Let’s talk about the birds.

I realize that I am in danger of breaking yet another daily vow so I am going to post even though the fourteen drafts I am currently working are all in various stages of completion with none really ready to go.  I am not trying to build anticipation; no one is really reading this anyway.  I realize that writing “no one is really reading this” probably violates one of the main tenants in Blogging 101 but again since no one is really reading this…

I used to be a news junkie.  I watched the news, read the news, followed feeds on my blackberry, and listened to the news on the radio.  It was a bit compulsive and generally caused me to feel anxious rather than informed.

Last year prior to our annual vacation to Burt Lake, I went on a news fast and quit cold turkey.  Since then I have not intentionally listened, read or watched the news.  Maybe once or twice I have lingered when somehow, something was put in front of me, but for the most part the blackout has been total.  The one exception I made was following sports.  The Panthers made things easy for me by going in the tank during the playoffs.

Amusingly enough, I was initially concerned with things like being a bore in conversation rather than missing some vital piece of news that would affect my family or business or friends.   Ironically, I now find most conversations centering on current events or politics boring myself.  I would rather talk about books I am reading or music I am listening to or the hobby I am pursuing.

So for the record, I hear that the economy is going to hell in a handbag, that President Obama is conversely the savior or the anti-Christ, and that the odds of my life improving dramatically in the next six months are slim to none.  Interestingly enough that is just about what everyone was saying last summer when I quite listening.  Not much has changed except it’s now President Obama instead of Candidate Obama.

In the meantime I have enjoyed talking about feeding the birds in my back yard.

Daily vow #8,476

I vow to cease buying books until I have read all that I currently own.  In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I have made this vow every day for the past eight years with limited success.  I am sick.  I have an incurable, chronic, debilitating disease.  I even buy books about about people who compulsively buy books.  See http://www.amazon.com/Gentle-Madness-Bibliophiles-Bibliomanes-Eternal/dp/0805061762.  

The truly tragic part (okay it’s not tragic, children without accesss to clean drinking water is tragic)  is that I start so many and fail to finish them.  This leaves me with a vague appreciation of many authors but the complete inability to discuss their work intelligently with anyone.  Some have argued that this is a defense mechanism my ego has erected to keep me from publicly displaying my ignorance in debate thereby forcing me to rely on ad homenum attacks rather than reasoned arguments from solid premises.  Those that make this argument are retards, who believe in garden gnomes, dress funny and live with their parents.

Daily vow #8,475

In an effort to jump-start my fledgling writing career I hereby resolve to post at least three blog entries a week for the remainder of this year.  In seven days, when I have again failed at this most meaningless of commitments, I will post a very insightful and creative explanation and retreat back into obnoxious introspection.

A thing for the Gecko

I lose my keys all the time.  Not in the couch cushions or in the refrigerator or in the hamper lost, but wrong pocket lost.  For the life of me I can’t seem to discipline myself to put them in the same pocket following every use.  It’s really starting to bother me.

I don’t have a giant key ring.  Maybe three or four keys, a pewter gecko on the end of a little chain I got a couple of years ago on Bald Head Island and a piece of old RAM that I fashioned into a fob.  I was going to make the RAM key chains and sell them on eBay but that is another post for another time.  Anyway the keys are manageable compared to some I have seen so I don’t think that is the problem.  I also don’t have an issue with keeping things in my front pocket like some men do.  There is nothing, as far as I can tell, about the keys physically that compels me to switch pockets.

I am right handed, and I always use my right hand to unlock things.  I have been doing it this way since I started using keys.

I use the keys every day.  To lock the house.  To open the office.  To get the mail.  Even to open the occasional box.

In summary the keys are manageable, always used the same way, and used in that same way day after day, week after week, year after year.  

Yet without fail, when I need them I stick my hand in the pocket where I am sure that I put them last and they are not there.  So I go through the pocket patting ritual until I find them.  They are always in a different pocket. 

What I wouldn’t give to be able to discipline myself to always put them in the same pocket.  A clever reader might think that perhaps I always do put them in the same pocket but always start looking for them in the wrong place.  While that may be true, it is not a helpful observation as my problem would still be the same.

The bigger question is what hope is there for me leading any sort of normal life if I can’t master such a simple task?  How can I be expected to be a good partner to my wife or shepherd my four children through their teens if I can’t even put my keys in the same pocket?  

Then again maybe Larson’s car key gnomes are real but much smaller than he drew them.  Maybe they ride with me, hidden in the folds of my clothes, waiting for the next opportunity to cause mischief.  Maybe they have a thing for the gecko.

In that case it’s not my fault.  Life isn’t hopeless.  My wife won’t leave me.  My kids will turn out okay.  I am just a victim.

A little off the top.

I stop at Starbucks nearly every morning.  I am an addict.  I admit it.  I don’t know what they are putting in the coffee, if anything, but whatever it is it’s got me.  I even have my own drink, or at least I order the same thing every day.  Stop rolling your eyes, I am not one of them, I’m a minimalist.

I used to be able to order my drink with two words, grande bold.  About six months ago, I started ordering a tall bold in a grande cup.  It really bothered me to increase from two words to six but I think you’ll agree that as far as drink orders at Starbucks go, this is pretty tame.  Plus I save about 16 cents a day which adds up to a gallon of gas at the end of the year.

Here’s the thing.  I always park, get out of my car and wait in line inside of the store.  I’ve noticed over time that the same people are always waiting in line with me and furthermore, I see many of the same cars in the drive through line.  This leads me to believe there are two classes of people who patronize my Starbucks, those who utilize the drive thru and those who don’t.  Someday, some sociologist will base a significant theory on this observation and when it happens, remember you read it here first.

I am a member of the walk in class essentially because I am afraid the people working the drive thru won’t make my drink right – not because they have ever been given the chance and screwed it up, just because I am convinced they will.  The irony of it is that my drink is really simple.  All I add to the tall bold in a grande cup is a little cream and one SweetN’ Low.  Coming in a close third to black, and light, my drink is probably one of the easiest to make.

So why can’t I let go and let someone else fix it?  It certainly would be more convenient to use the drive thru, warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer, my music playing in the background rather than the trendy song of the day…  After much reflection, I think it comes down to the ritual pouring of a little off the top into the trash can.  Even after moving from a grande to a tall in a grande, I still have to pour just a little in the can.  I’ve tried to stop but I can’t.  Even when they short me and give me a 3/4 tall in a grande cup, I still pour a little in.  Is that why the rest of you are queing up with me inside rather than using the drive thru?

Doppleganger where art thou?

I love the career builder “help you, help you” commercial.  

I confess that often when I hear the doorbell chime at the office, I secretly hope it is me coming to take myself away.  I was thinking about this yesterday during the Panthers game, the commercial came on during one of the breaks, and I wondered what exactly would happen if I did show up at my office.

Would I just stand there with a stupid grin on my face and let me help me?  Probably not.  I think I would be much more inclined to argue with myself over whether or not it was really me.  Or, berate myself for not showing up sooner.  Or want to know where I was taking myself, asserting my right to veto the decision to leave if I did not think the destination was worth it.

So I’ve decided to set up a pass-phrase to use with myself to let myself know that it is really me, that I got there as soon as I could and that where I am taking myself is worth the trip.  I can’t publish the pass-phrase, for obvious reasons, but I have memorized it and if I ever go to get myself, the process should go smoothly.

You may have noticed that I have avoided the metaphysical question of why I would want me to help me.  The reason, I think, is because I really don’t want to think about it.  My life is not all that bad, there are many, many things that I have to be thankful for and many ways in which I am blessed far beyond the average man in twenty first century America.  And yet I long for Calgon to take me away…

Notsodumasu

This morning I changed the routine up a little bit and walked over to John’s County Kitchen to have breakfast.  I like to read when I eat, so I usually eat alone and I always bring a book.  The practice got started when I was young, I remember being obsessed with reading the cereal box, and has steadily worsened over the years.  I can be down right antisocial at times, even bringing a book when I am having lunch with my business partner.  He kindly reminds me how rude it is and I thank him, vow to change, and stick my nose back into the book.  

This morning my routine was disrupted by a table of several twenty-somethings engaged in a vigorous discussion of what they like to read.  There was one guy and five or six girls and each were taking turns explaining what kind of literature they enjoyed the most.  I set my book aside and listened to see if anything they mentioned might give me a reason to head to Borders, an OC trait of mine, which is another topic for another post.

What I found most interesting was how incredibly stupid most of the comments were.  I wish I had written some down, there were a few real gems.  Comments like, “I don’t prefer to read anything that makes me think,” and “I like stories that like kind of like make me feel like I don’t know what I like, like you know what I mean?”  So I started thinking about what I like about what I read, and I like realized that if I like was sitting around with my friends and like explaining what I like to like read, somebody sitting nearby would be thinking what a bunch of morons, just like I was.

I imagine this could continue, with each person or group judging itself superior to the preceding person or group.  But could it continue indefinitely?  I don’t think so.  I think there is an ultimate guy, the guy.  The guy whose taste in literature and ability to express himself is superior to all others.    I realize the challenge in qualifying the guy’s status as the guy, but I think that if he is the guy, then he just is.  If I met him, I would just know, this is the guy.  

So I am going to look for the guy, or at least the guy in North Carolina.  If there is an ultimate guy, then I suppose there has to be regional guys.  The guy for Charlotte, the guy for Mecklenburg County, the guy for North Carolina, the guy for the USA, etc.. I need a name for him, like The Architect or The Sachem or Notsodumasu.  That would make the quest much more interesting, like, don’t you think?

Come boy, see for yourself…

98 INT DEATH STAR – EMPEROR’S THRONE ROOM 98

Through the round window behind the Emperor’s throne can be seen
the distant flashes of the space battle in progress.

EMPEROR
Come, boy. See for yourself.

The Emperor is sitting in his throne, with Vader standing at his
side. Luke moves to look through a small section of the window.

EMPEROR

From here you will witness the final
destruction of the Alliance, and the end of
your insignificant Rebellion.

This morning the battery in the minivan was dead.  So dead, nothing happened when I turned the key.  No beep, no click, no buzz, nothing.  Darn kids and the dome lights.  Whoever had the bright idea to give each seat in the back of a minivan a little light all their own should be taken out back and shot.  

Mechanically inclined as I am, I opened the hood to wiggle things, smell the brake fluid and check the gaps on the flux capacitor.  All was as it should be.  Must need a jump.  I like jumping.  It is one of the few things I am qualified to do. 

I hooked the battery up to the Beast with jumper cables and again got nothing.  It actually sounded like the attempt was killing the Beast.  Nothing kills the Beast.  

At this point number one and I were late for school so I decided to remove the battery so I could return it to the store and have it tested.  I opened the socket set, selected a couple sockets, grabbed the wrench and walked over to the van.

It was at this point that my eleven year old son walked by and said: “sweet, we finally get to use the giant grey book of silvery cylinder thingies.”

Socket Set = Giant Grey Book of Silvery Cylinder Thingies

There is no good in Darth Vader, the Ewoks are being barbecued as we speak, I am going to sit back with the Emperor and watch Admiral Ackbar go down in flames.  My failure is complete.

The text that started it all.

The other day I was sitting on the couch, trying to watch a football game, surrounded by four children under the age of eleven who were all involved in one sort of noisy activity or another.  My smokin’ hot wife was 20′ feet away in the kitchen trying to figure out what to feed us for dinner.  As I gazed upon her I was filled with desire followed, logically, by the the thought that it might be a good idea to schedule a rendezvous for later that evening.  Yes, our lives are at the point that sometimes it takes a bit of scheduling.  I thought I’d be novel and send her a randy text message on her phone stating my intentions.  

So I proceeded to compose my text message which featured the words “naked”, “pole” and “zorro” and sent it.  As it was leaving my phone, I saw the name Leslie at the top of the screen.  The trouble is my wife’s name is Leah.  My mom’s name is Leslie.

What can I say, since my wife and mom have the same last name, they are right next to each other in the address book.  So at that point, I did what any grown man would do, I curled up in the fetal position on the couch and started groaning about how life, as I knew it, was over.

My wife, upon discovering what was wrong, immdeiately demanded I call my mother.  I again did what any grown man would do and refused, content to wallow in my shame.  She ended up calling my mom and in a very calm voice requested that my mom, who had not read the text yet (so she claimed), delete it.  My mom complied and I was saved.  I later sent my sister in on a covert mission to confirm that my mom had indeed not read the text and so far so good.

Later as I was recounting the episode for a friend of mine, he said “well, you know what Freud would say about this…”  I replied, “Oedipus text.”

Welcome to Oedipus Text.