon it.

So it was that I came home late one chilly October night from the end of a swing shift. The house was quiet with the soft slumber of my companions in the other room. The Halloween decorations were up, including a life sized skeleton sitting in a chair by the living room window. I started reading for a spell, but the skeleton looked to be in the mood for company, so I cracked another beer and spent some time with Mr. Bones:

Mr. Bones

Mr. Bones and me stay up late nights
Just sitting around
I sit on the couch and stare at him
He sits in a chair by the window
Just staring out into space
Right out into the heart of the galaxy
Heavy stars out tonight man
Heavy stars!
And I drink a beer and think
Then I have another one
And I read a couple paragraphs from a book
My favorite author wrote it
But he ain’t saying it
I’m reading it
It’s a story
But it’s crazy man
I don’t know where it’s going!

I can see outside too
Right out into the goddamned street
And the wind is blowing out there
Blowing right on down the street
And there are leaves flying around out there too
Flying leaves man!
And these thoughts
These thoughts are all squishy inside my head
Like butter

And all the while I’m thinking
Where’s this story going?
And all the while I’m thinking
Dig that crazy Mr. Bones!
And all the while I’m thinking
That wind is freaking me out man
And all the while I’m thinking
I gotta get to bed man
I gotta get to bed

And Mr. Bones is sitting in that chair
With a big ass freaky grin on his face
Just frozen there like a stiff margarita with an extra shot
Hold the salt man
Dig that crazy Mr. Bones

October 12, 2008

October is my favorite month. The shadows get longer but not too long. The days get shorter but not too short. The air gets cooler but not too cool. Summer and Winter balance on the fulcrum that is October. And then there is the wind.

Wind has a special meaning for me. It is scented and sweet. It is free and wild. The wind reminds me of a girl, one who plays with your heart but always returns to remind you that you are alive, just not so large in this world. It is where my soul wants to be. When I die, I want to be taken by the wind.

To honor my love for October, I am posting 3 poems of mine over the next 3 weeks, starting with this one. The 1st is haunting, the 2nd amusing, and the 3rd scary. This first one reminds me of October wind and the passion that can be found therein.

Wind in the Mustard

Wind aboard the bushy trees
On a morning warmly scented sweet
Hope to hear your wakening
Nestled in the breeze

Wind in the mustard field
Such a luscious lonely sight
Hope you make it back to me
On any other night

Wind upon the shutter boards
Clacking against the weathered panes
Hope to see you walking down
That darkly graveled lane

Wind sleeks through a carnival
Brilliant baubles besiege the eye
Strapped upon the carousel
Horses prance and bray
A part of this is eternal
Surely I should see you there
Where the shadows set your eyes aglow
Amidst the straw and steel and flapping burlap
Where the wind engulfs your skin
Your hair and dress play sweet distress
And your touch still feeds the flame
I’m glad you came

Wind in the willows
Hauntingly
Calls your name

October 4, 2008

When and where do the boundaries between reality and dreams break down? How much of the waking world influences dreams and how much is it influenced by them? Is there a place where dreams meet reality and is it possible to stay for any length of time in such a place?

Last night I underwent a sleep study. Several weeks ago my nurse practitioner referred me to a sleep doctor based on some questions she had about my sleeping habits and certain lingering health issues that I have. More and more my sleep has become broken and unrestful. Even when it seems that I get a full night’s rest, I spend much of the day fighting fatigue and sleepiness… not to mention the Full Moon’s effect (but alas, that was a previous blog). I am even full back into exercising and working out… but to no avail.

So my sleep doctor prescribed for me a sleep study, to be monitored by electrodes on my body and by video. I arrived at the office at 8pm in my bed clothes (I actually sleep naked, mind you, so this was a bit different for me). The sleep technician was welcoming and led me to my room where I would spend the night. There was a big, fully made king size bed dominating the room that seemed inviting enough. There was some confusion about what kind of study I would be partaking in and he had to make a call to the doctor to sort it out.

It ended up that my insurance would only pay for a split study: half sleep analysis, half treatment analysis. The technician mused over it, saying it was the cheap way to go and proceeded to describe various study types and their associated costs between here and the Bay Area and abroad, chuckling and shaking his head to accentuate his point. That was when it struck me that we were the only two people in the office and that I did not know him at all.

He was a short, wiry man… balding, greased back hair with a sharp jaw line full of stubble. His nose was hawkish and his eyes were sharp, but tended to wander as he spoke. His facial expressions were exaggerated, almost comical, but equally unnerving. When he laughed, it made you laugh… but not because you necessarily wanted to, but because it seemed the wisest thing to do. Yeah.

The technician proceeded to show me a variety of positive air flow masks that were available for those with sleeping disorders. He showed me masks he could use, masks he wasn’t going to use, and finally settled on the one he would use. He told me he could tell the size of the mask to use just by looking at someone’s face. I wasn’t going to debate him on that.

Then he had me sit in a chair by the bed and laid out all the wires and tubes he was going to attach to me in order to conduct the sleep analysis. I found out that he had been a welder by profession just a year earlier. The shop closed down and a girl friend got him into this business. He described a number of odd tales concerning odd characters and incidents while conducting sleep studies, some his, some from this girl he knew. One notable one was about a guy who wore a diaper to the study and insisted that the female technician change it for him after he was wired up. Another was of a 95 year old woman who described rattlesnakes being tossed into the cabin of her Dad’s Model-T Ford by the spoke wheels while driving on the unpaved roads.

As he began fitting these electrodes and tubes to my legs, chest, throat, face, and scalp he told me of a lady that was coming in shortly for a similar study. At first I felt relief. Then, as he was working, he began describing his viewpoint of women, winking and nodding and chuckling as he did. It was fairly chauvinistic, bordering on misogynistic: how women were weaker, fussier, and always early. He broke in his subtle tirade to peer down the hall. Cryptically, he prophesized “anytime” as he stared blankly and motionless with his hands clutching the remaining wires he was going to attach to my skull.

Just then, the knock came and he snapped out of his trance. He smiled as he came back over to me and proclaimed “I must be psychic” as if it was just a dull common fact that barely warranted mention. He left to attend to the lady and I could hear him laying on the charm… not in a creepy way, necessarily, but in a way to put another person at ease. I started doubting my own perceptions. Was I reading too much into things? He soon returned.

Before he finished wiring me up, he pulled a thin black book from a cabinet and marveled at how he had found it the other day wrapped in plastic. The first page he showed me was an old, sepia-toned picture of a man in a medical room with a huge gash that passed through his entire right side rib cage back to front. Then he flipped the pages so I could see several other pictures: children wearing gas masks, soldiers, war decimated cities. It was a book on World War I. Then, as quickly as he brought it out, he snapped it shut and put it away without another word. He finished wiring me up, led me to bed, asked me to move certain parts of my body to calibrate the sensors, and turned off the lights.

I did my best to fall asleep, but as you can imagine it was a tad difficult, wires and all withstanding. My mind wandered. At one point I opened my eyes and saw a big black splotch on the ceiling. It followed wherever I moved my eyes. I thought I was awake, but I wasn’t certain. I closed my eyes again. Just when I thought I was never going to sleep, the door opened and a lady walked in with a lab coat on. She stood at the foot of the bed watching and smiling at me. There was a light illuminating her from below that cast crazy shadows about the room. I asked who she was and she said she was my sleep technician’s friend. Just then, my sleep technician came into the room and stood next to her. Both looked at me. Both smiled.

I awoke with a start and a shout. Nobody was there. I tossed and turned, sensitive to the glob of wires attached to me. Then I was at home and it was daytime. I was sitting on one side of my five piece sectional couch and the sleep technician was sitting on the other, smiling and looking at me. Where the couch curved there was a dark, lumpy spinning mass that seemed to float in and out of the couch. I asked the technician what it was. He told me to look closer. I moved in and saw that it was a spinning mass of bees, spiders, and other bugs. The technician told me not to worry, that it was contained.

The technician took me outside and we floated above a giant metropolis. It looked like New York, but it could have easily been any other major city. He told me that there were large colonies of bees and other insects living just below the surface of our world. And as he spoke it became apparent that the giant city was resting on a larger structure, a vast sprawling catacomb of bee cells… a giant honeycomb crawling with trillions upon trillions of bees.

Next we were standing at a computer workstation in a mall. I was completely wired up still and he was plugging those wires into the computer. He turned it on and proceeded to walk me through some test questions. After we finished, he gathered the wires and asked me to follow him, but mind the paint. I turned to see a barrier of stools before me with artist paint pallets place precariously upon them. Just beyond was a young actress lounging on a day bed flanked by a camera and lighting crew. She warned me to be careful as I crossed the paint pallet barrier… that she was trying to deliver her lines. I was successful at getting over, but got paint on my clothes and hands. The sleep technician proceeded to lead me through the mall holding my bundle of wires as I smeared paint on my face. He kept bobbing up and down like a hen, all googly eyed as pedestrians gawked at us like we were escaped madmen.

And then I was alone on top of some scaffolding overlooking a construction site. I had two childhood friends with me and we were wearing orange hard hats and vests. One of my friends looked at me and then jumped. His body hit the ground and moved no further… dead. The other friend looked at me and jumped. He ducked and rolled and looked up at me from the ground, waving.

I awoke to the technician entering the room. He had blue rubber gloves on. He wasn’t wearing them before. He removed the air tube from my nose and asked if I had to go to the bathroom. I was groggy. I told him that I should try. He unplugged the main bundle of wires and carried them with me to the bathroom. He left and I did my business. I gathered the cords and headed back to my room, where he helped me back to bed and plugged me back in. He fitted me with a positive air flow mask and left to complete the second half of the study.

The rest was uneventful. The technician woke me up at 7am. Apparently, the lady in the other room had already finished and left, if she had ever really been there at all. He removed the wires, talked about how the other patient’s long hair had been a hassle with the electrodes and glue. He described that out of the 7.5 hours that I was in bed, I was asleep for 4 of them…

I was awake for 3.5 of them…

He looked me in the eyes and said: “You were a good study.”

Then he saw me to the door and I drove home in the cold, wet morning of the previous night’s rain. Only now do I realize I had been in bed for 9 hours.

September 28, 2008

Phil Cooper to Bob Walker: “I’m saying you’ve already done plenty of things to regret, you just don’t know what they are. It’s when you discover them, when you see the folly in something you’ve done, and you wish that you had it do over, but you know you can’t, because it’s too late. So you pick that thing up, and carry it with you to remind you that life goes on, the world will spin without you, you really don’t matter in the end. Then you will gain character, because honesty will reach out from inside and tattoo itself across your face.” — The Big Kahuna (1999)

I might ruffle some feathers with this next gem, but here goes. There is a saying that has floated around for I don’t know how long, but I absolutely despise it. I don’t know who invented this quip… this kernel of pseudo-wisdom… and I don’t care. Because every time I hear it my ears bleed. What is this hemorrhage inducing verbal ice pick?

“NO REGRETS!”

Garbage. I don’t want to know the person who has no regrets. I don’t want to know the person who is unapologetic with their life. I don’t want to know the person who has never disliked something they’ve done or said; that refuses to recognize or is unaware that their words or actions have negatively influenced a person or situation. And likewise, I do not want to know the person who has never wished they had acted or spoken when they had the opportunity, but did not; when there was an opportunity to positively change the outcome of some situation and they didn’t take it.

A person with no regrets is either living their life on the surface of their soul or is a sociopath. A person with no regrets has no substance, no character. You cannot get close to a person who has no regrets because that person cannot get close to you.

I want to know the person who feels they have wronged someone and wishes they hadn’t. I want to know the person who regrets not trying to stop that person who was hurting another. I want to know the person who has made mistakes with their life and knows it… and regrets. That is the person with more than a story… that is a person who’s life is a novel worth reading.

The person who regrets knows what respect is… knows that there are boundaries in life: boundaries of possession, position, relationship, and trust. The person who regrets knows that they must give in order to get. They understand the cost in life because peoples’ actions and feelings have value… have meaning. They know that breaking those boundaries requires compensation and amends because they have broken those boundaries before and have felt remorse for doing so.

The person who regrets is the person who knows what love is… what honor is… because you have never loved if you have never regretted anything. Love is that precious; that sacred. It is the investment of one soul into another. And regret is the honor of that bond. When you breach that investment and do not regret it, then you never loved in the first place.

No regrets. That is the worst statement I have ever heard.