MIXBAG OF MUSINGS

Ipod

2005-08-20T08:13:00.000-04:00

So many things...

Life is full of joys, and full of toys...I want to work out more, and I want an Ipod to do it with.

I'm not sure anymore which begets the other, whether I want to workout more and so I need the Ipod, or whether I want the Ipod and so I need to workout more to justify buying one. With so many expenses in my life right now I definitely can't just go and buy one, not without first suffering over it and considering a million factors, tossing and turning a couple of sleepless nights, comparing prices and poring over the sales sheets...then going out and buying the first one I see. Either way, knowing myself the way I do, it's already a given that I'm going to buy one. But established procedures must be observed. Whatever.

Just thought I'd drop by and try my hand at this again briefly...see if I can summon up the courage to go back to posting on a steady basis. I want to see if I can do this without feeling sorry for myself, and begging for sympathy. That's really what made me quit doing it in the first place.

But here I am, and thank you for coming by.

...anybody still there...???

2005-04-01T14:34:00.000-05:00

There are reasons why our lives get so complicated, I'm sure. As much as I fail to subscribe to most religious notions, part of me does believe in karma. Karma, as one type of energy that contributes to the ruling of our lives. Things that happen to me now, surely must be payment for some of the atrocious things I did in my youth. I hate to imagine what might yet be in store.

Nevertheless, I've vowed to keep trucking. I hate to disappoint those who eagerly await my demise, but I have no intention of letting life knock me on my ass. Not permanently, anyway.

I won't be telling you what the latest developments in my ongoing saga have been. Suffice it to say that they've been plentiful, relentless, and damned near overwhelming. But thankfully, both my daughter and myself are in good health, so the obstacles in my path are not insurmountable.

I apologize to all of you who've graciously and caringly written me, inquired about our well-being and uniformly showed your unfettered support. I've received your messages and gratefully read each one. If I did not respond, it was because I've been doing what I could to disconnect myself from everyone and everything. As thoughtless as it may be to do that without warning or explanation, I still hope that you might gaze upon me with sympathetic eyes and accept my humble apology.

There.

That's it.

For now.

And the blows keep coming...!!!!!

2005-01-13T15:07:00.000-05:00

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Just found out my company will be closing up within the month. When it rains it pours, don't it?

I suppose it's just as well. One of those blessings in disguise people talk about. My job had become stagnant and there was no room to grow. This is probably the push I needed to find something else. And hopefully closer to home.

The problem is that I know I won't be able to find anything that pays as well as this job does, which is the main reason why I haven't left yet, and I have a hard time covering my current expenses already.

But I have a few weeks before I'm on the street. Hopefully I'll be able to find something worthwhile before then.

So I'm going home tonight to work on my resume (I hate dealing with that damned thing!). I'll have to concentrate on tightening up expenses even more. I'd be feeling a little bit more optimistic about things if my car wasn't at the shop right now getting a $500 brake job done on it!

A special day for Christina

2005-01-11T08:16:00.000-05:00

It was at 10:32 AM, five years ago today. After some agonizing moments (for her and for everybody near her!) Cindy was finally enjoying the effects of her epidural. She was all smiles. She pushed the baby out during only her second set of contractions. I was barely hanging in there, convinced something would go wrong at the last second. Our friend was filming the entire thing. You wouldn't believe the look on my face. The strain was such that afterwards we noticed my belly button had popped out. I didn't think much of it at the time, but when my doctor saw it six months later he discovered an umbilical hernia. Go figure. I've attributed it to sympathy pains.

We had picked her name out beforehand, we just needed to make sure she was a girl. She was a tiny little thing, weighing in at just under 5 pounds. As they cleaned her up, I gaped at her disbelievingly.

I had pictured our baby as a perfect creature. A gorgeous little cherub with porcelain features; with fair skin and golden locks of hair. I was not at all prepared for what she turned out to be. I could never, in all my days, have imagined anything more beautiful! I felt my heartbeat join hers, and I knew at that moment that my life had been altered beyond measure, and that I would spend the rest of my life ensuring her well being.

It's been five years, and I would not trade one second of it for anything in the world.

Happy Birthday, baby!

Her first bottle!

Six month old portrait

We used to call her Chunky Monkey!

My five year old Angel!!!

Cactus Showdown

2005-01-08T10:01:00.000-05:00

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Well past the main road, over dozens of moss covered stone walls and ascending the mountain, I climbed eagerly on horseback, emulating the moves and moods suggested by countless western films. I felt like a cowboy, there alone in the barren fields of Boyaca, where the depth of green horizons lay forever distant in the faded mountain range beyond us.

Crossing the large adobe portals with cracked and fallen clay tiles, rich with the wear of time and downtrodden by the careless weight of abandonment, I sensed a calm alike no other. We stepped cautiously through the creek, my horse and I, carefully placing her shoeless hooves on the shiny stones that were visible through the clear cascading water. Once past it, we stopped briefly for a drink.

I ventured into the open field I'd sought, slowly building up to a full gallop. My hat blew off and hung to my throat by its cord, snapping my head back uncomfortably. I always wondered how the real cow hands managed to keep their hats on.

I saw the patch of cacti I was after in the distance, and rode toward it.

The tall cacti towered over me and the many varied rocks they grew around. They branched out into multi-armed monsters, and formed horribly misshaped yet beautifully random patterns that only the genius of nature could devise.

I dismounted, tied my horse to a tree and silently approached them. My hand went to the sheathed machete hanging from my belt as I looked around me suspiciously, and I gingerly made my way up from the smallest rocks.

I wasn't seeing cactus then. No, I was facing the bad guys and they meant to do me harm. Before allowing them to strike first, I quickly unsheathed my dull machete and speared one of them. Water came flying out. No. Not water. Blood. I was spilling the blood of the men who meant to kill me. I chopped the head off another! Spinning, I sliced in all directions, carving the poor bastards to shreds, stabbing one, decapitating the other, cutting their limbs off one by one.

As I wiped down my weapon, I caught the sight of my brother riding up to join me. I quickly got off the rocks and untied my horse.

"What'cha doin'?" he asked me, eyeing the piles of destroyed cacti I was leaving behind.

"Nothing," I said, climbing my horse and beginning to head back downhill. "Just looking for some higos." Higos are the fruit bore to these cacti.

The sun was beating down now, making the paltry dry grass on the ground seem ablaze.

"You want to go swimming in the river later? After lunch?" I asked.

My brother just stared ahead, ignoring me. He was two years my senior, and nearly a teenager. Too cool to hang out with the likes of me.

"Mick, Mick, the great cactus killer," he sang.

"Shut up!" I shouted. "You don't know nothin'!"

We rode along in silence.

A New Year

2005-01-06T13:41:00.000-05:00

When I began this blog I had clear objectives: practice my writing, dig into my memory for tales from the past to tell, and receive objective criticism. Ever since the fall of my marriage, those objectives have been forgotten.

I never meant to display my emotions in such a raw fashion, exposing my naked heart for all to see. But it was satisfying. It was enjoyable. I don't tend to speak so extensively of my personal affairs in person, so getting sympathy from fellow bloggers was a new thing, and very pleasant. It became a crutch, in fact, and encouraged me to keep spilling my guts out in a desperate (and pathetic!) attempt to squeeze out some more sympathy.

But when I went back and read what I wrote, well, it bored me to tears. I mean, who gives a shit? If you want to hear about this kind of stuff, there are plenty of soap operas to pick from. And I'm sure they make my puny little problems seem insignificant by comparison.

The main problem I have with what I've been doing is this: I don't want to make a sob story out of my life. I have too much to do to waste any more time feeling sorry for myself. I've had it!

So that's it. I don't intend to speak of my failed marriage any further. However, everything that occurred during said marriage is now fair game, so I hope to feel inspired sometime to provide you with interesting anecdotes. Hopefully this will assist me in finding some kind of closure.

Stay tuned, please. I'm not done with this blog yet. My life consists of a helluva lot more than one failed relationship.

Santa pictures!

2004-12-17T13:54:00.001-05:00

Well, it wasn't easy. But I managed to race to daycare after work, haul Christina off to the hair salon for a quick haircut, run home to take out the dogs, feed us, bathe Christina and dress her up, drive out to the mall through holiday traffic, park a mile away from where we needed to be, and stand in line for 45 minutes to get her picture taken with Santa. Pheeew! In the end I was happiest with these three pictures I took of her myself with my digital camera. I posted the $24 portrait they sold me on my photolog, accessible through the sidebar.

Merry Christmas, everybody!!!

I'm thinking Audrey Hepburn when she was five?

Asking Santa for...everything!!!

Gotta love this guy!!!

Photos

2004-12-09T13:23:00.000-05:00

Click here for mood music

Three years before I saw the outside of my mother's belly, my parents were busily taking dozens of pictures of my oldest sister. I've seen the albums and the stacks of loose photos that never got sorted out, browning away in old shoeboxes. A year later, my brother came around and they took several pictures of him too. Very photogenic kids they were. There's a ton of pictures to prove it.

Me, I was the third one. They were obviously burnt out on the whole photo thing by then, because I only recall seeing one baby picture of myself. Oh well. They had their hands full at that point, so who can blame them.

But then five years later, when all the kids were already out of their diapers and pretty much fending for themselves, my youngest sister was born. A beautiful little girl who's look was in itself a natural portrait pose. For her, my Dad went so far as to actually purchasing a photograph developing and printing machine. There were hundreds, nay, thousands of pictures of her! It's still hard to walk into my parents' home and find a wall without one of her pictures on it.

Anyway, all this to say that I've made it my mission in life to ensure that there is no lack of pictures of Christina. With the advent of digital cameras, one would be a fool to not take full advantage of it. Besides about 40 hours of live film, I think I have in excess of 1500 pictures of her (not all in print, mind you). There simply can't be too many!

I placed some new pictures of Christina in my photo log. You can see and access them on the sidebar. They're nothing special, but I think she looks cute as hell in all of them.

Proud Daddy! Yup!!!

What to do, what to do...

2004-12-07T09:04:00.000-05:00

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I met my lawyer yesterday.

A lovely woman. Made me think, why couldn't I have married a lawyer, instead of a waitress? What was I thinking? Of course, the smartass answer comes shooting right back at me: because when you divorced her she'd beat the shit out of you in court!

Anyway, we spoke at length about my situation (over an hour), and she cleared up some things for me. Primarily, and this is the most disturbing part, she made it seem as though I'm doing it all wrong. I'm falling behind, letting Cindy get away with too many things, endangering my daughter's wellbeing, and risking losing it all. Scare tactics. Obviously, she wants to sell me her services. What better way to have me sign up than to make me believe I'm sinking in an ever deepening pit.

But it's not that simple. If I had the kind of money she's asking for just sitting around, I'd hand it over to her and proceed with the court filing. I don't have it though. And I can't get my hands on it that easily. I would need to have it financed.

Before I do anything else however, it's important that I clear my head and try to view things objectively. Priorities need to be established and the possible consequences to any actions I take need to be carefully analyzed.

For instance, the moment I take any legal action against my wife, we will become enemies. We're not exactly buddies right now mind you, but we're behaving in a civilized manner for the sake of Christina. As soon as I try to gain full custody and lock her out of my house she will turn into a vicious tigress. I'm not supposing this, I know it. I've been with this woman for a long time and I'm well aware of how she reacts to things. She does not fight fire with water and she never backs away from a fight. No matter how beat she is. Her defensive mechanism is to close her eyes and scratch away at anything in her path. This would not be a good thing.

Another matter to consider is whether I stand to gain more from trying to continue to work things out amicably or not. What's that old saying? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

I want my house. I bought it myself, I've done all the work on it, and I've paid for it. She's done nothing for it. Legally she's entitled to half its equity, I understand that. But I want to keep it.

I want my daughter. I have no intention of keeping her away from her mother, that would never occur to me. But I would like to be the one to make the ultimate decisions regarding her future.

I don't want to pay alimony. Some people may think she's entitled to it, particularly a court of law, but I don't think she deserves a penny. I'd rather not go into the exact reasons why I believe she doesn't deserve it, but I think I can make a pretty good case if I need to. Not only that, I can't afford it. Not if I want to keep a roof over my head.

So I'm weighing the issues. Trying to come up with some kind of clear plan in my head so I can take the next logical step. I'll admit I'm nervous, and a little scared. Kind of how you feel before going into a scrap, even though you're confident you can beat the other guy. There's always a chance you might lose. I'm in the unenviable position of not wanting to lose a thing.

I feel like I just shaved off ten years...!!!

2004-12-04T11:44:00.000-05:00

Before

After

Seasons

2004-12-02T13:29:00.000-05:00

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Autumn colors, everywhere. They splatter the backgrounds, exploding in furious blasts of tone and hue, warming the coldest hearts.

I've felt their warmth before, when in the shoddy cradle of my lonesome youth I sought solace in such things as nature.

The thundering beauty of a fall sunset. Magnified by an ample horizon, clear and vast, and lousy with gentle clouds. Trying to block out a body so strong and powerful as the sun, in vain, hopelessly futile jabs at immensity. Only when the sun sinks down into the swamp land, becoming one with the Everglades, does she truly disappear.

The trees don't lose their leaves, not like they do in other places. Oh, many make their way to the ground and clutter our storm drains. But our trees remain remarkably full and alive. Disappointing at times. I crave the full cycle. The impacting change of season with its merciless swings in temperature. Cold, heat, the in betweens.

We bookmark our moods by the seasons, inadvertently. It's hard to feel like it's Christmas time when you're still walking around at night in shorts and sandals. "How does Santa come in the house?" my daughter asks me, in a momentary state of panic, painfully aware that our house, like most South Florida homes, has no chimney. "He'll probably come in through one of the attic fans," I tell her, uneasily. Her look of disbelief makes me add: "He can squeeze into just about anywhere, you know. He'll get in here, don't worry. Even if I have to stay up all night and open the front door for him. He'll get in here!" She smiles and says, "Yeah, because who's gonna eat the cookies and milk!!!???"

In the winter we'll turn the A/C off for a few nights. Crack open the windows and let some of that moldy atmosphere out of the house. Pull down a sweater from the top shelf and brush off the dust. A few times.

But we won't be making hot apple cider or roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. I'm sorry my daughter has to miss that. I'm sorry she has to miss the outdoor glare and beauty of a white Christmas, and the comforting feeling of a warm household when you're coming in from the cold, peeling off layers of clothing. The frost on the windows and the sight of your breath, the numbness in your toes and fingertips from putting a snowman together or making snow angels.

It's hard to have it all, isn't it?

A top ten list

2004-12-01T09:32:00.000-05:00

Just so you know that I still retain a sense of humor.
I got these tips via email this morning and thought I'd pass them along. They might come in handy!

Ten Best Things to Say if you Get Caught Sleeping at Your Desk

10. "They told me at the Blood Bank this might happen."

9. "This is just a 15 minute power nap they raved about in the time management course you sent me too."

8. "Whew! Guess I left the top off the Whiteout. You probably got here just in time."

7. "I wasn't sleeping! I was meditating on the mission statement and envisioning a new business strategy."

6. "I was testing my keyboard for drool resistance."

5. "I was doing a highly specific Yoga exercise to relieve work-related stress. Are you discriminatory toward people who practice Yoga?"

4. "Darn! Why did you interrupt me? I had almost figured out how to handle that big accounting problem."

3. "Did you ever notice sound coming out of these keyboards when you put your ear down real close?"

2. "Who put decaf in the wrong pot?!?"

NUMBER ONE best thing to say if you get caught sleeping at your desk........

Raise your head slowly and say, "...mumble mumble, Amen."

Time to get busy

2004-11-30T15:07:00.000-05:00

I took the plunge.

I'm meeting an attorney next week. A family law specialist.

I just want to make sure I know the proper steps that need to be taken, and what hopes I have toward securing full custody of my daughter and my personal belongings.

I have to admit I feel a little dishonest doing this; a little disloyal. To this moment Cindy has shown no inclination toward asking for custody of Christina for herself nor keeping the house. But I realize this could change overnight, especially since she's receiving infinitely wise counsel from all her divorced friends and newly acquired boyfriend (yes, a quick mover, isn't she?).

So next Tuesday afternoon I find out what my cards are.

It's going to be a long week...

Thanksgiving

2004-11-26T14:15:00.000-05:00

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We went in to the office for a couple of hours - Christina labored away on her coloring book and I tried to get some work done - then drove home, put the ham in the oven (my first ham, y'all!), brought down several dozen boxes of Christmas decorations and plenty of cobwebs from the attic, and took the dogs for a holiday walk around the neighborhood. It was a lovely day in South Florida!

The ham was delicious, the wine was fine, and the company was superb! The football wasn't too bad either. Before we dug into the food, we went around the table (both of us) and spoke aloud about the things we were grateful for. Christina finalized that portion of the afternoon with a moving remark that went, "And I'm thankful for my dear Daddy, who's pretty, and who I love so, so much!!!" It brought tears to my eyes.

After lunch we hung the outdoor lights, then came inside and put our Christmas tree together. It looks terrific!

Later there was still enough time for a bike ride. Then off we went to walk my sister's dog, who's house-sitting for a few days. My cousin should be picking him up today, if she gets around to it. Meanwhile, I have to go by there at least twice a day to let the poor guy out and check his food and water. It wouldn't be a big deal if we didn't live fifteen miles away. I'd bring him to my house but he's got this insatiable desire to rape my poor epileptic Rocky. Dude's got enough to deal with without having to worry about some 120 pound monster trying to hump him all day long.

All in all, a successful holiday. I'll admit that I got choked up a few times and may have even moistened my handkerchief a little, but overall I did okay. It is, after all, the first major holiday I've spent away from my wife in the last twelve years. It's hard not to feel a little nostalgic for the good years we've left behind. So many broken dreams...

I'd like to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving! Belated perhaps, but sincere nonetheless. Have a wonderful weekend!!!

Working again

2004-11-23T15:44:00.000-05:00

It always seems like I'm in the wrong business.

I don't recall a single job I've had, where I was off for a holiday weekend.

Had lunch with a friend of mine today. He's taking off with his girlfriend tomorrow evening, driving out to Orlando where he'll stay until Sunday at another friend's timeshare resort. How do all these people get so much time off?

I'm going to be coming in on Thanksgiving, at least half a day, if things go well. I'll have my daughter with me. No day care service on Thanksgiving Day. No big deal really, we don't have any plans. We usually had everybody over to our house, but this year things are different. My sister's out of town, but I'm still puzzled that we didn't get any invitations from anyone. Not that I feel like going anywhere, but it would have been nice to be asked.

I'm planning on buying a ham and putting up our Christmas decorations. Christina's been driving me crazy to do that, so she should enjoy it. That, and throwing up some balls on the new hoop I'm putting in tonight. It'll be okay. At least we've got each other.

It's another day...

2004-11-19T14:56:00.000-05:00

Click here for mood music

I get up earlier every morning now, trying to pack more activities into
each day. There's more to do, and I've only myself to get it done.

Once showered, I begin to wake my daughter up. I turn on the TV and put on
cartoons, trying to get her attention. I shave. I wake her up again. It's a
slow process. She can't understand why she has to get up and get dressed
before sunrise. It may as well be the middle of the night.

I get dressed and nag at Christina to put her clothes on. We pick her
clothes out the day before, because she's so damn picky. Even so, she takes
forever.

Meanwhile, I let the dogs out. I set up Fluke's kennel cage, clean it up a
little and add fresh food and water. I ended up buying the cage two weeks
ago, when he ate half my couch after we were gone for only three hours.
It's too hot to leave him outside. The cage has worked wonders. He even
walks in voluntarily when I call him over. It's nice not to have my home
destroyed while I'm gone. He should be done with it in a couple of weeks.

Rocky takes his medicine. I fix Christina some breakfast and take out the
trash.

By this point I'm always running behind. No matter how much more time I
give myself. I start up the car to let it warm up.

I feed Christina myself, to hurry things up. She brushes her teeth. I fill
up Rocky's dishes with fresh food and water and hand both dogs some new chews.

The dirty dishes go in the sink to be washed in the evening. I leave a
light on and the TV on ESPN so the mutts have some kind of distraction.
Then we run out to the car and head out to the Day care center. We try to
make it there by 7am.

Not quite a routine yet, though I'm trying to make it one. I'm doing what I
can to be an efficient, self-sufficient single parent. I don't pay any mind
to the reality of my situation or the pain in the pit of my stomach.

See, she's left me. And though I'm ready for her departure, I can't just
stop loving her. I can fill my daily life chock full of activities, and
bury myself in work so as not to have a free second to give her any
thought, but I can't keep her out of my mind entirely. I don't want her
with me anymore, but it's hard to accept that she's no longer a part of me.

I have to take down her pictures I lay all our wedding photos face down but
when she comes around during the day she stands them back up Christina will
want some of them in her bedroom Cindy why do you keep coming by what's the
deal why isn't all your stuff outta here must you linger do you think you
can have it both ways try it out with someone else and if it doesn't work
come back home I don't think so I don't want you back you can't have your
cake and eat it too quit eating my groceries don't wash my clothes don't do
the dishes I'll take care of it here's the title to your car you pay for
the transfer your insurance expires next month I don't care what you do I
signed it off right there it's your problem you want me to haul your stuff
off somewhere I can bag it and put it in the attic anywhere just get it out of
my sight I'm trying to move on I'm trying to get my life back on track I
don't want you popping in and out of my life I'm not begging you to come
back can't you see that I'm ready to move on I want my privacy I'm not over
at your place barging in all the time let me have my space I don't want to
be reminded of you I'm taking the pictures down why'd you have to fuck up my life

Breakups are never easy.

I'm dyin' over here

2004-11-18T13:10:00.000-05:00

Don't unreasonable clients drive you crazy?

I've got this one client who blames everything that goes wrong with the world on us. She is convinced that we are somehow responsible for every agency, airline, terminal, government official, trucking company and natural disaster that has any form of contact with her cargo at any given time. It drives me nuts!

We control her freight once it's here. Other than that, we've got nothing to do with it! But if for some reason, her agent in South America neglected to advise her that the shipment was delayed, or the airline it was flying on carelessly bumped her boxes off the booked flight, she expects that we (not the South American agency, and not the airline) inform her that there will be a delay. Give me a damn break!

When there's a hurricane approaching, she expects us to keep her informed of its progress. Not the National Hurricane Center, no, that would be too simple, we've got to keep her informed.

Why, why, why? Why is it we have to let people like her call the shots? I hate the fact that we're so dependent on her business that we have to bend all our rules and adjust all our practices. AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! It just drives me nuts!!!

I need a beer, but I'm on a diet. I need a smoke, but I quit six years ago. I'll settle for a hug and a kiss from my favorite little girl!

Thank you, thank you...to everybody, thank you!

2004-11-17T15:34:00.000-05:00

Now that my title is back up, I'd like to thank Mia and the folks down at Ciao! My Bella! for the wonderful new design on my blog. It's nice that somebody takes pity on those of us who are HTML challenged!

And I can't begin to express enough appreciation for all the kind comments and emails I've received since my wife and I broke up. I never thought the blogging community could be so warm and caring. You've all been there for me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It's made all the difference in the world.

:-)

New and improved Mick

2004-11-16T13:41:00.000-05:00

You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna knock off twenty pounds, buy a treadmill, eat better, feel better, and find myself a new woman! Hell, I've given myself for so long to the same person that I'm not sure how I'm going to go about it. But they're there, they're out there...I'm sure if I open up my eyes a little and stare through the mist, I can find somebody pleasant enough. There's no reason why I should waste away in loneliness because my marriage went down the drain. Is there? I mean, obviously it's not that simple, I have my daughter to think of. But shouldn't I have more? Don't I deserve more?

It comes down to confidence in the end. After a failed relationship, I can't help but feel undeserving of love and affection. Not entirely, no, I don't think I'm that awful. But I do have the nagging sensation that no matter what happens, if I get into another relationship, I'm going to fail again. Maybe it's because for so many years I thought my wife was my soulmate. She was the one, the woman I would grow old with. We envisioned playing together with our grandchildren some day. Your self-esteem has a way of falling apart when your dreams come crashing down.

But I can do it. I can break through the barriers that surround me and make it to another day. I've been down before. I've had my head knocked off but I'm still on my fucking feet. You.can't.knock.me.out. I refuse to go down!!!

It's the new Mick, I tell 'ya! Get outta my way people, I'm coming out!!! So you better get this party started!!!!!!!!!

Traffic ticket

2004-11-13T09:14:00.000-05:00

Life is hard enough without these bastards lurking in the shadows.

I have nothing but admiration and appreciation for law enforcement. Theirs is a thankless job that requires them to put their lives at risk daily, just to keep law and order.

But those motor cops that sneak around barricades, hiding with a radar gun in their hands at carefully chosen spots where poor inadvertent drivers unwittingly exceed the speed limit - because it's always in a stretch where the posted speed limit is far below what it need be -I say OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!

While I'm driving, daily, I hold in my road rage and fight hard to keep myself from going postal on other drivers. These are the people who completely ignore yield and stop signs, right of way, left and right turn only lanes, double yellow lines, slow-traffic-keep-right PLEASE!, and are an endless source of frustration and aggravation. They cut into lines, delay the people who are patiently waiting their turn to cross, and often force others into collisions. Those assholes never get stopped! I deal with them every day!

But no, you have to set up shop in a deserted highway, non-residential, where nobody is any worse for it, and trap poor saps like me on their way to work on a Saturday morning. Damn you! A $355 ticket. Here I am wondering how I'm going to pay for daycare, and you have to justify your measly existence by trying to destroy my life???

I can't repeat here the insults I kept mumbling under my breath while he wrote out my ticket, or the ones that I hollered at the top of my voice as I drove away with my windows closed. This is a family blog, after all. But be clear on this, I think you are the scum of the earth, hiding behind the guise of official business, and I wish for nothing but misery to befall you and your family for generations to come!

I'll fight it, of course. I'll take a day off work and go argue in court. And I hope that blood sucking piece of shit is there to testify against me. I may get stuck with a hefty fine, but I'm going to tell that sonofabitch what I think of him.

There.

I feel better already.

Post Election humor

2004-11-11T08:37:00.000-05:00

To prove that I haven't lost all my sense of humor, here's a little something I received via email. Sorry, I don't know who to give credit for it. But it's too damn cute to pass up.

The election is over,
the results are now known.
The will of the people
has clearly been shown.
We should show by our thoughts
and our words and our deeds
That unity is just what our country now needs.
Let's all get together.
Let bitterness pass.
I'll hug your elephant.
You kiss my ass.

Til death do us part...

2004-11-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

Well, ain't life a bitch. On Sunday my wife moved out. I've got a million things to sort out right now, like daycare and such (my daughter's staying with me). It's all probably for the best, but I'm still looking at some emotional trauma in the coming weeks. I know I'm not that strong.

Not sure if I'll be blogging much these days. Thanks for coming by.

Eleven years

2004-11-05T22:53:00.000-05:00

Click here for mood music

She proposed to me before I proposed to her. Kind of.

We were trying to get her dad to co-sign my new electricity account, so I wouldn't have to put down a deposit. He was justifiably reluctant. "Honey, I don't think so," he told her. "Next month you guys break up and I'm left as a cosigner for some guy you used to date."

"Dad," she told me she'd said, "I'm probably going to marry this guy."

Well, this sort of put the brakes on her story. Marriage was not a subject we had addressed. Suddenly Cindy felt embarrassed. This was an obvious indiscretion. I fell silent and looked away, unwilling to fall for the bait.

"Hey, I'm not trying to pressure you into anything," she said, "that wasn't my intention. It's just that I think we have something real here, don't you?"

I fidgeted, stalled.

"Sure, it's real, but lets not jump into anything here," I said.

"I'm not looking for a proposal," she stressed, then paused. Her eyes opened wide and they locked onto mine. "Maybe I'm proposing to you."

I was dumbstruck. I felt my back against the wall, I couldn't breathe, there was no room to move, nowhere to hide.

"Do you want me to get down on my knees?" she asked, with a smirk.

This was too much.

"Okay, okay, enough of that," I said, waving my hands dismissively at her. "I'm not about to get cornered into a decision like this. When the time comes, and I feel ready to take that step, I'll make the proposal and you can either accept or not. Until then I'd like to get one thing clear. I may not be a huge traditionalist nor a staunch conservative, but when I dance, I still prefer to lead."

We left it at that.

A couple of months later, while we were helping a friend move and we were sweaty and dusty and smelly, I sat her up on an empty table and asked for her hand in marriage. She said yes.

We set a date for October, calculating paychecks and weekends. Halloween. We would drive up to Lake Tahoe on a Saturday, buy the marriage license, and get married on Sunday. I would take two days off work and we'd return on Tuesday.

Right away we decided not to have any family or friends there. It would just complicate matters. Besides, my last relationship had ended over stress related issues brought about by wedding arrangements. I didn't feel like going through that again.

Through a travel agent (this was before the internet) we rented a lovely cabin in the woods; hired a reverend and a photographer, set a time and packed our bags. Then off we went in our rented car.

To anybody who's never been in the Lake Tahoe area, particularly in the fall, you have no idea how breathtaking the world can be. The colors that bounce off the lake's smooth surface, the thick forests and winding roads, the majestic houses built deep inside the brush. It's hard not to keep a permanent silly smile on your face when you're there.

Our cabin was lovely. There were pine trees all around us, and the grounds were covered in cones. Cindy had a blast collecting the nicest among them, when we'd go out for walks.

On Halloween she sent me out to find a flower shop. Anything to make a wedding bouquet with.

I looked everywhere. All the flower shops were closed. Finally, in a grocery store, I found some assorted gladiolus. That's it.

I was dressed and ready, and I didn't want to be around Cindy while she was getting dressed. That would just drive me up the wall. I timed things so I would be back at the cabin with only a half hour to spare. When I arrived she was still in her bathrobe. She hadn't even showered yet. She'd been working on the decorations, putting candles and ribbons everywhere. I wanted to strangle her on the spot. The reverend, the photographer, and the neighbors from a nearby cabin who were going to serve as witnesses would be arriving within the next thirty minutes. And I just looooooove to socialize!

She snatched the gladiolus out of my hand, and with some wild flowers she'd picked up outside, she made a credible bouquet. Poor thing.

The doorbell rang prematurely and Cindy ran into the bedroom to get showered and dressed. Everybody arrived early. I started handing out beers and telling bad jokes. We talked about anything you can think of. I kept saying, "Oh, she'll just be another couple of minutes." And, "I'm sure she'll be out any second now!"

They stopped believing me after awhile, and started looking at their watches. Pretty soon we ran out of beer, worked through most of the rum, and I began to eye the champagne. Finally, an hour and a half after the scheduled time, she poked her pretty head out the door and called me over. "I'm ready," she said. "Start the music!"

I put everybody in their spots.

Due to our distaste for regular wedding marches, and thanks to our somewhat bohemian tendencies, we decided on Ravel's Bolero for our wedding theme. I placed the boombox above the fireplace and pressed play.

What we neglected to keep in mind was the fact that Ravel's Bolero begins low, then grows through a magnificent and slowly paced crescendo, until you have a fortisimo blast blaring out in the end.

Well, the piece was playing but you could barely hear it, and Cindy kept cracking the door open, darting me mean looks that shouted "do something!" So I kept raising the volume, until she was able to hear it.

She was a vision. It was at that moment when I finally realized what I was doing. I was tying myself down to one person. I was vowing to never stray, and to honor and protect her, and defend her against an ever more menacing world for the rest of my days. I was getting married. And I was marrying the most beautiful woman in the world.

Eleven years ago...man, how time flies!!! Really now, have you ever seen a more beautiful bride?

She was glowing, and smiling my way. I knew she was nervous. No longer children, her and I, we knew much about heartbreak. We were taking a giant leap of confidence into eachother's arms. And we were doing so willingly.

However, by the time the ceremony got under way, the music was so damned loud that we couldn't hear a word the reverend was saying. So I had to leave my bride's side, turn down the volume, then run back next to her.

We exchanged our I do's, were pronounced man and wife, and kissed for the first time as a married couple. For months afterwards, we couldn't stop ourselves from referring to one another as "my wife" or "my husband." We were so thrilled to be able to say it, and to feel such pride in our spouses.

It was a long time ago. We've been through many ups and downs, but such is life. I still wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world.

This is the "Top of the wedding cake" picture!

Shoebox memories

2004-11-04T09:25:00.000-05:00

Click here for mood music

I stumbled upon her picture recently, going through an old shoebox. It's faded now, and slightly yellowed. The years have passed and taken our luster with them.

Her letters seem quaint now, and disjointed. Like they'd been written to somebody else. It had to be somebody else, because there's no way I could've done the things I remember doing back then.

We were freshmen in high school then; we shared a class. Clara was her name. Alex, who was both her boyfriend and a buddy of mine, changed schools halfway through the year and left her as prey to hungry wolves.

It's not that there weren't other pretty girls around, there were. But we always tend to covet our neighbor's wives, you know. There is something particularly enticing about romancing a woman whom you've secretly yearned for in the shadows.

Clara was very attractive. She had a shapely figure, for a fifteen year old, and she walked like a woman; long, curly dark hair, great legs, a kind smile, and deep brown eyes. I had the hots for her.

With Alex out of the picture I offered her a shoulder to lean on. She'd say: "Oh, it's no use, we never see eachother anymore, he never calls me, it's just not gonna work out."

I'd reply, "Of course it is, you just have to give it time, he'll come around."

I've always had a charming smile. It wasn't long before she fell for me. Walking alongside the bushes after school one day, brushing our bodies close to eachother, I quickly curved my arm around her waist and pulled her lips up to mine. We kissed deeply, passionately.

She lived far away. I would walk her to the bus stop after school each day and we'd hold hands and make out along the way. On the weekends, I would take a bus out to see her.

Eventually, I got what I was after. She caved in on a Sunday afternoon when her mother left us home alone while she attended mass. It was quick and painless, and not very romantic. I remember taking off almost immediately. Teenage boys aren't very considerate.

After that she became very clingy, almost desperate to be around me all the time. Though I liked the adulation, all that neediness turned me off.

She planned this big night for us to celebrate our first month together. Her mother was going to be out and Clara was making us a candlelight dinner. She wanted it to be a special night, when we could exchange presents and maybe some kind of vows. I don't know.

The day before the big night, standing outside the room where choir practice was being held, with my friends waiting for me in the parking lot to go do some serious partying,I decided to break things off with her.

The cruelty of my words and behavior don't escape me now, but I don't think I saw it the same way then.

We were saying good-bye, kissing below a willow tree. I took her hands in mine and shifted my eyes between her and the parking lot beyond.

"I think we better call this whole thing off," I said.

"What," she asked, surprised, "tomorrow night? But everything's ready!"

"Yeah, I know," I said, glancing down at my shoes,"but I don't think I can make it."

"What do you mean? We've been planning this all week!"

"Well, see, that's just it. I don't think I want to be with you anymore."

She stared blankly at me, as tears welled up in her eyes.

"It's not that I don't like you, I do," I said. "Actually, I'm just scared because I think I'm falling in love with you."

"So this is what you want?" she asked, now sobbing and shaking, holding on to me in desperation, "now that I'm loving you and needing you, you want to walk away? Because you're afraid of where it will lead???"

She dug her arms into the insides of my sweater sleeves, grabbing onto my bare arms. I couldn't look into her imploring eyes.

"I'm sorry, I just can't do it any longer," I said. "I've gotta go. The guys are waiting for me."

I tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let go. I ended up dragging her over the grass, while she held onto my clothes and cried out like a lunatic.

When I finally got rid of her and left her sobbing in a puddle of tears, I could only feel relief. Relief that the scene was over, and relief that we were no longer involved. It's hard to explain, but my fear of commitment as a young man made it hard to feel relaxed if I had, at the time, any serious romantic entanglements with a girl.

My buddies were all high-fiving me when I reached the car. Whooping and hollering about how I'd left the girl, broken and humiliated, lying on the ground with her face buried in her hands.

As low as this was, I went even lower the following month.

The guys and I went to a party. I didn't know she'd be there. When we saw how few women were there, I decided to patch things up with Clara. Only for the night. She called me a few days later, and in what has probably been the most cowardly act I've ever committed, I handed somebody the phone and asked them to tell her to fuck off.

I went to another school the following year and never saw Clara again.

It's Shaq-attack time!!!

2004-11-03T20:47:00.000-05:00

We're going all the way this year, baby!!!

I've been waiting for this to come around for awhile. It's just what I needed to put that other silly contest to rest.

Go Heat!!!

A sad day...

2004-11-03T15:03:00.000-05:00

Well, I actually broke my vow (no politics on my blog) and wrote an extra long rant on the election. But when I hit publish, Blogger ate it up and now there's nothing left. It's just as well. I imagine some people might consider it offensive. Particularly since at some point I referred to the incumbent as a steaming pile of human excrement.

But we'll survive. Hopefully there will be clear skies ahead and we can remove this ubiquitous election from our midst. Surely there must be more to write about.

I hope all you republicans get what you hoped for. I can only expect you hoped for something good, or at least better than the last four years. I don't think we could handle another four years of the same.

Halloween 2004!

2004-11-01T18:09:00.000-05:00

Princess Christina

I'm back!

2004-11-01T12:57:00.000-05:00

Didn't mean to disappear like that. Thanks for all your kind wishes and inquiries!

As some of you may know, I had my parents over last week when I took some time off to get some home projects done. Well, they were staying in my spare room, which ordinarily doubles as my computer room. So there weren't any opportunities to blog or answer my email, even if I'd had the time.

I've got lots to blog about, but I'll have to start tomorrow. Right now I'm still swamped with tons of backed up crap at work, and, well, though I'd rather be blogging, you can imagine which activity actually pays the bills!

So, I'll be posting soon, with pictures and all.

By the way, yesterday was my eleventh wedding anniversary, and I wanted to post something about that. I think I'll post one or two of our wedding pics.

Happiness...is a warm puppy!

2004-10-21T23:06:00.000-04:00

Daddy, can I get a kiss?

Hey! What about me???

Florida voting booth

2004-10-20T17:54:00.000-04:00

Even though I've vowed to keep politics off this blog, I have to admit this is kinda cute!

Diebold voting machine

Ps. You can open this with Windows Media Player

Hard hat time

2004-10-20T15:02:00.000-04:00

I mentioned a few days ago that I was doing some projects at my house next week. My good friend Edgar (we went to junior high together), who's a project manager for a construction outfit, invited me over to one of their sites so I could pick up a few donations.

They're building a fire station. He put together a makeshift desk out of some boxes and a spare door and placed it in one of the finished areas. An architect by vocation, he pulled out a paper pad and a pencil and stood across the desk from me.

"So, what are the projects?" he asked.

"I'm laying down a slab of concrete in the back yard. I'm putting in a new shed."

He drew the square slab on his paper. Wrote down the measurements, and calculated the area.

"You'll need four 2x4's, to place around it. Number 4 rebars to keep them in place. Two headed nails to hold the boards together, a wire net to pour the concrete on. Do you have a sheet of plywood to mix the concrete on?"

"No," I said.

"You'll need an extra 2x4 to section off as you pour the concrete."

He drew four different angles for the proper construction of the slab. "You'll have to go down 8 inches deep for an 8 inch wide space all the way around," he said. "Otherwise it'll crack under the weight of the shed. Bevel the outside 12 inches all around so the water drops off. That way you don't get a puddle in the middle. You also want to use a finishing troll around the outer edge, so it doesn't chip off. Water it once it's dried off, to cure it. Remove the 2x4's on the following morning."

"Okay," I said weakly.

"William!" he called out to one of his workers. He handed him the list of items he'd just jotted down. "Gather these things up for me and put them in the gentleman's van, please."

We went through the same process for two other projects. Again, he handed William the other lists. By the time we were done, my company van was packed tight with goodies, including metal sheet roofing for my pool pump shack, Tapcon concrete bolts for the shed and some metal strips to nail the 2x4's together.

"This is a tough project. You sure you can handle it?" he asked.

"Oh, sure," I lied. "I've got my Dad visiting next week, he'll help me out."

He eyed me, doubtingly. "I'll tell you what," he said. "You prepare the space, set up the 2x4's and have everything ready. Then call me, and I'll send you over a couple of guys to mix the concrete and lay out the slab for you. My treat."

Damn, it's good to have friends, isn't it?

"Thanks buddy!!!"

Murgas

2004-10-19T10:57:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

My friends signed me up for it a month before it happened. It was an interschollastic talent show, and it would take place in one of the city's largest theatres. More than a thousand people were expected to attend.

It fell on a Sunday. Mother's Day Sunday. I was seventeen, and flat broke. I promised my mother a trophy, weeks before it happened. That would be my present to her. But as luck would have it, I caught a bad cold days before the event. By that weekend my throat was shredded. I could barely speak - everything came out in guttural bursts, fighting through the phlegm.

I was entered in the soloist category. Nobody up on stage except me and my guitar. It was potentially disastrous!

I went to bed early on Saturday, with a bit of an ear ache. Took a few shots of firewater before hitting the sack. I decided to postpone any final decision until the following morning.

When I woke up, the house was filled with the smell of pancakes and bacon. My sister always made our mother breakfast on Mother's Day. I had nothing to give her. That made my mind up. I would go up on stage no matter what. If I made a fool of myself, so be it. At least I would be able to tell my mother I tried.

My head felt a little less congested, but my throat was still pretty raw. I showered, got dressed, grabbed my guitar and headed out there. Participants had to be there two hours before it began.

My friends were there for me that day. Even one of my teachers showed up. You had to pay to get in, so it showed a lot support on their part. One of my buddies smuggled in a flask of brandy, so I could soften up my throat. It worked wonders. It helped me build up my courage as well.

The competition began with vocal groups. There were at least a dozen of those. Then the bands went on. Then duets. Finally, the soloists.

I think there were about ten of us. I was called up somewhere in the middle.

The world is a very different place when you're standing alone on a stage. It's like there are a million spotlights on you; like the whole world is looking just at you. The crowds of young people were messing around, mostly there to party. But all in all it wasn't very unruly, and you could feel most eyes upon you. I was nervous.

I set the microphones up, for my guitar and myself, and did one quick final tuning off to the side. Then I began to strum my guitar. It was the only thing I could hear in that immense auditorium. I was playing one of my own songs. "Why," it was called, and it was a protest song. When my voice broke in, I could've sworn it cracked. But as I went on, I felt more confident and sang stronger. Though I was looking out at the crowd, and alternately glancing at my chords, I couldn't really see the people. It was all just one blurry mass of humans. I had no idea what kind of response I was getting.

When the song ended, the sound of applause filled my ears. I walked off the stage, only to find groups of people standing and cheering in my direction. A choir of female singers ran out to the passageway to scream and cheer at me histerically. People were cutting me off to shake my hand, and pat me on the back. It was a little scary, actually. But all in all, it was the most rewarding and exciting feeling I've ever come across. It was right there and then that I decided I wanted to have a future in music.

After the performance, we waited around for the awards ceremony. I wanted to get home so I could at least spend a little time with my mother. It wouldn't be much longer.

I took the bus home. Carefully cradling my guitar, because I didn't have a case for it. I knew my mother would be waiting for me, concerned that I would be feeling bad if I hadn't won. Concerned that I would be worried that she'd be upset because I didn't have anything for her.

I raced up the steps to our apartment building, and rang the doorbell for the guard to open. My mother must have heard me arriving, because when I approached our door I found it open. She was standing there with an inquiring look on her face. I made a sad look, an apologetic one, as if to say "I'm sorry, ma, I tried," and she nearly broke into tears, as she was stretching her arms out to comfort me. And right then, from behind my back, I pulled out the first place trophy and placed it in her hands. No expression on my mother's face has ever pleased me more. She was overjoyed, and hugging and kissing me, the trophy gently set off to the side, now only an afterthought.

I have fond memories of those days, now so many years later. I know they'll never come again.

Exhibition Game

2004-10-18T18:17:00.000-04:00

Off to the Heat game! We got Shaq, baby, we got Shaq!!!

Team woes

2004-10-18T07:43:00.000-04:00

Work weekend. Not much time to get any housework done. I had to mow the lawn between games. I'm taking next week off to get some home projects done. My dad's flying in to help me out. I've got a two page list of stuff waiting for him. Poor guy! I have to try to get the supplies this week before he arrives. We'll be too busy laying down concrete and putting in new drywall to spend too much time shopping at Home Depot.

Anyway, I am accepting any and all shows of sympathy for the apparent demise of my beloved Dolphins. Whatever your hometeam woes may be, trust me, they don't compare. I am in mourning!

Aladdin

2004-10-16T09:42:00.000-04:00

Christina with Aladdin & Jasmine

Click here for mood music

A couple of weeks ago I bought the newly released DVD version of Disney's Aladdin for my daughter. She's since seen it several times, but I hadn't a chance to view it with her until last night. I'd only seen the original release in theatres years ago when I took my nephew. Quite a good show, as I recalled.

Either way, after T-ball last night, we had some dinner, got in our PJ's, brushed our teeth, read a story, then snuggled up together in bed to watch Aladdin.

There's a scene in the opening fifteen minutes (true to form, I fell asleep half an hour into the film!) in which a prince calls Aladdin insignificant and worthless. Afterwards our hero is visibly upset and somewhat depressed.

As is her manner, my daughter went right ahead and explained these matters to me. She said the following: "He tried to tell him he's nobody, but he thinks he's someone."

I stared at her blankly for a moment. I don't know if it's because I'm out of touch with today's children or if it's because I'm not particularly bright, but it struck me as such an insightful thing to say, for a girl who won't turn five until next year. In fact, I don't think I could have summed up what was happening any better myself.

I'm constantly being pleasantly shocked by my daughter's brilliance. Oh, I know she's no smarter than other kids her age, but dammit, I am amazed by the level of intelligence she challenges me with.

What a privilege it is to be a father!

Driving lessons

2004-10-14T13:12:00.000-04:00

Oh, how wonderful it was to be young and stupid! However did we survive?

I've been in so many car wrecks that even the wildest among you would probably gasp if I threw out a number, while vigorously shaking your head in disgust and boring through me with stern, cold eyes.

Truth be told, I stole my sister's car when I was sixteen, and wrecked it. My father told me then never to bother asking him for his car keys. And I didn't. I would steal my mother's car occasionally, but never my Dad's. I hit her car against a whole bunch of stuff too, but I never totaled it.

The next thing I drove was a tank. Yup. The US government grabbed a snot nosed kid who's entire driving experience was limited to racing and wrecking stolen cars and put him behind the wheel of a sixty ton M1 Abrams tank.

The most important thing a person needs to know about driving a car with a manual transmission, is that all traction is lost when you put your foot on the clutch.
I learned my lesson too late on that one.

I was freshly moved to Altadena, straight out of Fort Riley, Kansas, into a rented room in a nasty little house. Living the dream. Working a security job and driving a red 1975 Buick Skyhawk, with bubble tires, no spare, and a hatchback without a latch. When you're twenty-two you feel invincible. I don't think I even knew about speed limits.

One fine evening, with sheets of rain and bolts of lightning thundering down from a dark sky, I was on my way back from the grocery store. I'd just spent my spare pennies on a few cans of food (I had then and have now very limited cooking skills). Though it was only a two mile drive back to the house, I chose to get on the freeway because it had an exit that left me only two blocks away from home.

There wasn't much traffic. I sped onto the on-ramp with characteristic recklessness, and darted out into the flow at full speed. There were a couple of cars blocking progress in the two middle lanes, so I slammed back into third gear to go around them on the fast lane. Twas then that I lost all traction. Since I was steering to the left, the car skidded in that direction, fortunately avoiding other cars but headed toward the median. With my feet slamming on both the clutch and the brakes, and my hands pulling the steering wheel sharply to the left, the car started spinning endlessly, once, twice, three times...until, facing oncoming traffic, the car came to a jolting halt when the rear end came slamming into the median.

I wasn't wearing a seatbelt, of course. Nor did I have insurance (auto or health). But luckily, I was fine. The hatchback had flown open and my precious cans were out on the wet road. After hesitating for a moment, I got out and gathered what I could. I still had to eat after all.

Traffic was still moving slowly, cautiously beside me, when I pulled out in front of them, turned my car around and carefully headed back down the road. I had the shakes, a small cut on my forehead, some bruised ribs on my right side, and general soreness all around. My car only suffered cosmetic damage. I don't know what happened to the median.

You think I learned to drive safely after that? Nope. Not quite. I was to have many worse accidents in the years to follow. But there is one thing I learned, even though it took somebody else to point it out to me. You lose all traction when you step on the clutch.

A serious dilemma

2004-10-13T15:51:00.000-04:00

So, take my daughter out to see Shark Tale, buy her popcorn, candy and a soda, or stay in, catch the game and debate on TV, try to ignore her endless pleas for attention, and feed her a tuna casserole with a glass of milk?

I think my mind was made up before I phrased the question, actually...

Sally, interrupted

2004-10-12T13:13:00.000-04:00

Sally's curly hair was tied back, but loosely. You could see blue and green highlights on the front, where her locks played weightlessly on both sides of her face. She always messed up her hair when she was painting, pushing it back out of her eyes with her messy hands. You'd think she was finger painting, the way her hands looked.

Her study was a colorful splash of work, with a multitude of canvas strewn together across the side walls, flanked by plastic covers and broken down easels piled up in a corner. Palettes of dried oils lay randomly on the floor, meshing with the thin, dirty carpet. And the sketches. Dozens of sketches were scattered about, waiting for completion.

She stared at us blankly for a moment and went back to her painting. Walter took me by the arm and guided me behind her. She was painting a field. An open field, in a prairie somewhere. There were trees and bushes, but it was mostly just open field with its contours.

"Sally, it's Mick," Walter told her. "You used to go out with him, remember?"

She didn't budge. If she remembered, she showed no sign.

We had gone together, her and I, in junior high. For a short while. Walter and I were friends, which had made things complicated. I wanted to sleep with her, but it went against the guy code. After high school she studied art. During her second semester she was violently raped in the campus parking lot. She was eighteen years old then. She never returned to school.

We stepped outside, into the living room.

"After the incident she became withdrawn. Hardly speaks at all, and then just enough to communicate her basic needs," Walter explained. "It's been almost ten years now, and all she does is draw and paint."

"Her memory?" I asked, gently.

"Oh, it's hard to tell for sure, but I think she remembers a lot of stuff. It's just that..." he hesitated. "Well, if she sees things the way she paints them, it's not hard to understand."

"What do you mean?"

"Her sketches are blurry. They don't have any fine lines in 'em. She doesn't commit to any definitive borders. Everything's cloudy. And she only paints with a wide brush, stroking gently and unevenly, allowing for a whole lot of interpretation."

"But, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. But if she sees people and things in that same blurry way, it's not hard to see why she doesn't recognize anybody. If she doesn't give people any definition, they can't disappoint her. They can't hurt her."

I looked around at the bare walls.

"You don't hang any of her paintings?" I asked.

"She never finishes them. All her work halts at a midpoint. It gets interrupted, somehow, and is then left incomplete."

"Like her life," I whispered, shaking inside.

Walter smiled sadly. "Yes," he said, "like her life."

We said our good-byes. I promised to come by again, when I was back in town. He nodded. We both knew I wouldn't be back. It's too hard to look at human frailty that closely.

Old friends

2004-10-11T08:52:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

It happened.

I had silently hoped, when I posted my AKA on my Blogger profile, that if any of my long lost pals from other lands and other times should google me, they would find my blog. And indeed somebody has.

Friends I haven't seen in nearly twenty years, and with whom I shared the kind of experiences that stay with you for life, have found me on the other side of the planet. I cannot convey the joy I've felt in hearing from them, and learning of their lives, and in exchanging pictures of our children.

Our lives go in so many different directions. Those we've known and shared our hearts with keep a special place in our memories. I'll never forget the people I've loved, no matter what I do or where I go. Reconnecting after so long is a happy continuation to an old relationship.

Never stop looking for old friends. You'll never make friends like them again.

Haloscan

2004-10-09T09:19:00.000-04:00

Well, I finally caved in and installed Haloscan on my blog. But only after I copied all the comments I had here before, and saved them on my hard drive. I hope this makes things easier...

Your cheatin' heart

2004-10-07T13:16:00.000-04:00

They were being ushered out, to the tune of "Happy Trails" and the glare of bright lights. No more last calls, and no more finishing up. "Let's go, everybody. It's time to go home," the bouncer urged.

Tom was still shooting the shit with a couple of buddies, as they put their darts up in their cases.

He saw her then, a beautiful woman. Long blonde hair, and immaculate face. Didn't think twice about her though, he just went about his business.

As the exiting crowd was funneled toward the front door and everybody got closer to each other, he locked eyes with her. He could see her now, clearly. "Janey," he thought. "It's Janey." Then they looked away uncomfortably.

They worked their way out to the wet sidewalk, greeted by the cold, dark night, still divided into the same groups.

"Can I tell you something?" Richard was asking Janey, obviously drunk off his ass and getting his face in hers, "I don't mean nothin' by it, and I'm not trying to pick you up or nothin', hell, I got my ol' lady waitin' for me back home, but you are a very beautiful woman."

She looked right through him, as if he wasn't there, searching for Tom's eyes again.

"Tom?" she asked gently, "is it you?"

"It's been awhile," he responded. "How're you doing?" embarrassed, Richard moved out of the way and joined his buddies.

"I'm good. Fine, actually," she said. "God, I can't believe it's you! What's it been, three, four years?"

"It's been awhile," Tom repeated. "How's your daughter? Sorry, I don't remember her name."

"Desiree's fine. She started school this year."

"Oh, is that right? She must be so big by now."

"Yes, she's growing up fast."

"What about you?" he asked. "What've you been up to?"

"I became a Jehovah's Witness. I gave up drugs and booze, and now I'm a lot closer to God."

"Well, that sounds great. I'm glad to hear you're doing well."

"I always wondered about you," she said, moving in closer. "I always wondered what happened to you."

Her girlfriend came up to us and asked, "You coming?" as she stole a glance at Tom.

Janey looked at Tom. "You need a ride?" he asked. "I can take you home."

She smiled, a million dollar smile. She hugged her friend good bye.

"My truck's over here," Tom said, showing her the way.

His head was flooding with memories of them, when he first got into town. She was gorgeous in her tiny miniskirt. Killer legs. His buddy said she was bad news. She didn't take good care of her kid. He thought she did speed too. Tom didn't care. She was hot.

He was without a job then, stuck in his buddy's house, living off his charity. She had a small efficiency, not far from there. Just her and her kid, living on welfare. They would spend the hours watching TV and talking. She wasn't too bright, the conversations weren't very interesting. But man, she was so beautiful!

They would make love on the couch, while the kid slept in the bedroom. It was a cheap date, and she was a good lay. Every inch of her tasted good.

"You got married, I see," she said, matter of factly, as they drove toward her place.

"Yes, I did. It's been a couple of years now."

"I never stopped thinking about you, wondering what happened, why you never came back."

"It was hard for me then," he said. "I had to watch out for myself, not get involved so quickly."

"And then you ran out and got married?"

"No, it wasn't like that. I got my life together and met someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

She changed the subject. "Are you working? What are you doing?"

"Yeah, I'm working. I got a job down at the mill."

"You like it?" she asked.

"It's alright. I'd like to get some money together and open up a little bodyshop. You know, where you fix cars and stuff?"

It had been only a couple of weeks after they met, when one day he came over with a couple of beer cans in his pockets. She was in a mood, bitching about everything, saying she was on her way out, she was going to some friends, and if he wanted he could come by tomorrow. His ego took a hit. He left and never went back.

There was no driveway where she lived, so he pulled the truck up to the curb. A quiet street, but not far off the main road.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, looking into his eyes.

"You're welcome. It was good to see you."

She went to open the door, then turned around in frustration, "Can I get a hug? Would that be alright?"

"Of course you can," he said without hesitation, putting his arms around her. "We can kiss good-bye too."

But the kiss happened on the lips, which parted and made things worse. He was lost in the smell of her, desperately kissing her from one side, then another, groping her breasts and feeling her legs.

She stroked him, through his jeans, arousing him until he thought he would burst. "Oh, I want you , I want you," she was whispering in his ear, then suddenly shaking her head, saying, "this is wrong, God, this is so wrong!"

He couldn't stop. He'd lost all sense of self control. There were no thoughts for anyone but the two of them in that truck, and consequences be damned, he wanted her.

She was panting on his cheek, driving him wild with desire. She would say, "No, we can't. You're a married man. This is wrong. Oh God, please forgive me!" but she never pulled away, never stopped kissing and stroking him.

She undid her bra and he unbuckled his belt.

A tap came on her window. They were both startled. It was a bearded guy, with a friendly demeanor.

His name was Paul. Tom knew him from the bars. He owned the house Janey was staying at.

"Sorry guys, but the cops have been coming around my house a lot," he said. "Why don't you guys bring it inside? We don't want anybody getting into any trouble out here."

Tom and Janey were busy trying to get themselves together. The presence of another person had brought Tom back down to earth hard. His only thought was all he stood to lose. He got out of the car and went around to Paul, to stretch his hand; to tell him he was just dropping her off, nothing more. No need to mention this to anybody, after all, nothing had happened, right? Just a harmless little hug between old friends. He'd be on his way now, and it would be like nothing ever happened. Right?

Janey stared at him, disbelieving. "Tom, you're leaving?"

He gave her a quick hug, "Good to see you. Gotta go. Bye!" and he climbed back in his truck. They were still standing there looking at him as he drove away.

They never saw each other again.

Just when you thought it was safe to go...

2004-10-05T18:03:00.000-04:00

So my daughter knocks, then opens the bathroom door while I'm sitting on my throne, nose burried in "The shipping news."

She pokes her head in and says, "Daddy?"

"Mmhhmm?" I grunt.

Showing me our digital camera in her little hands, she innocently asks, "Can I take your picture?"

My reaction wouldn't earn me any 'Father of the Year' awards.

I'm gonna start locking that damn door!

Wallets and money clips

2004-10-04T14:46:00.000-04:00

I need a new wallet. And I want a money clip. Never had one before, but lately I've thought I'd like to.

The thing is, those are never the kind of things you buy for yourself. Are they? Somebody usually gives you those items for your Birthday, or Valentine's Day, Christmas, Father's day, etc. You drop the hints that you need such and such a thing, and poof! It appears. Nicely wrapped and with a red bow on it. I know I'm always listening for (usually very unsubtle) hints as to what my wife and daughter need or want. She wants perfume? A new purse? She's got it! The Lion King? A game called Elefun? No problem! But do I get the same consideration in return? Nooooooooo...

I can pull out what's left of my wallet, to her total disgust, and she'll say: "Mick, you need a new wallet!" And I'll just smile sheepishly and say, "Well, there you go. Father's Day is coming up." She'll smirk knowingly and whisper conspiratorially with my daughter, but when it comes down to it, forget it. It's too easy.

I thought about tying up my loose bills in a rubber band, knowing that would make her cringe. Pull out a tight little roll of bills to pay the check, oh, that would really get to her. But I'm too chicken shit, I'd be too embarrassed myself. Besides, even that wouldn't make a difference.

My wife quite unapologetically decides what kind of gifts I should get. Not the drills, ties, electric razors, or hand tools that I crave but hate to splurge on. No, she comes up with, check this out: A horseshoe set. Not just any horseshoe set mind you, an Eddie Bauer horseshoe set. Bright as the sun on a clear summer day. Has she ever seen me play horseshoes? No. Have I ever expressed any desire, however remote, to play horseshoes? No. THEN WHY GET ME HORSESHOES???? Well, it seems that she thinks I should play horseshoes. Go figure.

So, I guess I'm going to stop at the mall and buy myself a new wallet and a money clip.

Sigh...

Grand ol' game!

2004-10-03T09:10:00.000-04:00

My little slugger!

Yellow uniforms this time around, folks. Doesn't she look cute?

You should see her out on the field, running after every loose ball. When the ball goes past her or runs through her legs, she can't always hold back the tears. I'll stand there looking perplexed, hands on my hips, doing my best Tom Hanks impersonation, "Are you crying?" disbelieving, shaking my head indignantly, "There's no crying in baseball..." looking around at the other faces for support, "There's no crying in baseball!!!" She'll either break into a smile or run over to me and hug my leg, desperate for a little sympathy.

It's gonna be a long, wonderful season!

Train ride

2004-10-01T10:46:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

We gazed out into the open, looking at nothing in particular. Though the snow had melted, the cold air was still icy. I was wearing about five layers of clothing and I was still freezing.

Johnny crushed his smoke out and put his gloves back on, over the liners.
"Let's get going," he said.

We'd mounted the tanks on the train earlier. It took careful maneuvering. There were barely two feet of steel on either side of the narrow bed to play with. One false move and you'd have sixty tons of armor falling over the side of the train.

"Alright," I said, bouncing on my toes for feeling. "Be glad to get this shit over with."

We climbed up on the flat bed and started dragging the chain hoists and heavy duty chains off the rear hull of the tank. My fingers felt like brittle, cold and raw from the cold and the friction with steel, heavily clothed though they were.

"Let's latch it up, Mick," Johnny was saying. "Pull out the slack and bring the chain in close, as far as you can. I'll get the hoist."

I dragged the heavy half-inch chain and pulled as hard as I could, holding out a link for Johnny to latch onto. He shook his head, no. Try for one more. I leaned in with my entire body weight, standing like a slalom skier, at a 45 degree angle. After three or four attempts, we got it. The chain fell to the ground with a loud clang. Hard to believe how much slack remained. We ran the ratchet and brought it in tight, but still loose enough to work the other three corners into place.

Once we got the tank tied down, we locked the turret in place and strapped down the barrel. Another quick look inside to make sure everything was secure: the swing arm, the armor piercing rounds, the small arms ammo. We grabbed the night bags out of our duffles and threw them with the rest of our stuff inside; locked the hatch and did one more walkaround. Everything was in place. It was just after midnight.

Johnny and I ran to the sleeping coach, racing the other crews who were finishing up. We found a separate compartment with six bunks and claimed them all. Our buddies would be joining us soon. We always made plans to eat something and play a game of spades, to pass the time. After a couple of hours though, most of us would lay down and try to catch some sleep.

The train ride always lasted between five and six hours. It only covered fifty miles, but our trains had the lowest priority clearance on the West German railroad. The entire trip you could feel the train pulling up and backing out; latching on and off. It made for a very bumpy ride.

We did this every three months, when our troop had border duty on the Czeck front. The tour lasted 30 days, then we did the whole train thing in reverse. Nobody looked forward to it.

"How many cards you got?" Dwayne asked. "Bitch, get off me!" he yelled, at someone bumping into him from behind.
"Pork rinds? Anybody?" Ed offered.

We sat there, warming our sore bones up, and making the most of our company. We played cards, joked around, drank Cherry Coke...the camaraderie was genuine. We all knew these were the men we would die next to if we ever went into battle. Even when you hated each other, you felt akin to your platoon mates during maneuvers. They were your brothers.

When the train reached the border camp it was just before sunrise. The cold air slapped me in the face as I rushed out to unchain our tank. This was probably the last place on earth I'd choose to be at the moment. Motivation ran shallow at the end of those trips.

I'm not sure why the Army made us go through this exercise, when we could drive the tanks in an orderly convoy and reach the camp in an hour and a half. It must have been an agreement with the West German government, or something along those lines. I assume they didn't want our tanks destroying their roads.

Years after I left, the Soviet Union fell, the Iron Curtain was drawn, and the Berlin wall came down. All those old border camps were rendered useless. I received Border Certificates for guarding the East German and Czech borders. You don't see too many of those around anymore. I wonder if today's teenagers are even aware that those borders existed or why they needed to be guarded.

I'll write about the border camp experience sometime.

Blogging crisis!

2004-09-29T15:14:00.000-04:00

I can't blog!

Every single attempt, however slight, to post something has been interrupted by some inconvenient, urgent, can-not-wait issue that requires my immediate attention!!

AAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My work is interfering with my blogging!

I'll be back when time permits...

Revolution

2004-09-24T10:59:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

There are many pages to the book of my life. Some that I am proud of, others that I would change. But there are no regrets and I bravely claim every move I've made as my own.

Though I was born in the U.S., I grew up in a major South American city, surrounded by poverty and the deep rooted classism that emerges in people's subconsciousness when surrounded by an utter lack of upward mobility in most non-professional jobs. Those who were born underprivileged stayed that way, and passed it on to their children.

The only realistic expectations the country places on the public school system is to teach the poor to read, write and add. Those poor, deprived children (not because they don't have Gameboys or Air Jordans, but because they live on dirt floors and sleep on rush mats) will grow up with the modest hope of finding labor in the cities, migrating from the fields and countryside in search of better possibilities that never materialize.

The cities become grossly overcrowded and polluted without the means to offer employment to the ever growing masses, who eventually turn to crime in a desperate effort to survive the streets. It's a vicious cycle of vastly complex consequences. The causes of which are hard to determine and control, especially in a third world economy that doesn't offer the resources needed to create positive change.

I grew up in a middle class home, a family of four children with both parents. Upper middle class, actually. My father was an airline executive. We attended private schools, lived in a guarded community, and enjoyed membership to the Country Club, where we learned to play and compete in golf, tennis, and swimming. On the weekends we traveled away from the city to our home in the country. Our farm, we called it, but it was more of a vacation home.

At the young age of sixteen I became an enlightened being. Coupled with a new found love for universal literature, I discovered a gift for guitar playing and songwriting. I fancied myself an intelectual and an artist. Always weighed down by heavy volumes and an ever present six-string strapped to my back. I eagerly espoused leftist ideologies and glorified them before those who would listen, and sang protest songs wherever I went.

It's easy to renounce wealth and private property when you have none of your own, yet you live handsomely at your parents' expense. There's no real sacrifice involved. Your theories are entirely subjective, and awaiting to be put in practice during a distant future. It's safe to subscribe to radical beliefs, because your occupation is understood to be that of a student. You're allowed to be an activist who doesn't practice what he preaches.

My friends and I renounced our families' names and wealth, but only in spirit. We descried the establishment and condemned their policies. We wandered around in the parks and bazaars, singing and preaching, pushing marxist ideas and denouncing the church.

Our heroes were the post-revolutionary cuban troubadours, who sang of unity, patriotism and revolution. We played their records and sang their songs.

But ours were romantic notions. Though we wanted change, we stopped short of condoning a violent revolution. The marxist guerillas that populated our rural regions, who recruited the poor to carry out their murderous work and provided no positive political agenda for the country's benefit, were never viewed as anything other than outlaw groups looking to support their anarchic endeavors by kidnapping and killing innocent people, and participating in the illegal drug trade.

We were angry young men, and we were pretentious enough to think we'd be fighting the system forever; deluded enough to believe that our ideas were the right ones, and that we'd continue to cherish and develop them for the rest of our lives. So blurry the road that lie ahead is, but so sharp and clear we thought we saw it.

Eventually life takes over, and we mold our creed to our situation. Our needs define and limit our immediate desires and our hopes are drawn from our "best of all futures" scenario. The fire inside us subsides, and we give way to the comforts that modern life offers us. In essence, we sell out.

I'm not sure how I got here, or what triggered my ability to derive pleasure and contentment from an average, normal life. I always viewed satisfaction as failure. But I've no longer a need to change things, or to pursue a different outcome for my life. I've learned to accept survival as a worthy objective.

Now, I keep my political idealogies to myself. What's more, I've made a conscious effort to keep my opinions on politics and religion off this blog. And though I'm plum full of opinions on every subject under the sun, I'd rather express them in a different forum.

Coach of the Year!

2004-09-23T11:25:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

I'm in a state of panic.

I'm coaching my daughter's Peewee Teeball team this season. Well, not really coaching. Assistant coaching. The coach conned me into it a few weeks ago. I figured, what the hell. Maybe it'll help my daughter feel more comfortable out there with all those boys.

We've only had three practice sessions, so far. Coach told us the first game would be a week after they gave out the uniforms.

Well, a couple of hours ago my wife phoned me. She said,"Sorry babe, I forgot to tell you Lisa (the coach's wife) called yesterday and said you were having practice today."
"Today?" I asked. "But we always practice on Fridays."
"You've got your first game tomorrow."
"Tomorrow??? Are you kidding? But, we don't have any uniforms!"
"They're handing them out today."
"But...but we're not ready!" I stammered. "We haven't even learned how to run the bases properly yet."
"She also said that they were going to need your help today, getting ready for the big game. Coach Larry can't make it."
"Whaaaat???" I yelled. "I don't know the first thing about coaching! I'm just there to help keep the kids from running off! How the hell am I going to get that pack (I meant to say team) of 4 and 5 year olds ready for a game?"
"Oh honey, I'm sure you'll do fine," she said, as we hung up. Leaving me disconcerted and apprehensive.

So, here's my chance to show my mettle. We'll see if I'm cut out to be a Lil' League Assistant Coach after all! Oh, the pressure...!

If you don't hear from me by tomorrow, send out a rescue party!

We're getting older...

2004-09-22T09:46:00.000-04:00

I don't want to be very graphic about my activities, late yesterday afternoon. Suffice it to say that having several gloved medical personnel prying open your buttocks so that another may cut and scrape away offending blood clots from your anus, is not an enjoyable occurrence. I rank it up there with root canal or having my toenail removed (I had hemorrhaging below my big toenail and it was getting infected - they had to remove the entire toenail to get to it).

I guess it's a sign of age, that the last few years I've had to undergo so many procedures. Things that ten years ago I barely knew existed. How we change...

My wife turns 39 today. I turn 39 on Sunday. I married an older woman.

This will be our last year before we hit the big ***40***. Funny, how I used to consider 40 as being old. Now, I'm vigorously trying to view it as a new beginning. We'll see. I have a whole year left to ponder it.

Puppy blues

2004-09-18T11:48:00.000-04:00

"Daddy!" she yells in delight when I walk through the door after a hard day's work, running into my arms and planting a big sloppy kiss on my mouth, successfully diluting the day's sour remains.

"Hi baby," I say, smiling from ear to ear in pure, unsurpassable joy. "I missed you! Did you miss me?"

"Yeah," she says, matter of factly and moving on to more important issues. "Today Fluke went out through the right door. Can we give him a snack?"

"He did? Through the puppy door? Are you sure?" I ask incredulous.

"I opened the door for him."

"And did he go potty, like a good dog?"

"He only went peepee!" she says, frustrated. "Can I give him a snack, and Rocky too?"

This has been one of my biggest problems with the new puppy. He doesn't want to get out of the screened patio and into the yard through the flapping pet door. He insists on tearing right through my screen door. I've had to repair the damned thing at least six times already. And then when he bounces off the taut screen, he proceeds to ram it until it gives way. Man, it drives me nuts!

So we've decided to reward him for using the pet door, but he'll only do it if one of us holds it up for him. So, Christina goes and holds it open while he goes out, she waits for him to take care of business then lets him back in. If she doesn't hold the door for him, forget it! He's going through the screen.

The most frustrating part of this is that he sees the other dog go through the dog door before him, every time, but he seems to think that, it's just not for him. He needs his own door. He's special.

"Well sweetie," I tell my daughter, "the snack only works if we give it to him right after he does something good."

"But, I saw him!" she insists.

"Why don't we let him out now," I say. "Maybe he'll do it again and then you can give him a snack. Okay?"

"Okay!" she says cheerfully. "Fluke! C'mon! Let's go potty!"

She's doing a lot better job of training the mutt than I am.

Hog Heaven

2004-09-16T13:37:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

Ruby caught the ball and faltered briefly, bouncing for balance with one foot, then slid back onto her pinion seat.

"You knock over ma' horse, I'm gonna knock you over, woman!" Kevin yelled from the garage. He was helping Artie put some padding on the back of his saddlebags. Artie didn't want to mess up his paint job by throwing the saddlebags bareback on his bike.

Ruby threw the baseball back at me. I caught it with my helmet. Didn't even have to tilt my hog over.

The helmet law had just become effective in California, courtesy of Pete Wilson. We wore the helmets, but only after we'd placed stickers on the back that read: "Fuck Pete Wilson."

"Let's go, let's go!" I said to the guys, impatiently, "I wanna get moving!"

"We're waiting on Ron and Dean," Artie mumbled, without looking up.

I tossed the ball back at Ruby. A bad throw. She stretched her right arm out to find it, tiptoeing out of her seat and nearly knocking the bike over again. The ball flew past her, into the street.

"Goddamit!" Kevin yelled. "I swear I'm gonna kill both a' you mothafucka's!"

Ruby and I locked eyes and giggled like conspiring children.

None of us were allowed to bring women along for these weekend rides. Kevin brought Ruby, but that was because he wore Hessian colors and we felt privileged to have him tag along, and besides, he had a habit of doing whatever he wanted to do anyway.

Ron and Dean pulled into the driveway. They both rode Vulcans, but they were friends, so we overlooked it.

"Bout time!" I said, getting off my bike to greet them.

We slapped hands, and patted each other's shoulders.

"Whassup! Whassup!" I was saying.

"Not much, man," Ron replied. "Wha's goin' on here?"

"Waitin' on Artie, as usual," I said, turning to Artie. "Hurry up, you slow fuck!"

"I got it, I got it" Artie said. "You ain't been waitin' on me, anyways! These two motherfucker's jus' got here."

Kevin was putting on his helmet, so we all followed suit. Meanwhile, Artie was closing the garage door and strapping his saddlebags on his rear fender.

I fired up my engine, and started a chorus of sweet music for the whole neighborhood to hear. The rumbling boom-boom-boom of a Harley can be the most deafening noise a person can hear, but to a rider, it may as well be an angel's harp.

One by one, we got them all going. The road was looking at us, as we headed off the driveway, past the corner traffic light and onto the highway. A band of brothers for the weekend; fair weather riders to be sure, most of us, but feeling like conquering heroes on the road to fortune and glory.

There's no sensation like having the strength of a thousand cubic centimeters between your legs, more than making up for any shortcomings you might possibly have in the area. There's nothing like it. Some might prefer the more speed efficient crotch-rockets, but they just make you go fast, and get from point A to point B quicker. If you wanna ride, and really feel it and enjoy the scenery and your company, you ride a hog. You let the roar of your engine and the bumps on the road become one with your kidneys and buttocks.

For several years we would go out almost every weekend. Sometimes less riders, sometimes more. Up to twelve of us on one occasion. Often just two or three. But it was always great fun. Even when we ran into trouble, it was always fun.

I miss those days, and the sense of freedom they provided me with. I miss my friends, and the camaraderie between us; the sense of brotherhood. Can't quite replace that later on.

About Home

2004-09-07T09:14:00.000-04:00

Rather than leave a long comment on this post by Standing Naked, I felt inspired to seek out some answers to her questions on my own post.

In my daily frame of my mind, I consider home to be the tangible house I own, where I reside with my wife and child. The place where I eat and sleep, and where the bulk of my income is sunk into.

But on a more subconscious level, I think of "back home" as the land I grew up in, my parent's house, the farm we spent our weekends at, the schools I attended and the streets I was reared on. Rather than a specific place, home consists of a series of memories.

As George Webber finds, in the events so eloquently narrated by Thomas Wolfe, "You can't go home again." As trite and overused as that saying may be, it is one that is true on a multitude of levels.

The most obvious and common of truths - and the one I am primarily concerned with here - is that the home we leave behind is never the same as the one we return to.

I can relate particularly well to that notion on a personal level, since I left my family and country behind at the age of nineteen.

I have been back many times, and I've never found the same place twice. I've become a guest at my parent's home, a visitor at their farm.

Gone are the days when I felt comfortable driving in third world traffic, or walking defiantly through their rough streets. When I'm there, I think of home as the place where I now live.

So where is home?

Presently, I can't think of home as being anyplace other than where my wife and daughter are. But I'm well aware that it is an ever-evolving concept, not restricted to time and place, and not subject to marginal definitions. Home may very well have been a shelter last week, if the weather had been less kind toward us.

But it's not due to a matter of unity, or the strength of the family nucleus holding it all together. I base it more on the fact that my personal comfort and well being are decimated when not in their presence. My levels of concern and stress rise exponentially when they are outside my easy reach, beyond my immediate protection. Having them outside my view makes me jumpy and uneasy.

Though it is literally impossible, or at the very least highly improbable, to be with them at all times and to ensure their safety, by sharing quarters with them I am able to secure my own night-time rest and the suggestion of peace of mind during my waking hours. When I am away, the presumed thought that I will be with them again soon, allows me to stay focused on my responsibilities and not dwell on the uncertainties life brings. Thus home, is a state of mind, wherein we find comfort and shelter from the world around us.

Just some scattered thoughts on the subject, really.

We made it!!!

2004-09-06T20:08:00.000-04:00

Hi Everybody!

Well, we got through it okay. Pretty windy, loud and drawn out, but my only casualties were a banana tree, two screen sections around the pool, a whole bunch of different branches, and a tarp covering I had over the door to my outdoor workshop (which will now be replaced by a much sturdier piece of plywood!). Not too bad, considering.

Before I go any further, I would like to thank all those of you who expressed concern for my family's safety. Every kind comment and email was very much appreciated!

The damned hurricane was sooooo slow that we were holed up from mid-afternoon on Friday through Sunday morning. Our power came in and out periodically, but was never out for long. We were one of the lucky ones. Many homes out there are still without power.

Our phone line went out early on. In fact, I still don't have a dial tone. Since this afternoon, my DSL is able to use the phone line to grant me internet access, but I can't use the phone. Go figure. Anyway, in the age of cell phones, the only true reason I need a landline is to go online, so who gives a damn.

All my shutters held out, and that was vastly gratifying. Particularly since I wasn't able to anchor all of them down completely. They were so much of a struggle early on, that I decided if I had four out of six holes nailed down it was good enough for me. Still, late at night, the constant clanging of metal on masonry was enough to drive you bonkers.

During varied stretches of the storm, I would stick my camcorder out and film short bits of action in my backyard and past my front door. The results were far from spectacular and much less impressive than anything you might have seen on TV, but the surroundings were familiar enough to make the footage an interesting personal documentary of the events. After some editing and the addition of a musical soundtrack, I came up with a nice little DVD to send to friends and family in far off lands (six minutes of wind and rain!). Silly, but I enjoy doing that kind of stuff.

I was back to work this morning. Trying to make up for lost time - a lost cause from the start, to say the least. Northbound flower connections haven't gotten much easier. They probably won't until tomorrow, and by then all the flowers we've been storing since last Thursday will be toast. Oh well, not much that can be done there. But I still have to listen to all our customers complaining like it was our fault.

Tuesday is "Brush pick-up Day," so I had to bunch up all the fallen debris on the side of the curb. At least it'll be out of our sight soon.

Now they're saying Hurricane Ivan may be coming our way. We'll see, but I doubt it. Either way, I'm sure as hell not bringing my shutters down until I know for sure!

Update

2004-09-04T07:23:00.000-04:00

Closed for Business!

Well, it's been a struggle, but I finally got the house ready to weather the storm yesterday.

I meant to post last night and let everybody know we're doing alright, but every muscle in my body aches - I feel like I've been run over by a semi - so I let myself pass out watching the endless TV coverage.

If you've never been through a situation like this one, let me explain to you how it works.

No matter how prepared for a hurricane you think you are, when one approaches you discover there are always a few things you still need to get. Inevitably, things like drinking water, canned foods, and essentials such as milk, eggs and bread. Enough supplies to get you through a week.

Gas. The moment it becomes evident that there will eventually be a landfall, even if it's north of us, the fuel trucks stop coming down here, afraid they won't be able to drive back out. So the lines at the gas stations that still have fuel become unreal, with people trying to fill their tanks up.

Boards, anchors, batteries, drills and bits, etc.

Since Wednesday, it has become unbearably hard to hit the grocery store or Home Depot. After work Wednesday, I stopped off at the grocery store to pick up a few things. I had to park in a neighboring parking lot. No shopping cart. You couldn't move inside there. The aisle with the drinking water had been stripped dry. I threw a bag of dog food over my shoulder, grabbed a couple of bottles of wine and some cans of food in a basket, and went through the express lane. By the time I got to the car, that 44 pound bag of dog food was destroying my shoulder.

I had metal shutters fit for the house some time ago. You don't realize how many windows you actually have until you have to hang those damned shutters on each and every one. That's a lot of work! And the thing is, I never put in the anchors for the front windows (those you see in the pictures). So now I needed to purchase about 48 concrete anchors, a new drill (the one I had was a rechargeable one, and it would never make it through 48 holes), and some fresh batteries for the flashlights and radio. The hardware department at Home Depot was packed. There didn't seem to be any concrete screws or anchors left, but I found a box of 50 wedge anchors hidden away by someone in a different section. The drills were almost all gone, but I found one.

Thursday night after work, I began to drill the holes. I wasn't even halfway done when I'd stripped the new drill. I pulled out the old one and stripped that one too. It was already ten. I was exhausted. I showered and went to bed.

The following morning I went back out to Home Depot to purchase a new drill. They didn't have a single one!

I waited until mid-afternoon when my brother in law finished putting up his mother's shutters, so he could bring his drill over and help me put up the remaining shutters on my house.

Due to the fact that the storm has slowed down and taken so much longer in getting here, it's given us more time to prepare. It also looks like Frances has turned its attention up north some, so we won't get a direct hit. In fact, besides the high winds and rainfall we're getting now, we might not get much else at all.

Thank you all for your kind wishes! I expect this will all be over by tomorrow. I just hope all the Palm Beach residents get through it okay.

Frances

2004-09-01T15:38:00.000-04:00

Click here for theme music

It's getting pretty hairy down here. No time for blogging. We're preparing to welcome our dear friend Frances.

I think some of you may already know I work in the import industry. I manage a brokerage firm which clears flowers arriving from South America and Europe and forwards them out to wholesalers throughout the country.

Well, right now all the truck routes going north of Miami are closing, which means we're going to get stuck with thousands of boxes of very perishable cargo here in Miami. It doesn't help that next Monday is Labor Day and they've already set up holiday schedules!

Anyway, I'll let you guys know what's going on as the storm approaches. I've still got to get home and re-fit my hurricane shutters. Can't leave that stuff until the last moment.

Bananas

2004-08-31T18:41:00.000-04:00

Backyard bananas

We're growing some serious bananas in our backyard.

Anybody know if these things become edible at any point???

Sick baby girl

2004-08-31T15:34:00.000-04:00

My baby's feeling sick today. She's been throwing up all day. I spoke with her on the phone earlier. She sounded terrible, the poor thing. Like somebody had stolen her teddy bear.

My wife says she doesn't have a fever, so hopefully it's no big deal.

I recall feigning sickness for as long as I've been alive. Crying for attention, belly aching to get out of eating, coughing to get out of school. I even faked having the mumps when my brother and sister had it.

But my daughter never wants to be sick. It's like the life gets sucked out of her for a short while. She lays in bed, without an appetite or enough energy to draw or color, watching TV or sleeping. Pissed off because we won't be able to take the dogs out to the park when I get home.

I'm sure she'll have plenty of opportunities to fake illness later on in life. Right now it just breaks my heart to see her this way.

I just went out at lunchtime and bought her a copy of "The Lion King 2." She's dying to see it.

I hope she gets better soon. I hate to see my little girl without a smile on her face.

Jack's Place

2004-08-30T15:06:00.000-04:00

In a small juke joint off Sunset Boulevard, in the spot where Hollywood and Sunset are only a couple of blocks apart, I was drowning my sorrows in a warm mug of beer.

The air was laden with smoke and bad smells, heavy with the endless yelling and bickering of two ugly broads who were strutting their stuff for the male patrons. One of them, as it turned out, was the bartender's daughter. Missy was her name.

It was hard to tell if she worked there, or just simply helped out her old man a little. But she'd bring people their beer, every now and then, with a scowl on her face and a wise-ass retort to whatever was said. I'm sure you know the type.

I was sitting at the bar. Jack, the bartender (an older man of 60 plus years), was exchanging greetings with another guy. I overheard their conversation.

"How you been Jack? Everything alright?" the visitor asked.

"You bet! I'm feelin' good," Jack said. "I'm celubratin' tonight, cos my youngest's gettin' marry at da end o' the munth!"

He gestured at Missy with his chin.

"S'at right? She's getting married?" he asked, watching Missy working the room.

"Yup," Jack answered, "she's a' las' one too, I'm gonna give 'dis up afta' that, fo' shore! Dees ol' bones are gettin' tired..."

They nodded to eachother in silent assent, and quietly toasted with their beer mugs.

Missy kept rubbing up to me, whenever she walked by. After the third beer, she was starting to look a little better. I began to pay more attention. Finally, she returned an empty mug to the bar and stood beside me.

"So wha's your name?" she asked.

"Mick," I answered. "What's yours?"

"I'm Missy," she said, as she waved her long, oily hair around flirtilly.

She was wearing nothing more than a black bustier, sandals, and what we used to call 'fuck-me' shorts.

"Heard you're getting married," I said.

"I might," she said lazily,"haven' made up my mind, yet. 'Sides, I still have to say yes." These last words she said while she gave me one of those "it's up you, buddy!" looks. Then she went off to flirt with somebody else.

Meanwhile, I noticed this heavyset guy sitting next to me. Dark skin, "probably Mexican," I thought.

We nodded to eachother.

"How 'ya doing?" he asked.

"What's goin' on?" I replied.

"The name's Suarez," he said, offering me his hand.

"Mick," I said, as we shook hands.

"You a cop?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

The question surprised me a little, because I couldn't imagine why anyone on earth would ever think I was a cop. Primarily, because I wore a head of curly hair halfway down my back.

"No, no," I said. "I'm a student."

"Oh," he said. "I am."

I nodded in appreciation, not sure what he expected me to do.

We got to talking, and he told me he'd been going to this bar for awhile. Gotten to know all the characters. You gotta know what you're up against. Eighteen years in the force, he added, and he'd never fired a round. This, he believed, was due to the fact that he was always prepared.

"You see that guy over there?" he asked me, motioning vaguely with his eyes toward the bouncer, Tony. "You can see the bulge there, under his shirt. That ain't his dick, I tell ya'. He kills."

I nodded, just going along with what he was saying. Unsure of how to respond.

Pretty soon Suarez was buying us another round, and we were talking about all kinds of things.

As most cops, he thought he had it all figured out. He knew who did what, why they did it, when they did it, and how to stop them from doing it. The reason he didn't intervene was because those people were usually "protected" by other cops. Dirty cops, it was implied.

I hadn't realized how late it was when he got up to leave. We shook hands and said good-bye. I thanked him for the beers.

As I sat there sipping my last drink, Tony, the bouncer, came up to me behind the bar and said:"Hey man, I know yur a cop, but we wanna get outta here. Ya' mind?"

I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

"What are you talking about? I'm not a cop!"

He was shaking his head, looking away while waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"We know yur a fuckin' cop, we know yur a cop, but we wanna fuckin' close up, so les get goin'!" he said, much more impatiently than before.

"But I'm not a cop," I insisted, frustrated and unsure of why I had to bother stressing this.

"He busted me for pros'itushon las' year!" Missy said, coming in from behind.

"You took ma' lil' gurl in for hookin'?" the bartender yelled at me.

Now I really started to feel uneasy.

"Jus' cos yur a fuckin' cop ya thin' ya can come in 'ere and do whutever ya wan'?" Tony was asking.

"I'm just gonna get the hell outta here," I mumbled, getting up without bothering to finish my beer.

"Don't you cum back 'ere, you biiitch!!!" Missy was yelling. "We don' wan' your kind roun' 'ere!

I walked out of there, then picked up my pace briefly. In fact, I may have run a little.

Just when I thought I'd found a cool little joint to hangout at.

That's it!

2004-08-27T16:00:00.000-04:00

My little Butterfly!

Click here for mood music

That's it. No more posting today. This is my off weekend and I'm going to try like crazy to get something done! From here on out, all I have time for are my ladies!

It's been an awful Friday so far, so I'm going to try my damndest to change the course I'm stuck on.

(If I change my mind later I'll just delete this post!)

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!!!

What time is it?

2004-08-26T17:50:00.001-04:00

I came home from the office and started emptying out my pockets. I took off my watch, as I usually do, and put it in my watchbox with the others.

My daughter stands there staring at my watches.

"Would you like to have one of my watches someday?" I ask her.

She holds out her wrist and says, "No, that's alright. I've already got one," showing off her Winnie the Pooh watch.

"Well then, I'll just give my watches to your cousin Emma," I say, pretending to be hurt.

"She can't tell time!" she says, mockingly.

"Can you?" I ask.

She looks pensive for a second, then smiles and says: "I can tell chocolate time!"

I had to laugh. "You sure can," I tell her. "You can always tell chocolate time!"

Here's the link for those of you who don't know about chocolate time.

Comments

2004-08-26T14:38:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

Due to what happened to Helen today, I'm wondering aloud about the "Comments" we leave one another on our blogs.

I'm sure most of us pay close attention to what's said there, as it's a reaction to what we've written. Usually, when a comment is left, we feel flattered and appreciated, however slightly, and complimented that someone would bother to leave an opinion about something we've written. It's encouraging and invigorating.

However, and this hasn't happened to me yet, there are visitors who come to criticize. We're a fair mark for criticism and disagreeing points of view, those things are within the rules. But personal attacks are not. Spiteful challenges to our characters are not.

Some people tend to "cross the bounds of civility," to quote our good friend The Random Penseur, without asking for an invitation. Overstepping those boundaries is unforgivable but, due to the nature of the internet, entirely probable. It is also something we willingly expose ourselves to, by posting -what amounts to- personal diaries online, full of private disclosures that many of us wouldn't dream of discussing even with close friends.

But we can't expect for it to be all chocolates and roses, all the time. There are a lot of people out there who are just plain mean; who would jump at an opportunity to step on our published weaknesses and ridicule us before our blogbuddies. We musn't let them get to us. It is imperative that we stay above it, delete or ignore discourteous words, and ban the culprits when possible.

Someday I plan to write "The Blogger's Social Contract," where I'll get a chance to discourse and bore you further with my preaching on the subject.

I would hope that nobody in our blogging community would allow somebody's hurtful or inconsiderate comments to cause them to shut down their blog. That would be granting them far too much power over all of us. And it would deprive the rest of us from a beautiful voice.

Hot chocolate

2004-08-25T13:37:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

Some years ago, when my wife was eight months pregnant, I was working as an import manager for a cargo airline at Miami International.

It was Christmas Eve and we were keeping our offices open until noon.

I left our apartment around 7 Am. There wasn't a soul out there. I was driving an old beat up BMW 325, that didn't have a whole lot going for it, other than the fact that it ran. The A/C came and went and the radio had a short. Still, it was fully automated, including controls for the side rearview mirrors on the doors, and for the windows behind the shifter, in between the seats. The only thing it was really missing was a cup holder.

I got off the expressway halfway to the airport to get gas and some hot chocolate. I don't usually stop but it was a beautiful day, so I figured what the hell. Why rush to the office? I bought myself an extra large cup. I also picked up a danish and a paper while I was at it.

I got back in my car, tossed the stuff on the passenger seat and held the cup in my right hand. I got back on the road and as I approached the on-ramp, noticed I'd forgotten to buckle my seat belt. Well, usually that wouldn't have been a big deal, but I'd recently been fined for driving without one. So in a moment of complete insanity, as I'm making the turn onto the ramp, I slowed the car down, placed the extra large styrofoam cup of burning hot chocolate on the dashboard while I secured myself to the car.

I know what you're thinking: "What an idiot!" , "What a moron!!" , "What a dumbass!!!" and you're right. But the truth is that I'd placed beverages on there before, albeit for infinitesimal amounts of time, and it had worked. The dashboard could be used as a temporary table in case of emergency.

The moment I placed the cup there and went for the seatbelt, a car appeared behind me and tailgated me up the ramp. In an instant of panic, and to get this guy off my ass, I hit the gas ever so slightly. That, coupled with the incline of the ramp, made the cup of chocolate slide off the dash and bounce off the shifter. Through some crazy reflex, I managed to catch the cup on its way up. But a hole had formed below it, where it hit. It was pouring out like a busted water main, flowing like an oil strike.

With the windows closed and the controls at my right, tossing it out the window was out of the question. Here I am, left hand on the wheel, a busted cup of burning fluid in my right hand, and a car trying to screw me from behind. I pulled into the emergency striped area to the left, the one that divides the road and the on-ramp before they merge together.

The scalding hot chocolate kept pouring out like there was no end in sight. My pants were soaked, my legs were burnt, my right hand was FRIED!, the case of CD's that I had on the passenger floorboard was wasted, and once I stopped, the window controls were stuck in place. Hot chocolate was flying everywhere!

Finally, the cup was empty. Just as I managed to open the door so I could toss it out. I sat there and surveyed the damage. I had to laugh. There was nothing that could be done now.

I was going to have to drive back home and change, but I had to get some of the stuff cleaned off before I went anywhere. I pulled out the keys and went to the trunk to pull out the roll of paper towels I kept there. Right after I closed it, I realized what I had done. The keys were in the trunk. Of course. How else could it have gone?

I got back in the car and started to wipe everything off anyway. Thirty seconds later the car alarm automatically went off. I closed the door and eventually it shut off. But the windows were closed and I was suffocating, so I had to open the door again, and then...WHHAAAAAA, WHHAAAAAA, WHHAAAAAA...

I called my wife from my cell phone and asked her to bring me the spare keys. She wasn't happy about this. No matter what kind of a mess I was in, she was going to be bothered by this. Apart from the fact that she's not much of a morning person, she was also very pregnant and had been waiting on tables until 1:00 Am that night. "I know...I'm sorry...don't know what else to do..." and so on and so forth.

She showed up a half hour later (a ten minute drive!) and brought the keys with her. Her mood improved considerably once she saw me. In fact she couldn't stop laughing. She said I looked a lot like when I worked in the oilfields, covered in oil and mud. That helped to lighten up my mood as well. Certainly this wasn't even half as bad as things were back then.

We went home. I showered, got dressed, kissed my wife and her belly good-bye, and was off to work again. It was still a beautiful day!

Burger steaks

2004-08-24T14:06:00.000-04:00

Last night for dinner, my wife made some ground beef patties for my daughter. In our never-ending quest to find things Christina will eat, she cooked the patties and told her they were "burger steaks." Steak is the one thing she'll always eat.
I was given some tuna casserole thingy, put together quickly before Cindy darted off to work.

"Yay!" she said. "I love burger steaks."

"They look yummy," I volunteered.

"You can have one," she offered.

"That's okay, sweetheart," I said. "Mommy made me something else."

"No, but you can have one," she insisted, caringly. "There's too many for me!"

"Thank you honey," I said, "but I'm already getting full."

"What about you take one for lunch tomorrow," she said, with the air and manner of one who's just discovered the perfect compromise. "You can put one in a bag, like a sandwich, you close it up, you put it in the fridge - because you have to eat at work! Then when you get up in the morning, you put it in the blue lunchbag and you take it to work!" She finalized this point with her arms spread out and both her palms pointing upwards, and gave me one of those "you get it?" looks, like an MIT professor might do after explaining a complicated mathematical formula to his students.

"Why, that sounds like a spendid idea!" I told her.

She flashed me a satisfied smile from ear to ear and went back to her food.

Me, I sat there and marveled at the thought of my 4 year old daughter mothering me at such a tender age.

A promise not made

2004-08-22T22:12:00.000-04:00

Click here for mood music

A storm brewed above us. We could hear the thunder gaining momentum, rumbling in the depths of the clouds.

We held eachother closely.

Dan and Melissa were eagerly engaged in conversation down by the road, maybe forty feet away from us. They had driven the four of us out to the countryside, just past the city limits. I was on leave from the Army, visiting my parents. The following day I would be heading back to West Germany.

"It's cold," Angela said, wrapping her arms around my torso, inside my jacket.

We sat on the grass, listening to Cyndi Lauper wailing from the car radio below.

The wind blew around us, surrounding us with the whistling whispers of the tree leaves. Evening was quickly approaching and we both knew our time together was coming to an end.

"Get closer," I told her, pulling her even tighter to me. I could feel her breath on my face.

My old friend Dan had introduced us the week before, when I first arrived. He wasn't trying to fix us up or anything, she was just a friend of his. I was smitten though.

Angela had the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen. Deep and magnetic; they held my gaze captive when I swept past them. Still to this day, I can't recall seeing a dreamier blue.

When she smiled, you felt compelled to smile back. Her frecklish complexion and her propensity toward blushing; her posture and her perfectly proportioned figure; her feminity and fragility; all these things brought me to make a move. A move that I would usually be reluctant to make, because I knew I'd be gone sooner than later.

"I love you," she said. "You know that, right?"
I hesitated for a second.
"Yes," I responded languidly, "I know."
I looked away, toward the darkening clouds in the horizon.
She pressed her face against my chest and squeezed tightly. I knew she wanted to hear more than that, but I couldn't say more.

The week before, we'd gone out to the movies. Then dancing, a picnic, and a fireplace gathering at a friend's house, where I played some guitar. Every activity was crying out for romance. I couldn't help it. I let myself get carried away and swept up with the possibilities. After all, I wouldn't be in Germany forever.

"Will you write?" she asked. "Will you let me know how you're doing?"
"Yes, of course," I said.
"Everyday...?" she added, with a smirk.
I smiled at her, and breathed her in. We kissed - soft and long, tasting eachother's
desire.
"Maybe not everyday," I said, looking in her eyes. "But I'll write often enough."

She was a dental student, second year. Very bright and very ambitious. The oldest of five sisters in a close-knit family. Yet, I could tell she'd leave it all in a heartbeat if I asked her to come with me.

My future was sketchier. I had a year and a half to go in the Army. After that I planned to hit the road to California in search of fame and fortune, with nothing but my six-string and a change of clothes. I yearned for that freedom. It was the one thing that kept me going during those long, lonely days in the service. Having somebody along would destroy those plans. And though women seem compliant and supportive at first, they grow obstinate and selfish about their own needs as time goes by. It's a natural progression.

I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her face up to mine, our cheeks meeting warmly. I nibbled on her ear, gently, breathing on her. She shivered.

"I don't want to make you any promises I can't keep," I told her. "I don't know what's going to happen when I go away. It wouldn't be fair to make any plans now."

"You don't have to make any promises. Just tell me the truth. Please!" she implored.

I hesitated. Who knew what the truth was? I couldn't be sure that the way I was feeling then would be the way I'd feel later.

"I can tell you I want to be with you," I said. "I can tell you I'm going to think of you and miss you when I get on that plane tomorrow. I can say that you've made me whole these two weeks, and that I feel like I'll be leaving a part of me behind when I go. I can tell you that."

I handed her my dog tags. "I'd like you to keep these," I whispered.

She sobbed. Her tears wet my chin, and her cries touched my heart.

I knew I would forget her. It had happened before. One moment you're caught in the thick of it and you believe that it's real. The next thing you know, when you step outside the situation and go back to your regular routine, you stop feeling the way you did. It fades away; loses its luster. It's hard to explain.

We drove back to the city and parted ways. It was sad and beautiful, both in one. Good-byes can be that way.

I wanted to promise her more than I should. I wanted to tell her I loved her, and drop the classic "I'll send for you" line. But I honestly didn't want to hurt her. I just wanted her to love me a little, to believe that if it was meant to happen it would; that the possibility was real and I was open to it. She deserved that much, even though I already knew it was doomed.

The next day I was on a flight to Frankfurt. Within days I was back to being a soldier, and forgetting the person I'd been back home.

I wrote her once. She wrote often. Eventually she called, wondering what was wrong. She caught me getting stoned in the barracks, completely unprepared to respond to questions about us. I don't remember what I said, but she never wrote or called again.

About a year later, when already stationed stateside, I went back home to visit my parents. Through Dan, I learned that she'd heard I was coming and was hoping to see me. I even met up with her sister who was dating a buddy of mine.

But I couldn't call her. I'd done enough damage. And even though I knew she wanted to see me, and I wanted to see her, I couldn't put her through the whole ordeal again. That just wouldn't be fair.

Fluke

2004-08-20T20:54:00.000-04:00

This is Fluke. We've just adopted him. Christina named him. He's 5 months old.

Items atop my office desk

2004-08-20T09:04:00.000-04:00

A calendar - one of those 'at-a-glance' calendars that you flip over a day at a time

Three picture frames - one that says 'Daddy's girl' of my daughter in her T-Ball outfit, one of my wife in the woods on our honeymoon, and one of my daughter at the beach which says 'BABY' and has a photo album behind it - in it I keep a chronological set of pictures of her going back to her birth. Proud Daddy!

A 17" computer monitor, speakers, keyboard, mouse and mousepad.

Five paper pads - a regular post-it pad, a 6'x4' lined post-it pad, a stubby square pad of non-stick paper, and a letter size yellow pad where I keep my notes. The fifth one is a promotional paper pad from some staffing agency that came to see me last week.

A letter holder, where I keep my unanswered correspondence.

A Miniature beach chair where I rest my cell phone.

My PDA and docking station, and beside it my PDA leather case.

A stack of business cards waiting to get organized and filed away.

A large wooden case where I keep my personal business cards, and a small display holder where I place them for popular consumption.

A pencil holder where I keep a couple of cheap pens (the ones I don't mind if anyone steals), a staple remover, a highlighter, a sharpie, and a pair of scissors.

A large printing calculator.

A small desktop old-world globe (about the size of a baby's head) with fountain pen holders which have never been used - I keep it around because it looks good.

A stapler, a paperweight, and a correction tape.

An 8" tabletop fan (this is Miami!).

A rolodex.

A can of lysol (the bathroom's just down the hall).

A paper clip container, jammed full with jumbo size clips.

An office phone with 29 buttons, plus the dial pad.

A two-level wooden inbox, of which I've never seen the bottom.

The current copy of World Trade magazine - not my prefered reading, but it's appropriate.

A faux-marble coaster with an ever-present can of Diet Coke over it (I don't drink coffee).

Assorted papers scattered about.

A small bottle of clear coat finishing automotive paint - not sure why it's still here, I've just been too lazy to take it home.

A broken down Nextel phone waiting to be repaired, and a busted watch wristband waiting to be replaced.

And that pretty much sums it up. It's unbelievable what a bunch of crap I manage to fit on here.

I don't even want to tell you what I've got in my drawers (my desk drawers, that is)!

Blogger's lot

2004-08-18T12:20:00.000-04:00

A poem

Today I have no tale to tell
no clever words to post
my beach is void of conch and shell
my brain’s a blackened toast

Forego the hits then, you might say
and leave the net to us
we merry crew who write and play
and every thought discuss

But alas, I cannot let my blog
mold, forgotten by my peers
I’ve toiled too hard, worked like a dog
to gain readers through the years

It’s a sad affair, the blogger’s lot:
must deliver or demise
and in frequent bursts of wit and plot
write that others might surmise

I will chance today, with nothing to say
and I’ll leave thee with my past
to both browse and view (in a bloggy way!)
all the posts I have amassed.

Did I remember to tell you...?

2004-08-17T12:31:00.000-04:00

Would I, that the stars were out tonight and gazing down upon you; they would be as moved by your beauty as I am. And would I that we had a private space to dine in, a candlelight dinner for two...one that you didn't have to cook yourself, and where you didn't get a reproachful and stern look from me for ordering too many margaritas before the entrees arrived.

I would, if I could, shower you with a million things: furs, and shoes, and multi-carat diamond rings; I would stuff your purse with credit cards, and buy you a brand new car; I would fly you off to Europe at the drop of a hat, and smother you with lavish presents along the way; I would sail the seas, fly the skies, climb the mountains if you asked, and yes, yes, I would lasso the moon for you as well.

But our daily lives leave little room for such adventures, and our responsibilities won't allow us to splurge carelessly.

It's easy to forget what brought us together once, now that we're so changed. But we musn't forget, not even for an instant, what's kept us together. The road has been long and we've grown comfortable, and in that comfort we've forgotten to coddle each other, and tend to our more selfish and personal urges. The need to appease basic necessities will do that.

Still, rest assured that I'm up for the challenge. Whatever dragon needs slaying, whatever nightmare haunts you, whatever wall stands before you, I will willingly confront. And be sure, without a second's hesitation, that I will give up my last breath in the endeavor.

Did I remember to tell you today that I adore you?

Uptown Saturday night

2004-08-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

The smokers blocked the passageway to the Alehouse from the parking lot; bitterly adjusting to the new laws that ban indoor smoking. We entered through the crowded door.

The wait for a table, away from the loud music, was ten minutes. The three of us stood there, tired and sweaty after a long night's work in the breezeless heat, until they showed us to our table.

Ted and Fred looked worn out. I'm sure I did, too. It was well past midnight and we'd been out there since 5 PM. It's a little Saturday night gig I have every weekend to bring in some extra pocket money. But it's hard work and it takes its toll. Don't know how much longer this old body can do it.

We got a booth next to the restrooms. At least it was quiet.

After we ordered a pitcher of beer and some food, we took turns going to the head to wash up a little.

We observed the tables around us. Unusual people, as it turned out.

Across from our table, a couple sat facing each other. They were large people, in their late forties, I would guess. He sported a bald head and a sparkling earring; wearing a tight black muscle shirt to show off his chest and biceps - obviously a gym rat; an odd profile, to say the least, the kind of face I've always imagined on Igor, Dr. Frankenstein's assistant; he was pale as snow and he had a morose look about him. After they ordered, he slid over to her side.

She was a sight to behold. Blonde, with extensions down to her waist; the bulk of Schwarzenegger and the face of Stallone, with black spandex wrapped around her like cellophane; more makeup than Tammy Faye Bakker. Not the kind of girl you want to meet in a dark alley...

The whole time we were there, I barely saw them speak and I never saw them smile. Strange people, by my reckoning.

Our pitcher arrived and the waiter filled our three frosty mugs. We mumbled an unenthusiastic toast to the end of the day and took a drink. Then Fred spotted red lipstick on his mug; bright and clear.

We called the waiter back and displayed the mug. "Sorry, I pulled it out of the clean rack...I don't know how it could've happened...I'll get you another one," he stammered, and ran off to fetch a clean one.

The other table across from ours had another interesting combination of characters. A lovely young lady - slim, shapely, pretty and with long hair - sat with two gentlemen. She couldn't have been too far past twenty, if that. We noticed her extensively when she went to visit the ladies room, and strutted past our lustful eyes.

Upon her return, when she sat down, we noticed the company she kept. They were two men in their forties. Both looked very frail and geekish, but they had an odd confidence about them. One had a curly moptop for a head, and he looked slightly retarded; he seemed to emit a low volume Beavis & Butthead laughter every so often. The other one, who had summarily corralled the girl in the sitting space reserved for one person, was a skinny little guy; he wore glasses and held a laurel crown of hair on his head. He had a devious, almost perverse manner about him. He put his face up close to her ear each time he spoke. One could only wonder what they were up to.

Our waiter returned with a clean, empty mug, and proceeded to pour some beer into it out of our pitcher. I said: "Great, thanks. But you owe us another beer." The guy looked at me dumbstruck, like he'd never heard anything so absurd in his life. He looked at the dirty mug, which was still on the table for our viewing pleasure, and said: "Well, this is a half beer. I'll show it to my manager and see if he wants to comp you guys a beer, but I tell you right now, he's going to say this is a half beer." Apparently the sip we took from the dirty mug was bought and paid for, and it accounted for a whole half beer even though the beer level was barely an inch or so from the top of the mug. For a second there, I thought he was going to pour out the dirty mug into the pitcher, so we could have our damn beer back.

Well, he took off in search of the manager while we stared at each other in disbelief. Already we were picturing the guy spitting into our food. I wasn't upset about the cost of the beer, but it seemed ridiculous to me that we didn't get refunded for, what amounted to, damaged beer. This guy was either new at this or he was an idiot.

Of course, the manager just had him bring us a fresh beer. The food was delicious, and hopefully unspat upon. We tipped the guy well, as is our custom. Then we walked out, said our good-byes and went our merry ways.

On my drive home I thought about the people I'd seen, and how odd they'd seemed. I marveled at their strangeness. Then it dawned on me. Perhaps I'm the strange one; I'm the one who doesn't quite fit in. Maybe the things I see as unusual aren't quite as irregular as those I see as normal. Hell, it's not like I get out much anyway. What do I know what's going on in the world? I don't even watch TV that much. I wonder if those people there were looking at us and amusing themselves at our expense; fabricating stories about our occupations, sexual orientations or things of the like.

One thing I am sure of: the world out there is not the same one I knew growing up. Things have changed; people have changed.

As unconcerned about what people may think as I've always been, I can't help but wonder what they think of me now.

Beauty and the Beast

2004-08-12T20:29:00.000-04:00

Though Christina was barely past her third birthday, we decided to venture through the Disney MGM Park live version of Beauty and the Beast. It was raining, it had been raining pretty much all day, and the rest of the attractions lost their appeal. The truth is, with the exception of The Magic Kingdom, the parks at DisneyWorld don't have many rides you can take a three year old on. We'd bought the DVD the year before, so she was familiar with the story.

As with every Disney attraction, the lines were phenomenal. We had to park our stroller out on the street and haul our bags and daughter through the rain. Oh, we had our ponchos on, but they didn't keep much of the rain off. All they really did was render us invisible in the sea of orange and yellow out there. You lose sight of your party for a second and you're screwed.

The show was terrific as expected. Christina was riveted throughout, mouth and eyes wide open. We were back a ways, but we could see the stage well. I kept Christina propped up on my lap so she could see. It was a pretty good workout, actually.

Toward the end, as Cindy and I were planning our getaway through the crowd in anticipation of the final bows, something unexpected happened.

When Belle kissed the Beast and a puff of smoke came up, only to have Prince Charming suddenly appear, Christina was devastated. She looked around the stage in a panic, and not finding what she sought she started bawling."Where's Beast?" she asked. My explanations were futile. "I want Beast!!! I want Beast!!!" she started to yell, at the top of her lungs. People were turning around and staring at us impatiently, telling us with their looks to "Shut the kid up!"

Well, I didn't know what to do. Certainly I was distressed at being the cause for such an interruption during the final scene, the supposed happy-ever-after ending. But when it came down to it, I said the hell with everybody. My daughter was crushed and suffering intensely for the poor, disintegrated Beast. She needed our comfort.

We coddled her and kissed her, and promised her that Beast was okay. In fact he was happier now that he looked like a normal person. "No!" she yelled. She couldn't imagine how the Beast could be any prettier than he was, a big fluffy teddy bear.

Inconsolable, we carried her out of there. We went to the nearest gift shop and bought her a Beast doll. That finally calmed her down. She snuggled up with him in her stroller.

If that was a sign of what kind of men she's going to like, I'm in a world of trouble!

Pedro, General Manager

2004-08-11T13:50:00.000-04:00

We arrived in Miami in the spring of '97. I had secured a job beforehand working as an agent for a cargo airline at MIA.

When we went to meet my new boss, my wife found him to be very engaging. Her first aside to me was "I'll bet you he throws some wild Christmas parties!" As it turned out, he was a little too engaging.

His name was Pedro. An imposing man at 6'4", 325 pounds. He was well overweight. More than anything though, what stood out about him was his boisterous voice. Pedro usually spoke like he wanted the entire building to hear what he was saying.

"What the fuck, Mr Child?" he would say to me. "How does a man of your education and stamina stay so fucking thin?"

Most of what he said failed to make sense. He piled on words in no particular order and he tried to get his meaning across by sheer volume. Rarely did he let you speak, unless he thought you were going to agree with him. If not, he would continue with his barrage:"I used to be skinny bro, when I was a teenager, but as I got older, I was doing a lot more fucking, and a lot more exercise...I really don't eat much, I just have a lot of ulcers and shit, and I retain a lot of water, but I still fuck like a monkey, you know?" At this point I would just start to nod in agreement, hoping he would shut up. "Gimme a smoke, nigga'!" he would say out of nowhere, slapping me on the back.

Pedro harassed everybody, incessantly. The women were always feeling disrespected, and the men were usually feeling insulted. He didn't alter his language or demeanor for the sake of anybody, which made him into somewhat of a cluster bomb, hitting everything around him. An equal opportunity offender, some would say.

Some of the girls, particularly his poor secretary, would take so much shit from him (since he was the boss people rarely snapped back at him - those who did were quickly showed the nearest exit) that they would eventually blow up on one of the other employees over the smallest details. When things got out of hand, Pedro would call up a staff meeting to try and figure out what was going on. Then everybody would point their fingers at eachother, they would air out their grievances, and nobody would say anything about him. He always started those meetings with "I want you guys to help me get to the bottom of this...we don't want anybody showing the ladies any disrespect...it's important that everybody treats the others with integrity and good manners, without offending their sensibilities and clean upbringing...if anybody knows of anything I should know about you can tell me, now or later when we're alone, and I'll get rid of the bastard," or some nonsense like that.

He would call the Import counter where I worked, and while on speakerphone would ask: "Where's shit-for-brains?" referring to the guy who sat next to me.

With the attractive ladies in the office, he would invariably greet them by looking them up and down, licking his chops, while saying something like "Hmmmm, you look good enough to eat, Ms Smith."

How, you must be asking yourself by now, does somebody in America get away with that? Certainly it must have been raining lawsuits on that company!

Well, here's what it boils down to: this is Miami. Every employee came from a Latin American country. This kind of abuse is customary down there. Oh, not to this extreme perhaps, but it's the established general order of things. Nobody questions it, everyone expects it. The women grin and bear it, and the men swallow their pride. You hope either he or you will move on eventually.

I moved up as far as I could, then accepted a job offer from a customer. I thanked Pedro for all he'd done for me. I left four years ago and haven't spoken with him since. I sincerely hope I never have to.

In the pool

2004-08-10T14:47:00.000-04:00

Yesterday the clouds cleared and we saw the sun. Finally, after viewing dark, thundering skies daily for the last few weeks. Summer shouldn't be like that.

When I came home from work I was greeted by a "ready-to-go-job-hunting" wife, and an attention starved daughter. With a touch of blue hitting the early evening horizon, my daughter was obstinately demanding a swim in the pool.

I was wary at first, thinking the water would most likely be cold. But after stepping in to my knees and finding it agreeable, I acquiesced, and we ran to get our suits on.

We splashed around for a couple of hours. I poured myself a drink, played Eva Cassidy over the outdoor speakers, and let my little mermaid have her way with me. There was not a second when she wasn't smiling.

At one given moment I retreated from myself, and calmly observed the scene from outside. The pool, the music, and my daughter. As much as I whine about my life, and I feel so overwrought with debt, responsibilities, and work that I can't sleep...isn't my life wonderful? I mean, in the ideal scenario, would I ever hope for more than to be able to play with my daughter after work to my heart's content, wading and swimming around in my own pool, and my own house? Is there really more to it?

We got out as darkness approached, and dried off before entering the house. After we showered and had some supper, we snuggled up on my chair to read a story. She brushed her teeth and I tucked her in. Then with the sweetest mix of "squishes & kisses" you can imagine, she bid me goodnight.

Afterwards, alone, I'm left to ponder if my worries need be worries after all.

A red rose for Claudia

2004-08-07T09:36:00.000-04:00

I cut a red rose close to the head and removed its thorns. It was small, but fully opened. Its fragrance filled my air and made me think of Claudia. Carefully, I placed it on an open page from the book I bought her. Baudellaire's collected poems. Not very romantic, but we both shared the same love for dark poetry.

The rose found its place, evenly pressed by the weight of the pages around it. I kept the book for several days afterwards, to ensure that the rose took it well. When it works, the rose maintains its color and brightness with a trace of its aroma. Mine looked fine.

Claudia was sitting alone, reading, at a small cafe called The Place, not far from where she lived. She was still wearing her school uniform, but she had on a thick, white virgin wool sweater over the top. It was the button down type, with big brown wood-like buttons. She looked terrific. Barely fifteen, and she lit my world.

She was taking a sip from her tea as I approached.

"Hi," I said.
"Hi!" She smiled.
"You look beautiful."
"Thank you!"

We exchanged hello kisses, on the cheek.

"Were you waiting long?" I asked.
"Twenty minutes, maybe. Not long."
"Do you want to get something to eat?"
"I'm fine, thanks."

I sat down and ordered some hot cocoa.

"I brought you a present," I said, setting the book on the table. I had wrapped a red bow around it.
"For me?" she asked excitedly, as she grabbed it and turned it around to face her.
"Baudelaire!!!" she exclaimed in delight. "Oh, it's wonderful!" she said, as she stood up to kiss me.

I had made a habit of giving her small presents here and there, during the six months we had been going together. Nothing much really, just things like records, books, and chocolates. She was always so happy to receive them that it made the effort worthwhile.

"Will you read me one?" she asked, handing me the book.
"Perhaps later," I replied hesitantly, wanting her to be the first to open the book and find the rose."Right now, I want you to tell me how you've been."

Feigning disapointment, she pouted cutely and drank some tea.

"I've been sad lately, since my mother left for New York," she said. "I feel like I didn't spend enough time with her while she was here."

Claudia's parents were divorced, and they lived in different countries. She stayed with her father and grandmother, and saw her mother only twice a year. They had been close before, but they were no more.

"Won't you see her again at Christmas time?" I asked.
"Yes, but it's so far away. And I don't feel like we left on good terms," she whined.
"Why not? What happened?"
"Well, we were saying goodbye, and I started tearing up. Don't cry, my mother said, baby, don't cry. And I said, oh no, no, I've got something in my eye, that's all. So she turned away and got in the cab, and I just stood there like an idiot, pretending not to care that my mother was going away!"

She sobbed gently, and I offered her my handkerchief.
"No, no, I'm fine," she said, waving me off. She then dried her eyes with a napkin.

"Maybe if you had been more honest with her, if you had let her dry your tears..." I started.
"What do you know?" she shot back. "What do you know what it's like to only see your mother twice a year? You've got your parents right there, whenever you need them! What the hell do you know???"
"Claudia, I don't," I said. "That's not what I'm saying. Why are you getting so upset at me?"
"Because you think you know what's wrong, and you think you know the perfect solution. You always think you know everything!"
"I don't, I don't think I know everything," I offered,"I'm just trying to help you figure out what went wrong."
"Well I don't need your help. I only wanted your comfort! Was that so much to ask for? Was it?"

I shut down. All of a sudden I was unsure of myself, and scared. I thought I was offering her comfort. It now seemed apparent I was not. I had no idea what to do next. This was the first time I had experienced a woman's inexplicable ire directed at me. I wasn't prepared to defend myself against it.

She looked at me in disgust and got up, gathering her things. Then she reached into her coin purse and I said "no, I've got it," but she shook her head and threw some change on the table.
As she turned to go away I called out to her: "Claudia!" and held out the book, hopefully.
She stared at it for a long second, then snatched it out of my hand.

I never saw her again. I called her up several times, but there was nothing there. Something had happened between us then, in a matter of minutes, that would never be repaired.

I've no idea if she liked the rose.

The open road

2004-08-06T09:22:00.000-04:00

This is a great little story.

I often dreamed of walking away from it all. When life and its responsibilities got too heavy to bear; when love was unrequited or unkind and the proverbial highway began to call, I considered taking that left turn and never looking back.

I'm not sure when it happened, that I allowed myself to be shackled by the comforts life offers. Or when I forgot the early realization that by giving in to those comforts I would forego the pleasures that freedom offers.

It wasn't always that way. I decided early on that anything too heavy to carry in a backpack was simply too burdensome to own. But then came things, and my love of things. Things like stereos and books, guitars and accessories, microwave ovens and CD's...what's a guy to do?

I remember once while still a bachelor, when I found myself caught up in that materialistic quagmire, that I chose to rid myself of all the objects that held me down. I separated 50 books and 50 records and shipped them overseas to my parents. Sold the rest. I was a free man.

But freedom brings a whole new set of responsibilities and expectations. You feel the pressure to do something worthwhile, like hitchhiking across the country, or traveling as a stowaway on a boat to China. Not doing something crazy and dramatic makes you feel unaccomplished and cowardly. I wasted my liberty in the pursuit of cash on which to survive with.

More than just our material assets, it's hard to cut away from the habits and routines we've developed in our daily lives. I have a certain need to read the paper every morning and watch the news before I go to bed. Shallow as these details may be, they are still real and they are a part of me. Though they are most certainly things that I could live without, as the creature of habit that I've become, the thought of altering these routines gives me pause.

Since the birth of my daughter, departing has become an impossibility because I can't fathom life away from her. But every now and then I can still hear the call of the wild, and I can see the open highway. And I tell myself, "maybe someday, maybe someday..."

2004-08-05T10:14:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had a day when everything seems to go wrong?

That's today. And everytime I think nothing else can happen, something else goes to shit. This is all work related, mind you. The personal stuff is already screwed up enough.

Right here and now, this is what I want out of life:

A raise or a new job
One single, small and unassuming, winning ticket to the Florida Lotto
My wife to find (and keep!) a job
My daughter to be old enough that she may be allowed into the public school system
The Dolphins to reach the Superbowl
My car to stop making noises like it's about ready to fall apart (with nearly 2 years left to pay on it)
More time off to spend with my family
A new shed for the backyard
Good health and long lives for my parents
An Ipod and a laptop
My old house not to have any major problems for at least six months
An endless supply of fine scotch and good wine
An ocassional steak dinner
My only remaining dog (I lost the other two to terminal illnesses in the last year and a half) to stop having seizures and allow his medicine to do miracles
A new diamond ring for my wife
Inspiration for my stagnant songwriting
Some outlet through which to release all this stress
The strength and stamina I had when I was 19, as well as the waist size
An ice cold beer, a fat cigar, a good book, and twenty uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet to enjoy them while I float around aimlessly in my pool

There, that should do it. For now.

Slip sliding away

2004-08-03T11:44:00.000-04:00

I've been around for awhile, and I've had my share of embarrassing moments. But one moment has always stood out in my mind.

I was fourteen at the time, and quite the dashing young man. I had good friends and a budding social life.

Our circle surrounded this one buddy of mine who had three beautiful cousins, all from different families, and all in our same age group. That made him a very popular guy. Besides that he had two lovely sisters, but those two, needless to say, were off limits to his friends.

As the years went by, I would end up going steady with all three cousins. But at the time we were all just flirting and developing into young adults.

This one evening we were out at a party somewhere, and I was having a great time. I remember it was one of those days when everything you do seems to go your way; everything you say sounds clever and charming; and all the girls are looking and smiling at you. I was feeling like a total stud!

I danced with one of the girls and swept her off her feet. Then the next one; then the next one. Everything was flowing smoothly.

At the end of the evening, my friend's mother was picking us up. We crowded into her car and drove off in the rain.

The girls were all spending the night at my buddy's house (lucky devil!), so I was the first to get dropped off.

Now, we lived in an apartment building. It was a small, six story structure, with parking underneath. The steps to the lobby were broken down into five sections: two steps, a flat six by six square area, then two steps to the right, another flat six by six square area, and finally four steps to the left that lead to the main entrance. The entire stairway was walled in by a short brick wall. When it rained, the flat areas flooded.

That was the case on this occasion.

Full of spunk and arrogantly pleased with the air of conquest about me, I was feeling nothing short of invincible. I'm sure by then everybody was getting pretty sick of me, but at the time I was foolish enough to think otherwise. It was then that we arrived at my stop.

Every guy knows there's a "cool" code of behavior for just about every situation. This particular situation was no different. After gallantly kissing all the girls goodnight, I stepped out of the vehicle, seemingly oblivious to the rain. See, this rainfall called for a quick dash to safety, but not so fast that I might appear hurried. That wouldn't be cool. So I got out of the car, smiled at them and softly closed the door. My buddy's mother was waiting for me to reach the door, to ensure that I was safely home.

Knowing that all eyes were fixed upon me, I graciously spun toward the steps and, in the way men will run when they wish to look cool and at ease (the guys know what I'm talking about), I picked up my shoulders and lifted my elbows and engaged in a little half trot to the steps. I cleared the first set of steps in a single leap and, as I was turning right to face the following set and give my adoring fans one final wave, the foot I landed on kept slipping on the surface, straight into what was now a sizable puddle and out from under me. Time stopped right then, as I realized that I was about to fall on my ass with all those pretty girls watching.

Slam!!! I hit the ground with a powerful thud and proceeded to slide into the wall. As I tried to bounce back up, I failed to get traction and, after skating in place for a moment, fell flat on my face.

Though I refused to turn to see them, I could hear their laughter through the rain. Or perhaps I just imagined it, but that makes little difference. When I finally got up, I summoned up a phony little smile and a vague little wave to make like I was okay, and I carried my sore ass up the rest of the stairs. Slowly.

I don't remember if there were any comments on that matter afterwards. I know I never brought it up again. But when people ask about my most embarrassing moments, this is the first thing that comes to mind.

Sunrise

2004-08-02T11:34:00.000-04:00

Feeling a little down and dramatic...bear with me, please

It's been too long since I watched the sunrise.

For so many years now, I have missed the daily absence of light receding to cascading rays of sunshine, shuffling quickly over the vast horizon in its path. So fast as to be imperceptible if one was to turn away, or blink at the wrong time.

When the flaccid ocean gives birth to the bulging sun, and crowns its child in all its splendor. Oh, what a moment to enjoy!

It's been too long, much too long.

And where have those sunrises gone, I ask, that I shall never have witnessed? Behind me now, like the people I've abandoned. Forgotten and ignored, replaced by shiny new ones.

I somehow remain equivocally convinced, however subconsciously, that every sunset brings along a fresh sunrise. Yet, I'm slowly becoming aware of that final twilight that looms in the horizon - once so distant, now so much closer.

Mortality is far too complex for such a shallow soul to comprehend. I've wasted my youth on life and my adulthood on survival. In what way shall I waste my old age?

Truly it's time to watch the sunrise again. To make every day a new beginning, a new opportunity.

Only after a full life will I await the final sunset with ease.

2004-07-28T09:20:00.000-04:00

Yesterday afternoon I was running a little late. My boss and I discovered somebody's screwup, and it was up to us to clean it up.

I knew my wife had dinner in the oven. We'd spoken only about an hour before and I'd told her I'd be on my way soon. So, good and considerate husband that I am, I decided to call her again and let her know I'd be awhile. My daughter answered the phone (four and a half years old):

HER: Halloooo?

ME: Hi baby!

HER: Hi Daddy! I love you!!!

ME: I love you too!

HER: Can I have some chocolate time when you get home? You're workin', but when you get home and we eat dinner can I have some chocolate time?

(I inherited this routine from my grandfather - we have chocolate only as a reward after dinner when she's eaten her entire meal. And then we make this whole production where I ask her, "What time is it?" and she comes back with "IIIIIIIT'S CHOCOLATE TIME!!!!!!!)

ME: Sure sweetie, we'll see...

HER: You know it's goin' to be Kwismas someday? And then Halloween, and your birday, and mommy's birday, and my birday...

ME: Yes honey, I know. Can I speak with your Mommy please?

HER: And Easter, and then Valentine's...I wanna go swimming!

ME: We'll talk about it later, baby can you please...

HER: Can you take me to the park? Can we go to the park with the fire truck? Then we take Rocky to the puppy park and we go to McDonald's and get Chicky and Fra fries!

ME: Honey, your mother's making dinner...

HER: Can you get me a slurpy? Please???!!!

ME: Baby, we'll see. Can you get your mother...?

HER: Can we get a slushie at the baseball game? Can we? I wanna go to the awena and see Shaq attack! Please???!!!

ME: Christina! I have to speak with your mother! Please! Put her on!

HER: But I wanna tell you somethin'...

ME: Well, what is it? For crying out loud, I'm busy!

HER: I miss you Daddy...when you comin' home?

Man! Doesn't that just make you feel like an asshole?

A moment of bravery

2004-07-26T18:26:00.000-04:00

I was brave, once.

Many things pass for bravery in our world today. Depending on people's perception of them, certain events are permeated by courage and heroic behavior. But one thing is showing courage while doing your job, and another is being brave because you choose to. In other words, your job description may require you to confront certain perilous situations (soldier, fireman, cop, etc.), but in real life we're constantly being confronted with challenges, and yet we seldom act courageously.

Usually, when we look back at those moments, we wish we'd acted differently. In retrospect black and white are always very clear, and the words we would have liked to hear come out of our mouths shoot out quickly and in sequential order. In the thick of it, things rarely happen as you would have thought they would. Our reactions to menacing circumstances can't be calculated or planned beforehand. If your instinct is to freeze up when somebody pushes you, you're going to have a hard time in the playground until you manage to break past your initial fear and push back.

Well, I had my share of playground fights. I did my bit with the neighborhood gangs, had plenty of fights in high school and more than a few in the service. But none of those fights were anything more than fights. I mean, the purpose of the fight was to fight. There was no honor to defend and no real turf to protect. All either one of us truly wanted was to beat the shit out of the other.

As you grow older you realize the futility of physical violence, and you become much more aware of your own mortality. Fighting becomes something you're no longer quite so eager to engage in. You do it only out of pure necessity.

So back to my bravery.

I was 26 then. Cindy and I had just started going out together. She was bartending at this bar & grill called The Oasis. It was a weeknight and not much was going on. I was sitting at the bar with an acquaintance, having a beer. There were maybe another five or six people there.

This one crazy looking guy kept darting back and forth, between the restroom and the bar. You could see he was tweaking (tweaking = T-Town's word for being on speed) like crazy. He was sniffing loudly and looking wild, while raucously exchanging tall tales with his drinking buddies.

There came a point when the guy had had too much to drink, so Cindy cut him off. He obviously didn't like this. He shot back to the bathroom.

Now people in small towns can be rowdy and ignorant, but it usually comes to pass. Most people don't want to get blacklisted at a bar where they know they're going to want to go back to. Hell, there's only so many things to do in a small town.

But this guy came out of the bathroom fired up, stood squarely in front of the bar and with his finger pointed out at Cindy yelled: "YOU ARE A SOUR PUSS BITCH. FUCK YOU!!!" Then stormed out of the bar.

Cindy did her best to ignore him, and she kept washing glasses and wiping the counter. It's not like she'd never been insulted before, it comes with the job. But it happened in front of me, and you could tell she was hurt by it.

That, more than anything, got my blood boiling. The sudden shock was passing, and now I didn't know what to do. The guy was gone. It was too late to run out after him, he'd probably be out of the parking lot by then.

And then the most amazing thing happened. The guy walked back in. He just waltzed his ass right back in as if nothing had happened. His buddies were still there, that's probably why he hadn't left.

He was crossing the bar to go back to the Men's room again, when without a thought in mind I jumped up and blocked his path. He stopped, momentarily startled. I asked him, "You think you're just going to walk back in here, after insulting my girlfriend?" There was rage in my voice, he could tell. We were both gauging each other; judging size, strength and agility in a second's glance. Both of us were of average build and height. Neither really looked physically intimidating.

My arms were slightly lifted to my sides, in anticipation of his every move. I wanted to tear his fucking head off, and he could tell. He backed off a little, "What the fuck are you talking about?" he said defiantly, like he was getting ready to jump. "You know what I'm talking about, asshole. You better get your nasty ass the fuck outta here before I beat you senseless," I barked. By now his three friends had gotten up from their table and had approached us, but nobody said a word. My friend came in closer too.

My eyes weren't flinching, and they were boring deep into his skull. If he was going to make a move, this was the time to do it. He knew it. "Rock n' roll motherfucker," I was thinking, "rock n' roll!" I was ready to go.

I wasn't completely unaware of his friends. They seemed ready to back him up, but I didn't give a fuck. I was past the point of no return and was not about to back down.

I could tell he was feeling invigorated by the presence of his buddies. He started inching up toward me a little, feeling me out a little further. "Man, I didn't say shit to her. What the fuck did I say?"he asked. "You know what you said, dirtbag," I shot back, "and I didn't fucking like it!" I was getting ready to let loose on him. There comes a point in every faceoff when you feel that if you wait any longer, your opponent is going to get in the first hit. I put my face in his to let him know his time was up. His friends were just standing around, uncertain about what to do.

It was then that he relented. He put his open hands up and said "Aw man, I'm sorry about that. Hell, I didn't mean shit by it." I stared at him in disbelief. First of all, I never thought he was going to back down, especially in front of his friends. Secondly, people on speed usually feel invincible. And third... an apology??? Why not just leave?

"Dude, I don't want your fucking apology," I yelled. "You tell her you're fucking sorry, you piece o' shit!"And I motioned to Cindy.

Cindy was standing there, anxiously awaiting the conclusion to this ordeal. She was probably worried like crazy that we might tear the place up on her watch, so I'm sure she was thrilled when the asshole mumbled out, with downcast eyes, "I'm sorry...I didn't mean anything by that, I was just playing around...I won't do it again," and he sounded just like a scolded schoolboy. Then he looked back at me, as if to say "Okay?" I was watching Cindy. She was suddenly beaming, refreshed. She nodded her assent. I said, "Alright man," and got out of his way.

And so it ended, with no blood spilled. But it hadn't been necessary, since I felt like I'd won the fight anyway. And let me tell you something: there's no better feeling than when you've successfully defended your loved one's honor. I also think it told Cindy that I would do it over and over again if necessary.

Tale of a bridal gown and a fairy godmother

2004-07-22T12:43:00.000-04:00

It happened almost twelve years ago, after I'd taken a break from college. I was working for a production outfit in the Kern Ridge oilfields, a couple of hours north of Los Angeles. Hard, dirty work, but it paid well and they let me keep my long hair.

Like other towns that were born from the oil industry, ninety percent of T-Town's population depended on the oilfields for its employment.

Oilfield workers, it was said, liked to work hard and live hard. T-Town was a breathing testament to it. There was one church and about twenty bars.

I met my bride to be, Cindy, working behind the counter at one of those bars. She was back in town to help her mother sell her house. She'd been gone for nearly a decade and never thought she'd be back. But life has many twists and turns.

We hit it off, sort of. The electronic dartboard kept taking my money, and she kept refusing to refund me. I'd go up to her and say, "That damned thing just took another fifty cents from me!!!" And she would keep a straight face, look blankly at me and say "Really?" then shrug it off and go about her business. It was all I could do not to throw a bottle at her.

Anyway, she was pretty hot. Before I headed out of there, I had to ask her out.

Six months later we decided to get married. Oh, I don't know what it is with these small towns, but it always seems like everybody's getting married. So we decided to join them.

Now, I'm not really sure how we came up with this next idea. I just remember Cindy telling everybody that this is how we wanted to do it, so I kind of assumed it had to be that way. Well, we didn't want to have our wedding in this crappy little town. The truth is that most of her family had moved away, none of my family was even in the same country, and our friends lived in L.A. The only people who would end up attending would be a handful of our toothless buddies from the bar.

So we chose to head out to beautiful Lake Tahoe, rent a cabin in the woods and hire a reverend and photographer to go out there and perform the ceremony. No family members allowed. Needless to say, our parents were less than thrilled. Sure, my mother lived 5000 miles away, but she still would've come down for my wedding. Cindy would have none of it. Too much pressure in getting a wedding together, and we'd seen it break up too many couples in the past.

The preparations would be minimal. I didn't have any vacation time set aside at work, so we needed to figure out what weekend would be the best. It would follow a Friday payday, then I would just call in sick on Monday and Tuesday, and that would do it. Just had to save a little bit of money before then to pay for the cabin, car rental, reverend, license, photographer, gas and living expenses. Piece of cake. Of course, I had to figure out a way to buy the rings and her wedding dress right there and then. We settled on a Sunday three months down the road: October 31st.

Well, I was blessed with a very thrifty woman. She decided to drive down to Los Angeles, meet up with a couple of girlfriends, and walk down Melrose Boulevard's line of vintage shops in search of an "off-white" wedding gown. This took an entire day. But that night she came home with a beautiful dress that cost me less than a hundred dollars.

After checking out the local jewelry stores for her wedding ring (we bought my wedding band at the first place we walked into), we decided to look elsewhere. So we made the drive to Bakersfield and sought out the pawn shop district. Cindy had the peculiarity that she didn't like yellow gold, only white. This didn't make matters any easier. However, we did manage to find a beautiful set with a quarter carat that just needed some minor size adjustment. To this day she still loves it.

Now, the wedding dress needed some altering, as you can imagine, and my mother in law knew the perfect seamstress. It was an old lady who did all her work out of her house, at 131 Lucard Street. The lady had apparently done some fine work for some friends of hers, so she came highly recommended. The main thing though, is she was cheap.

She called her up and told her that Cindy would be going over with her dress. It would be ready in a week, she said. That would suit us just fine.

Well, you'd have to know her to understand just what I mean, but Cindy's never been one to worry much about the details. She grabbed the address and her dress and drove over there.

It wasn't an area we frequented, but in a town this small you pretty much drive past every house there at one time or another. She pulled up to Lucard, parked up the road a ways because the street was a little crowded, and walked up to the house with her dress in tow.

A little old lady opened the door. Cindy walked right in and gave her a hug (she does that with all old people, for some reason) and immediately got down to business. The dress would have to be shortened here, tightened there, and whatever else. The lady was kind and attentive. She had Cindy put it on and she pinned the dress in all the right places. Cindy gave her another hug, thanked her, and asked her how long it would take. The kind woman said she would have it ready in a couple of days. Great!

Cindy was thrilled. She got great vibes from the seamstress; she felt she had very positive energy. Those things matter to her.

When she went back home her mother asked her how it went. "Fine! She's the sweetest lady you can imagine. She said she'd have it ready the day after tomorrow." Well, this surprised my mother in law a little, because she'd spoken with the seamstress and she didn't sound that sweet. She had also said she was very busy, and it would take at least a week. But Cindy had that effect on people, so she shrugged it off.

When the day came, my mother in law decided to call the seamstress first and find out if the dress was ready before driving over. She also wanted to settle on what the charges would be, because Cindy wasn't much of a negotiator. To her surprise, the seamstress said she hadn't received the dress. "You told me she was coming but she never showed up. I'm a very busy woman. I don't have time for this. Either bring the dress over or leave me alone." Well, my mother in law went pale. She told Cindy to run over there and get her dress, because this old woman was trying to steal it.

Cindy didn't believe it for a second. That sweet old lady wasn't going to steal a thing. Besides, why would anybody want to steal an old dress? She calmed her mother down and drove out there to get her dress.

When the old woman opened the door and saw Cindy, she instantly smiled. She said,"I have your dress ready, dear. It's here in the sewing room." Cindy tried it on and it was perfect. Just how she wanted it. She showered the sweet woman with hugs! When she went to leave, she asked her, "How much do I owe you?" "Oh, nothing dear," she responded. "It was no trouble at all!" Well, Cindy gave her a few more hugs and went her merry way, happy with the way things had turned out.

Upon her return with the altered dress, my mother in law was incredulous. Why had the old lady lied to her over the phone? She was of a mind to go out there with Cindy and confront her. But Cindy was very discouraging. After all, the dress was ready and no harm was done. Why bother with it? She was certain the whole thing had just been a silly misunderstanding. But my mother in law insisted.

They drove out there together and found the house. It was the wrong house. The address she had written down was 131 Lucard St. The house Cindy went to was 113 Lucard St.

Apparently Cindy had ventured in on some lonely old lady who was just happy to help out and feel useful again. When we discovered the mistake that had been made, we sent her a nice thank you card with some flowers. We've always believed that she was some type of fairy godmother to us.

Our good fortune would follow us to Lake Tahoe, where we bought our wedding license from a witch (actually a clerk in a Halloween costume) and had a lovely wedding in the privacy of our rented cabin at Pine Cove Resort. A blissful setting!

We proceeded to consummate our marriage (numerous times!) whilst enjoying our two day honeymoon to the max. We did some gambling, a little touristing, but mostly we walked around, soaking up the breathtaking scenery. Those were happy days, and they've lead to a happy union.

I think we've all had fairy godmothers along the way...don't you?

2004-07-19T20:23:00.000-04:00

View of the house from the road

San Lorenzo

2004-07-19T20:22:00.000-04:00

I recall the beaten path of rocky grass, entrenched by moss covered stone walls. It ran alongside the border of my father's farm, and for many miles farther across the foot of the mountain. El Camino Real, it was called. Too narrow and contoured for any wheeled vehicle, it was only to be traveled afoot or on horseback.

Before the advent of carriages -and later motor cars- brought about the need for better roads, El Camino Real was the only way for the local folk to cross the territory without trespassing on somebody else's property. In rural Colombia, during the early twentieth century, the lands were vast and sparsely populated, and the laws were vague and barely enforced. People brandished machetes and shotguns, and defended their turf by whatever means necessary. Many shallow graves were dug near the riverbank; unmarked and unvisited.

Inhabited mostly by mestizos and descendants of the tribal natives who innocently welcomed the Spaniards and the slaughter they brought along with them, the valley near Leyva in this northwestern Boyacá countryside was an arid wasteland of scant resources and little rainfall. Foreign investors would occasionally arrive, eager to take advantage of the cheap land and the inexpensive labor. They would bring about wild schemes and blind notions of harvesting dye plants or looking for oil. Very few left behind anything more than large stretches of useless land, covered by dividivis that nobody wanted.

In the late 1950's, the military took over the government. Agrarian reform removed the land from the hands of the wealthy and distributed it amongst the poor. At least that was its intention. Alas, too many favors were paid with large deeds. Friends of the government enjoyed great land wealth. But many farmers were also able to acquire the lands they toiled as a result. Colonizing was acknowledged as legitimate, and deeds were handed out like taxes. Everybody became a landowner.

But it wasn't until the 70's that people started buying and selling land from each other again, and wealth from the capital started pouring back into the area. Man-made lakes were built and irrigation became commonplace. The valley became to show some color. As more water was dammed, more condensation was produced, and thus more rainfall befell the thirsty land.

It was around then that my father visited the valley and fell in love with it. He envisioned grapevines running along the fields, growing fat and fruitful in a pollution free environment; making possible his lifelong dream of producing wine.

He purchased a small area at first. It contained a large house, which was a half century old and falling apart, but had a strong foundation. Barely a child of ten, I was aghast at the sight of it. I couldn't see what he saw in it, but he had a vision. He named it San Lorenzo del Escorial, because he thought it would look wonderfully on a bottle of wine.

During the next few years we would work on making that vision a reality. Every weekend we would make the three hour drive out to work on the house. My father hired some locals to do most of the major reconstruction that was needed, but we did all the cleaning and the painting. In time it became the most beautiful house in the valley. Dozens of family members would sign up to visit every weekend once the project was done. Nobody had known anything as peaceful as San Lorenzo.

My brother and I worked hard to buy horses. My father would meet us halfway on the cost, which made it tough but manageable. It also made us appreciate and care for them a lot more.

We grew up riding along El Camino Real, playing cowboys and indians and viewing the breathtaking beauty of the valley. Never did you cross paths with another person that didn't greet you, nor ever did you hear an unkind word. It was nothing short of paradise.

It was a good ten years before my father's grapes began to take root. He imported the seeds from California and France, and planted a wide variety: Chenin Blanc, Pinot Grigio, Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay, Merlot, and others. The grapes were ravaged by birds, possums and other critters, and many methods were devised to protect them. They mostly failed. There were never enough grapes left to make the wine. Yet every season he went at it again.

I had already left home when my father bottled his first wine harvest. He sent me a few bottles. They were Chenin Blanc. In that wine, though far from home as I was, I tasted the sweat and tears of the many years my parents had put into it; restlessly toiling after each failed attempt, and going through with it over and over again...it was the sweetest juice a man can taste! I savored each drop like it was the nectar of the gods, and basked in the pride I felt for my father's accomplishment.

Many more wines would come, and much success would be enjoyed. But the cost of maintaining the vineyard became prohibitive. The sales of the wine would never pay for the expenses that were incurred by producing it in such a remote region. The dream would end, soon enough.

But the old man did it, and the wine was good. How many people can chase a vision down that well?

2004-07-19T20:16:00.001-04:00

Chenin Blanc

2004-07-19T20:16:00.000-04:00

Merlot grapes

2004-07-19T20:15:00.000-04:00

Merlot

2004-07-19T19:48:00.000-04:00

The young grapes

2004-07-19T19:46:00.000-04:00

View of the valley from the house

Those Amazing little ones

2004-07-16T15:36:00.000-04:00

This is priceless! My own daughter (now 4 1/2 years old) occasionally comes up with her own handful of gems from somewhere deep inside her memory bank.

She was blessed (or damned from your point of view, I don't know) from early on, to be dragged from one sporting event to another. I've always frequented pro sports events and since she could get in for free until the age of three, well, I just took full advantage of it. We spared no expense and purchased her little cheerleader outfits with our local team's emblems. She looked cute as hell! So much so, that on one occasion she singlehandedly secured us an invitation to join a party in a luxury booth at a Marlins game, just by being cute.

At these events, and especially at the basketball games, she became curiously involved in the rallying cries that the home team's organizers would inevitably push for, during the crucial stretches toward the end of the games. You know the ones: "Let's go Heat!" or "Charge," or just simply "Defense." There are many others as well. They vary from sport to sport, and from one town to the next.

One night at home, I recall my daughter and I were coloring in the family room. We could hear the TV blasting away in the bedroom. Commercials were playing.

As we both silently worked on our projects, we could hear the opening chant from the Queen classic "We will Rock You." It began "We will, we will..." And then she lifted her little face, looked me square in the eye, and bellowed out right on cue: "Wok you!!!" She was barely three years old at the time. I sat there completely awestruck, beaming with pride and with a stupid grin on my face. Then I reached over, grabbed her by the cheeks and gave her a big smooch!

What a wondrous miracle children are, and how infinitely lucky we are to be loved by them!

TV or not TV...aye, there's the rub!

2004-07-14T22:30:00.000-04:00

Man, it's hard to turn away from it, isn't it? That damn box that seems to suck your brains out and paralyze you before it. There may be nothing on, but still you persist, changing channels over and over trying to find something, anything that will entertain you; help you kill some more time. I swear, the informative aspect of TV constitutes a generously stated 10 percent of the total use I give it. That's sad.

I recall in my younger years when I was in college and full of spunk, yearning to make a life for myself that was built on art and culture. I used to consider TV a detriment to my purpose in life. Back then I allowed myself to watch TV with only the agenda of catching movies or educational programming. Maybe the news, and occasionally Dave Letterman after work to unwind (back when he came on after Carson, at half past midnight). But I eventually began to stay tuned for Cheers and Taxi reruns, and I started to get to know their characters. Then I found myself seeking those and other sitcoms out.

When I got married I got a lot more involved in following pro sports. The truth is, a man has to have some kind of release to survive marriage. Watching sports is the healthiest way for men to vent anger and suffer violence without hurting anyone. But the main thing men get out of it, when they've been married for a few years and the initial throes of passion have begun to subside, as they ease into a higher level of comfort with their spouse and they no longer have sex every 4 hours, professional sports give men an outlet through which they can experience the passion that is suddenly missing from their lives. Sure it's a poor substitute, but at least if keeps us faithful to our women (unless they consider that idolizing a quarterback who can throw a touchdown pass with a broken finger is grounds for jealousy!)and home with our families.

I can't knock sports. But I do hate myself for having to stay glued to the TV during the NBA draft, waiting to what every team in the league's choice will be. It's pathetic, and I wish I could pull myself away and do something more constructive with my time.

So here I am. As a long time Lakers' fan I'm devastated to see Shaq leave L.A. But as a South Florida resident and Miami Heat season ticket holder, I'm ecstatic to see him coming our way. I'm all torn up inside. Not really sure how to feel. But after watching 3 hours of ESPN News, viewing Shaq's interview reels over and over, I've decided to shut the damn thing off and sit at my computer to write about it. That's why you're getting this messy blog, without much of a trajectory to it.

Oh well...time to catch the news...

Smoke

2004-07-13T09:30:00.000-04:00

Getting smoked out on the roads this morning.
Last weekend lightning started a few brushfires locally. We're told they're under control, but they're still having to shut down long stretches of highway. Due to the closed turnpike, it took me almost 2 hours to drive a distance of 30 miles. The whole time I spent it moving between 5 and 10 miles per hour, and helplessly inhaling layer upon layer of smoke.
Now I get to work and it seems like the smoke has completely permeated the office. My head is killing me!
On days like this I wish life was more like TiVo and I could stop the action right here, rewind all the way to before my alarm clock went off, then just change the channel.

Vacuum Bags

2004-07-09T09:31:00.000-04:00

My parents reside in a land far, far away. Not far away, mind you, far, far away.

During my mother's last visit (she usually spends one week with us, then one week at my sister's), she spent a good deal of time seeking out replacement vacuum bags for her old, now obsolete, Eureka vacuum cleaner. The thing is, she forgot to check the bag size before she traveled. So through email, she got my Dad at home to look at the old bag and determine the size.

I suggested she look in Walmart. From there we moved up the ranks through Kmart, Target, then Sears. No luck. So we searched for specialty stores. Found a nifty little joint called AAA Vacuum services in the Yellow Pages (yes, that's still the only place to find nifty little joints) that wasn't far from my house. She went there, paid $7 apiece for two packets containing three bags each.

With the matter resolved, we gave it no further thought and enjoyed the rest of our time together.

Upon her return, my mother wrote to thank us for our hospitality, to say she'd had a great time, she missed us, so on and so forth, and to let me know that the vacuum cleaner bags she had purchased were the wrong size. According to her, my father had given her the wrong information. But she didn't realize they were the wrong type until she opened one of the packages and tried to replace the existing bag. Then she couldn't find the receipt. Either way, she said, my uncle was coming to Miami in a few days to spend a couple of weeks with my cousin. She was sending the bags with him so that I could replace them.

Well, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm not much for that kind of thing. I'd rather eat my steak raw than return it to the waiter and demand that they give it to me well done as I requested...If I buy the wrong size bolts at Home Depot, I concede that it was my fuckup and just go buy the right size...the list of examples goes on and on. My mother's always said to me it's silly not to complain and get what you need, and I know she's right. But the thought of doing it gives me a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach, so I usually choose not to deal with it.

But of course, as far as this situation's concerned, I'm between a rock and a hard place. I either deal with returning the damn bags, or I deal with her. I chose the bags.

My uncle arrived in town and called me a few days later. I asked him over for drinks and he showed up the next evening with my cousin. But he forgot to bring the bags with him. No biggie, we decided, my sister (who lives a lot closer to my cousin's than I do) would pick up the bags at their apartment and I would get them from her. Somehow.

Well, she did pick them up. But we had no plans to see each other for a few days. So over the phone, she gave me the details of what was needed, along with the address to the specialty shop. Having the bags wasn't really that necessary for me. After all, I had no intention of trying to exchange an open bag of obsolete vacuum bags without a receipt. The whole thing was just more than my stomach could handle.

Now my reasoning here was the following: when my mother went to the department stores she was looking for the wrong size - there really wasn't any reason to believe they wouldn't have the type of bag I was looking for. Well, I was wrong. But it took the mandatory visits to Walmart, Kmart, Target and Sears to figure that out. Hardheaded, I know.

The specialty shop came without a phone number. It was located within a couple of miles from my house, but I work 30 miles away from home. So, on a Friday I decided to venture that way after work. I raced there as fast as you can during Friday rush hour traffic, but when I finally got there after five, they were already closed. The shop had one of those protective gates they lower in front of jewelry stores after hours, so I couldn't see their schedule, but luckily their phone number was boldly printed below their name on the main sign. I figured I'd give them a call in the morning and see if they opened on Saturdays.

That night, through pure coincidence, I met up with my sister briefly. She had the bags my mother had sent in the trunk. I tossed them in the backseat, not really sure what I was going to do with them.

A sense of urgency had begun to creep up on me. My uncle was leaving on the following Thursday, and I needed to have the bags by Sunday when he was coming over for a barbeque.

So Saturday morning after mowing the lawn, I called up the shop and asked about the bags. The had them in stock and they were open until noon. That gave me about an hour. I showered and changed, grabbed my daughter and made her get dressed. We jumped into the car and began driving in that direction. A thunderstorm ensued. Visibility became very limited. People were stopping in the middle of the road. As close as the place was, I didn't think we were going to make it. But we did. They were getting ready to close. I reached to the backseat to grab my umbrella and saw the vacuum bags staring back at me. My mother had scotch taped the bag together so it didn't look so obviously open, but all you had to do was look at it to see. Still, I was so sick and frustrated with this entire production that I grabbed them, along with the umbrella and my daughter, and ran inside.

Soaked (the rain was coming down sideways), we waited before the empty counter while the attendant got off the phone. I placed the two wet packets over the glass top, with the unopened one on top. The guy got off the phone, came to us, looked at the bags and then at me. I said, "My mother bought the wrong size. I was wondering if we could exchange them." He said, "Sure! What size do you need?" I told him. He pulled them off the wall, handed them over and wished us a good day.

I picked up my daughter, put her in her seat, and peeled out of there before he changed his mind. I felt exhilarated! Like I just won at Bingo, or something. Such a small silly thing, and I had made such a big deal out of it.

Of course, it wasn't totally over with. My uncle came the following day and spent the afternoon with us. We had a great time! Then he left without the bags.

Fortunately I reached my sister coming back from somewhere else, and she picked up the bags and delivered them to him the next day. But man, what an adventure!

When my mother called to thank me she asked if I'd had any problems doing the exchange. I said, "No Mom, no trouble at all." After all, it was for my mother. How can any trouble amount to much?

2004-07-08T11:06:00.000-04:00

I've been away, sorry...I need a laptop.
In just a few days I've fallen hopelessly behind on answering my email, updating my blog, and a whole bunch of other computer related tasks.
But I'll be posting again soon, hopefully by this evening.
Thanks for checking in!

"Feed the birds and what do you get? Fat birds!" From Mary Poppins

2004-06-28T15:05:00.000-04:00

We purchased a bird feeder, my daughter and I, and a large bag of "Wild Bird Food" just last week.

We've seen many birds dancing gaily from fence to fence where the surrounding neighbor's and our backyard meet. They sit on the wires, or nest in the branches. Our small jungle gives them a veritable amusement park, with it's abundant variety of banana, avocado and palm trees.

When the sprinklers come on in the late afternoon, you see them speedily landing to take their highly anticipated showers. After a long hot day in the Florida sun, they make it look extremely enticing. More than once after witnessing this event, I've had to let my daughter jump over the sprinklers herself. Next to jumping in the pool, it's one of the most refreshing things you can do in the summertime.

After mowing my lawn, with the grass shaved thin and the soil exposed, and once I've walked inside to get myself a drink, our winged friends pounce down on the poor unassuming worms that frequent our pastures. You see them arriving in droves, as if they smelled the banquet from miles away.

We thought it would be nice to give them a feeder; a shaded perch where they could stop for a bite on their way to more exotic lands. For their first feeding, we packed it up halfway - not wanting to let any food go to waste and hoping to gauge what amount would be appropriate by the way they sought it out.

It took a few minutes before any of the birds took notice. Then a couple shyly approached the feeder. They rapidly flew in, pecked at it a little and, just as quickly, they were gone. Then more birds showed up. Little ones, big ones, dark ones, blue ones, green ones, white ones, brown ones...every kind of bird you can imagine. The black ones seemed to be the toughest. While they were eating, all the others waited their turn. Then the most amazing thing happened. One of the black birds began to kick off some food to the ground. The rest of the birds were eating away on the ground, as more and more fell on them. It wasn't quite fifteen minutes after we'd filled the damned thing that it was already empty. And all the birds were gone.

Now we've opted for filling it up a little at a time. And then maybe just a couple of times a week. Darn food ain't cheap, ya know!

Anonymous Remarks

2004-06-26T10:24:00.000-04:00

I stand by what I say...most of the time. I mean, I'm not afraid to change my mind about something when I see the light; I'm perfectly willing to admit I was wrong if you can prove to me I was. So if years ago I spoke out about something and steadfastly held on to my reasons for doing so, and now I'm suddenly singing to a different tune, well, it's not necessarily because I'm wishy-washy, it's because I've seen a different perspective since then that's altered my opinion. Clear enough? Good!

The reason I'm bringing this up is due to two completely different factors that have brought it to mind lately.

First, it's an election year, and candidates are bound by things they said, votes they made, or positions they took in years gone by; in this case, a change of heart or opinion is viewed as weak.

Second, weblogs. I've found that most bloggers choose to safeguard their privacy by revealing very few specifics about who they are. Oh sure, we pour out our hearts for all to see, holding back hardly any intimate details of our personal lives. But we do so under the shield of partial anonymity, with the vague certainty that we will probably never meet anyone who's read our writings (read: anyone who's been looking while we bared our souls).

Regarding my first point, on politicians, well, it's an ever-changing world and we live in a society who's values and mores never cease to transform with the times. Only staunch conservatives who believe in tenaciously holding on to the puritan ways of our seventeenth century ancestors, or religious zealots of any creed who believe the writings of their prophets should govern the actions of all humanity, can claim to not be influenced by the shifting tide. The survival of our world depends on our ability to accept change and adapt to it accordingly. It's not fair to sentence somebody to a particular status of credibility solely on the history of their opinions. Change is a sign of growth, and it should never be something we need to hide, feel ashamed of or apologetic about.

On the subject of bloggers, we're not running for office, so who cares what anybody thinks. Yet we feel a certain degree of vulnerability; our fear that someone who reads our blog might know who we are is akin to finding our older brother reading our diary. In many cases these are our innermost thoughts, fears, and dreams, laid out online for all to see. But we don't want anybody to know it's us; their neighbor, co-worker, brother, lover, whatever. This would expose our inside secrets to the world who knows us, and make us the object of their ridicule or admiration. Whichever it is, it's hardly relevant, since what we blog about our things we wouldn't necessarily tell them about in conversation.

So, I can't blame anybody for not being more forthcoming with their personal information. I know I wouldn't want anybody who's read my blog, thinking that they know me and showing up at my doorstep like some long lost friend. But I'm not ashamed of what I write either. I don't feel I have anything to hide.

In conclusion, I am what I am; what you see is what you get. I've no interest in disguising myself for anybody's benefit, least of all mine. I'm proud of my opinions, views, and history, and I don't care who knows it. And if tomorrow I change my mind about it, tough shit!

Books

2004-06-24T22:18:00.000-04:00

Part of my library...messy, I know...what are you gonna do?

In my youth, I always derived a sweet, slightly pathetic satisfaction out of finishing a good book. Oh, I don't mean the Stephen King thriller of the week, or a Sydney Sheldon page turner. I'm talking about the true books - the classics, by Tolstoy, Hugo, Joyce, Faulkner, among many others.

Sweet, because I'd managed to work my way through a powerful tome and had (seemingly) assimilated its essence. Pathetic, because in reality that didn't amount to much of an accomplishment.

I read a lot in my early twenties. I felt that my function at the time was to obtain an education, and I never believed my professors were able to teach me half as much as I could learn on my own. I still think I was right.

I'd put away one or two books away weekly, which wasn't easy when you're working and going to school full time. But when you're alone in a big city there's not much else to do with your time.

There is a good deal of pleasure to be found in reading. Allowing the author's narrative to take shape in your imagination, as the characters gain depth and the plot thickens. It's easy to cry with the heroes, or smile when they're being privately clever - like you're the only one in on the joke.

But my greatest delight lie in simply having another book under my belt; having read yet another great one. It wasn't for bragging purposes. Hell, most of the people I hung out with barely even knew how to read. No, I just never wanted to feel left out, not knowing what was being talked about. Be it in casual conversation, class, watching the news, reading a book, anything. When a reference was made, I wanted to know exactly what was being said.

Pretty shallow, I suppose, but there it is. Regardless of the purpose behind it, I feel I gained great complexity, depth and wordliness through it all. The beauty of other cultures is something that can only be observed through extensive traveling or reading, and traveling is something that most of us are much too financially challenged to enjoy thoroughly. But to share in another being's insight, to view the world through another's eyes, well, the nearest we can come to doing that is by reading other people's thoughts. And don't you wish more people did that?

Bill & Michelle

2004-06-13T20:42:00.000-04:00

I felt alone then, as if abandoned by the world. My fiance and best man together, I was left with nowhere to turn. Who's there left to speak to? Where do you seek solace when it's your very loved ones who've fucked you over?

I remember holding my tongue about it at work the next day. My crew could sense it. I worked in the California oilfields then, on an oil rig. Part of a three man crew. There came a point, when we broke for lunch, that Bob said "Hey, is everything alright with you? I mean, you seem a little down." Joe jumped right on it: "Something's wrong man, I can tell. Something happened. You're not telling us."

I blurted it out right then. I couldn't keep it in. It's wasn't out of a sense of friendship, it was just a desperate attempt to get some sympathy. I just needed somebody to help me cuss the bitch out, pat me on the back and tell me I'd been wronged; make idle promises to cut my ex-best friend down in some back alley and make him pay for what he'd done.

But Bill didn't do shit. It was all my fault.

Bill and I were like brothers. We'd been through the kind of shit together most people only hear about. It made our bond as strong as blood. Yet women will break even that if you let them. And I let Michelle do just that.

She was a basket case, Michelle. She was jealous of everything. She couldn't be in the same room with me if another beautiful woman walked in, because all she could think of was that I was checking her out, and liking her. Even if I never looked her way. She would go ballistic on me afterwards, when we were alone. Making me pay for nothing. Hell, I couldn't even stop at the store on the way home from work because she figured I was probably seeing somebody there. Some serious insecurities...

So occasionally, when she would go into a temper tantrum that I couldn't control, I would call Bill in to help me calm her down. And he'd go talk to her, try to get her to see things more clearly. It worked...or so I thought. I never realized what was going on. Not until it was too late.

She gradually became distant and started picking fights with me about every little thing that would come along. Eventually we decided to postpone the wedding. We called it a postponement but we both knew it was over. Postponing it was just a way to gloss over the ugly truth.

We continued living together while I got a place of my own. I had a lot of bad credit problems and little to no history with people in town. I'd been there for only a short while. So, Bill was helping me find a place. Ironic, as it turned out, that Bill would be helping move out of that house so he could move his treacherous ass in there.

And so it was that while in his company, I noticed Michelle behaving toward him like a scorned woman. They weren't even openly together yet and already she was giving him shit.

Well, I had to confront him with it. He laid it all out, told me they'd fallen in love with each other, but hadn't done anything about it for my sake. They were waiting for me to be out of the picture. You know, so as not to hurt me. Well that plan was shot to shit!

As he spoke, I began to feel the most intolerable pains in my abdomen that you can imagine. The type of pains that come only when you discover you've been horribly cheated. We came close to getting ugly, but our brotherly ties prevailed. I decided I wouldn't let a woman come between us.

Now that was a far cry from granting him forgiveness. That would come much later, after their inevitable break up and his remorseful, tearful apology.

I remember, in another pathetic attempt at obtaining sympathy, a stranger at a bar responding to my solemn, end-all statement, "My bride ran off with my best man," with a straight from the hip: "Ah, that's just hit on your ego. You'll get over it. Can't help it if the bitch falls for another guy. That don't make him a better man, it just makes him luckier." That put a lot of things in perspective.

I did get over it. In fact, within the following couple of weeks I met and began courting the woman I would eventually marry. The consolation in all this was that here I am, eleven years later and still happily married, while their little stunt didn't even make it through six months. So you tell me, who is the luckier man?

Border Patrol (republished by request)

2004-06-09T15:22:00.000-04:00

The stories were gory. They told of many a soldier who met his maker while patrolling the Czech border with West Germany. The same border I found myself guarding for a month at a time, every three months, back in '85.
Today's children grow up unaware of the Cold war, but back then it was something that affected everybody in the western hemisphere.
We spent our border tours gated in a few miles away from the line. We rotated on weekly "Reaction Force" shifts. Reaction Force members had to be on alert 24 hours a day. From the moment the camp alarm went off we had 15 minutes to be fully dressed in field gear with chemical suits on; our weapons clean, loaded and operational, and our tanks rolling out the main gate. We had so little time to do this that we could never afford to be out of our chemical suits. We kept our boots on at all times. Hell, we weren't even supposed to shower!
We would spend all our time studying classified border terminology, proper international procedures, friendly and enemy vehicle (air, land and sea) identification, and, an Army favorite pastime, cleaning.
Those who weren't on Reaction Force spent their time doing regular training exercises and preventive maintenance on their vehicles. Others rotated on guard duty at the line.
Now, being that we're talking about the Iron curtain, you would expect the border line to be fenced off, or walled like in Berlin. But there was nothing like that. There were markers placed every few hundred feet, indicating when you were walking into enemy territory. These were easily missed in the thick of the Bavarian forest.
When going on guard duty, we would rotate around on four hour shifts. Dressed to the gills and armed to the teeth, wearing white snow camouflage over our parkas, a jeep would drop us off a hundred feet or so from the border. We had no radios to keep in touch. Nothing but the late night forest sounds to keep us company.
Every now and then you would see a tiny flickering flame, when the guard on the opposing side of the line would light up a smoke. I would always hide behind a tree before lighting up one of my own.
The bone chilling coldness would never dissipate. I walked around in circles, even did jumping jacks occasionally, but nothing could keep the shivers from climbing up your spine.
Your senses become overly acute there. When it's late at night and you're in a potentially volatile situation, with a handgun and a semi-automatic rifle both cocked and loaded, you hear many things seemingly creeping up on you. The shadows in the darkness take different shapes and the whispers of the forrest sound like human voices.
We'd all heard the tale of the three man crew in a jeep who'd fallen asleep on their post, only to be found with their throats slit the next morning by a search and rescue party. Those events were always kept under wraps for fear of starting an international conflict, as well as to deter an inevitable embarrassment in the diplomatic arena.
It's been years since then and I still hang on to my border certificates with pride. When the Berlin wall fell and the Cold War ended, the U.S. government sent me yet another certificate, testifying to my contribution toward fighting and winning the Cold War. These certificates along with the other awards I received, are a deep source of honor for me. And I draw on them and cling firmly to them each time a surge of patriotism takes over me. But I hesitate to admit we won much.
There will always be an enemy. If there is none, one must be created. Humans simply cannot live in peace with one another. Petty jealousies and blind ambition will always ensure that somebody somewhere will try to get a bigger piece of the pie.
Third world countries will always seek to blame another for their misfortunes. Religious fanatics everywhere will always believe they're right, even though they're passing judgment based on faith rather than reason.
I can't imagine living in peace. It's hard to attain peace in a single household, much less on an entire planet. Still, I yearn for a world in which we no longer step on each other to make our way. Perhaps someday.

Birds

2004-06-08T18:46:00.000-04:00

Green Parakeets

Close up!
I took some pictures of these birds this morning, as I was warming up my car to go to work. I see them around quite often, but this time I actually ran inside, pulled out the camera and snapped a few pictures. Unfortunately, I don't have a zoom on my digital and they flew off as soon as I approached them. This is the most I could spread the layout without losing too much resolution.
I'm always somewhat awestruck by the fact that these birds live around here. It seems like they belong in a more tropical setting, or maybe in a jungle somewhere. Not that I know a thing about birds, it's just my impression. Hell, I'm not even sure if they're parakeets! But they're a beautiful tone of green and they have parakeet-like beaks.
Anyway, if anybody knows what these guys are doing in South Florida I'd love to hear about it.

My Tasha

2004-06-05T10:31:00.000-04:00

This is my beautiful dog Tasha's last picture before we laid her down to rest .

Why do we blog? Hmm...

2004-06-04T13:34:00.000-04:00

Debbie was asking this question in response to a comment I made earlier. This is what I came up with:

Well, now you've got me thinking...what the hell was I referring to?
I guess what I meant to say is that, regardless of your initial purpose when you started your blog, there is a certain pressure to produce once you get an audience.
Having people read your stuff is an incentive to keep putting it out there, and whether we admit it or not, we want people to keep coming back to see if we wrote anything else worthwhile. Otherwise we would just keep our writing to ourselves, and maybe just save it for posterity on our hard drive.
Once you begin writing to please others it becomes a task, and then the whole thing becomes more difficult. And trust me, whether you want to now or not, or whether your only purpose is to release your mental notes uninhibitedly, you will want people to read your blog.