Candy Gram

New Blog

2010-01-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

Well, for those of you (the *many* of you that read this sparsely updated blog) that may be interested, I've started a new blog specifically devoted to my stick-figure comic. It's called "Sticky Comic" and you can view it here. I intend to add a new comic daily, so keep an eye out. Actually, that is gross--please keep your eye in.

Three more, all raw

2009-12-11T07:53:00.000-08:00

Practically unedited - I like them better that way.

----

"Lighthouse"

I'm so little
this big man's body
swimming in the deep waters
where is the horizon
who will
anchor me
in this vastness
You are the shoreline
I long to see
Lighthouse
Your love
makes the meaningless
meaningfull
Your love
a beacon
to my lost soul
Your love
flashing out
sweeping out
the darkness
light me home

----

"pinocchio me"

all the broken birds
are flying back
to roost in my soul
all the weary memories
walking the back roads of time
seeking a temporary rest
in my mind
the universal home
of passion
and truth
lies
and ugliness
who will fire
the clay sculptures
that form this
claymation world
of my dreams
who wouldn't want
to be a real boy
if it meant being something
more
i watch
you move
one frame
at
a
time
through the broken birds
and winding roads
come
make me real

----

"ashes"

my words
are just a reflection
cast from the dim fire
in the cave
of my soul
feeding on the litter
of days gone by
tattered memories
curling in the flame
i see you
reduced to ashes
then me

Poetry Day

2009-12-11T06:55:00.001-08:00

Dang - so I guess today is poetry day.

stone rising

2009-12-11T06:54:00.000-08:00

squeeze
the blood
in this stone
a hint of life
among the dead
rise sun
rise again
i will walk
among the daisies
in your glory
and run again
sqeeze
this stone
that is my heart

talking to the void

2009-12-11T06:50:00.001-08:00

thank you mental illness
for all this art
and fear
how i wish i wasn't this
beautiful, ugly, monster, child
this is where i live
this is home
why

can you
really talk to
the fault line
in your soul

what will
the void say
anyway

too much

jigsaw

2009-12-11T06:43:00.001-08:00

broken like me
can't you be
i just want to be
alone
no more
put the pieces
on the table
where we can
see the jagged edges
a picture
of what i used to be
won't you play
this fatal game
with me
put it back together
just to fall apart again

"Ten Penny Alley"

2009-10-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

Here's another story. I started working on it a while back and just finished the first draft tonight.

When I was five, a dime would buy you a small candy bar or ten round gum balls. It was something of a magician's trick to me and my brothers, that you could turn a small silver slug into all that bounty. We were fascinated by the trick and wanted to get as many dimes as we could collect. Our pockets were often filled with the steel slugs and washers we collected from the streets where we played, a counterfeit for the true thing and not nearly as magical - the only thing they produced was my mother's ire; she would berate us loudly for dragging home trash from the streets when she turned out our pockets at night.

In the neighborhood where we lived, dimes were hard to come by for a boy, but harder still for me and my brothers. My father worked nights at a convenience store and was rumored to go for a drink most mornings before returning home. My brothers and their friends would talk about it sometimes when they discussed the things other parents whispered when they thought us boys weren't listening. Hearing it shamed me. I was still touched by the natural hero-worship that arises in the heart of a small boy when he thinks of his father and didn't want to believe it. Not that it matters much to the truth what a small boy wants to believe.

That summer my brothers and I were at war with the Delabells. They lived next door to us and would throw hard green apples at us from the tree in their yard. We didn't have an apple tree, so we threw rocks.

The first time one of the Delabells hit me with an apple, it was at close range. I had gone out to play not realizing that they were in their tree. With my back to the fence between our yard and theirs, I bent to pick up a toy from the yard. A burst of pressure and fire exploded through my lower back. The pain was sudden and shocking. The force of it stopped my breathing for a moment. As soon as I could suck air into my lungs, I screamed.

Jack, my oldest brother rushed from the house and covered my mouth. "Shut up!" he said, roughly, dragging me off to the side yard. "You'll get us all in trouble." Behind us the Delabells laughed and jeered as they continued to throw apples, "Crybaby! Crybaby! Run to your mama, crybaby!"

In the shadow of the house Jack looked at me fiercely. "You can't cry. And you can't tell mom. She'll make us stay in the house all day." I continued to cry under his hand. "You can't let the Delabells think we're crybabies." He said glaring at me. "You gotta stop. If you don't, I won't let go." He squeezed his hand more tightly over my mouth.

Crying had filled my nose with snot and it felt like I was suffocating in it. I stopped crying and waited for him to let me breath.

"Good." He said, letting go of my mouth and patting me on the back. I gulped in a breath of air, hicoughing and sniffling. "If you want to do something about it, get a rock and come with me." He picked up a golf ball sized rock, then disappeared into one of the bushes that lined our yard. I dug a rock out from between some roots and followed him, but the rock was oddly shaped and my aim was bad. Jack's aim, though, was deadly accurate - he hit the oldest Delabell square in the forehead, knocking him out of their tree.

The Delabells' father was quiet, but mean. All of us brothers shared a room on the side of the house, the side next to his garage. In the summer my mother left the window in our room open for the breeze. His garage was right next to the window and he liked to work on his car late into the night.

One night, early in the summer, he was out in his garage working. He kept the engine idling the whole time and once every five minutes or so he would rev the engine until it roared. A gray and noxious smelling smoke began to fill our room. He kept it up until well after dark. We coughed and held our noses, but couldn't sleep. Finally Jack crept down the hall to my mother's room.

We heard her leave the house, then saw her appear in their yard. She went into the garage. We were all at the window, straining to hear what she said. At first we couldn't hear anything, just the idling of his engine. Then, suddenly we heard muffled voices, more angry tones than actual words. She stepped out of the garage into our view. When she appeared, she looked upset, almost in tears. "You wouldn't've said that if my husband were here!" She said angrily. We could see the Delabells' father now, just inside the garage. He looked at her coolly, then spit on the floor and drawled, "Well he's not, is he?" When she didn't leave, he turned away and disappeared back into the garage. A second later he reved the engine again and a cloud of smoke poured from his garage.

Whatever he said must have been pretty bad. When my father showed up the next morning, my mother wouldn't even tell the story in front of us. She took my father into another room and when he came back out his face was cold. We all heard the door slam when he went next door to talk to the Delabells' father. This time there wasn't any yelling, but when he returned his face was bruised and his fists bloody. Seeing my father's bloody fists and his bruised face scared me, but it also made me proud. My mother fussed over him, but he just said, "It's been handled, Maggie" in a tired voice. Then he took his coat off the hook in the hallway and headed out the door.

"Probably heading to the bar," I heard Jack mutter under his breath as the door he watched the door close behind my father.

As the summer dragged on, our battle with the Delabells ebbed. The days were too hot for any real intensity of feeling. I spent my time exploring the small fields near our home, scouting out shady spots to play under the larger fruit trees that grew in the area.

One day as I was tossing the old football we all shared against the trunk of a thick, old apple tree, I spotted the youngest Delabell throwing pebbles at something in another part of the field. Although our battles had fallen off, seeing him made me uneasy. I looked around, but didn't see any of his brothers nearby. He continued throwing, with a look of intense concentration on his face. Curiosity triumphed over uncertainty about the location of his brothers. After seeing him throw a few more times, I carried the football over to where he stood.

"What are you throwing at?" I asked warily. He flinched and looked startled to see me there. When I didn't do anything, he responded, "Nothing." Then, "Just an old snake."

I looked at him. He was about my age. Like me, his clothes looked like they'd belonged to his brothers before him. "You think it's still there?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said. "You wanna go look for it?"

"Okay."

We spent that afternoon playing in the field. He told me about what had happened after my father came over. The fight had been hard on his dad, but harder on his mother. Finally his older brother had stepped in, but his father had only gotten angrier. It made me want to cry to hear that stuff, but he said it was like that a lot.

After that, we talked about other things, like what it's like to be the youngest or how everyone thinks they're your boss just 'cause your smaller. Toward the end of the afternoon, we were joking and laughing like friends. When the sun started to disappear, we split up and headed for home.

I thought I might see him again in the field the next day, but I never did, not that day or any of the days after it.

Although the war had stalled, my brother Jack hadn't forgotten it. I was playing in our front yard one afternoon when he motioned me over to him. "I know where the Delabells are," he said quietly. "If we hurry, we can sneak up on 'em." He gathered some rocks and put them in his pockets. Dutifully, I did the same, but with less conviction.

Jack headed towards Main Street. I followed. When we got near the alley that ran behind the grocery store, he stopped. "They're back there," he whispered, excitedly "playing in the creek. Now's your chance to make 'em pay for what they did to you." I felt like I'd swallowed one of the rocks we were carrying.

“I don't wanna.” I said. I felt tears stinging at the corner of my eyes and my throat tightened.

“You gotta.” He said. “Think about dad.” He motioned down the alleyway. “I'll be right behind you.” I thought about my father's bloody knuckles. I'd thought he was a hero when he'd come home that morning, but I wasn't like him. I didn't know how to fight.

“C'mon,” said Jack, “if you do it, I'll give you a dime.”

When I didn't move, Jack gave me a rough shove from behind. Once my feet started moving, I kept going. Up the alleyway I crept until I could see them playing in the small stream of water that flowed behind the grocery. My brother moved off to get a better angle on them and disappeared into the foliage around the creek. I crept closer, then raised my throwing hand, rock clenched tightly.

“What're you doing, boy?”

The voice I heard stopped me cold. He'd never spoken to me before, but I knew his voice from all those nights listening to him in his garage. "You Hansen boys think you're pretty tough, don't you, always throwing rocks at my boys.”

He looked at me coldly.

“Well, let's see you prove it now." He grabbed me roughly and dragged me down to the creek.

“Look what I found, boys.” He said, almost gleeful. The Delabells looked up from their games. The older ones laughed, but the youngest just stood still.

“Karl,” he said, motioning to the youngest, “he's about your size. Come show him what you're made of, boy.” Karl stepped forward. He looked trapped.

“Go on,” his father said, shoving us together, “let's see what you can do.” I thought about our day in the field. Karl gave me a shove, but without much strength. I caught hold of him and dragged him to the ground. He struggled, but I still ended up on top of him. I felt sick inside.

“Go on, if you're so tough, hit'm!” His dad shouted, standing over me.

Again I felt tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. I raised my fist, but couldn't bring it down. Unanticipated, I felt the sudden burst of pressure and shock of pain from a blow. I was knocked off of Karl and onto my side, a burst of light clouding my vision. I felt the oldest Delabell try to trap me below him and struggled to get out. Rolling, I kicked out at him wildly. He pulled me back under and hit me in the face. With my free hand, I punched him in the side. He hit me more savagely. He struck me several more blows. I saw him raise his hand again, then his dad stepped forward and caught it.

"Ease up, there, now, Rocky," he said laughing as he looked at my bloodstained face. "I think he's had enough." He pulled the oldest off of me, pulled me to my feet, and shoved me roughly back toward Main Street. "Go on, boy, go cry to your mama."

I started walking back toward Main Street. I thought about my mama and Karl. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack sneaking back to join me. I remembered the rocks in my pocket. Turning, I threw one as hard as I could. For once my aim was good. It struck the Delabell's father full in the face. I ran as fast as I could without looking back.

Jack caught up with me near home. He had stayed behind in the tall brush near the creek and had seen the shocked look on the Delabells' father's face when my rock struck home.

“You did good,” said Jack. He reached into his pocket and put something in my hand. In spite of it all, I didn't cry until that moment. Jack had given me ten pennies, but I wanted a dime.

Mission Reunion

2009-10-04T17:45:00.001-07:00

When I was younger, I served a mission for my Church in Chile. This Friday, I flew out to Utah to participate in a reunion of my old missionary friends. I must thank two in particular, Zach and Shawn, for making it possible. Shawn hosted it at his house and let me stay the night, and Zach offered to fly me out when I told him I didn't think I could justify the expense this year. Then he did. (Thanks, Zach!)

It was great to see so many people I hadn't seen in over ten years. They're all approaching middle age now, but to me they will always be the young men I knew and loved during my mission. We were all full of potential then, but I was amazed by the things many of them have done since we came home.

Shawn, for example, was someone you could always count on to have something fun going on (like the reunion) or for a good laugh, but it never occurred to me that he would become a stand up comedian. Or an entrepreneur, for that matter. But he is both (see below for a clip of one of his bits) and doing quite well for himself.

Another good friend, a former AP (for non-Mormon readers, that's "Assistant to the President", the highest leadership position a missionary can hold while in the mission), caused a bit of a scandal by discussing the movie he wrote, directed, and produced. It's in distribution now. Below, I've included a clip of the trailer and a link to the IMDB entry for the movie.

As you can see, it is not your typical Mormon movie (hence the scandal). But, I have to say that Brian never really was your typical missionary. (He used to do some pretty crazy things during mission conferences to get the other missionaries motivated.) Before the movie he helped with the research and production of "Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap... and Others Don't" by Jim Collins and traveled the country speaking to companies about his research.

Another friend turned down an offer to join a prestigious Wall Street firm and instead started his own business. Eventually he made enough money to spend a significant amount of time traveling the world with his family. But living on vacation wasn't for him. He wanted to continue making a contribution and got back into the business world investing in several new businesses. Now I think he's into something like 20 companies. Of course, he's still the humble guy I remember from the mission - he didn't tell me about most of this. The other missionaries who've stayed in touch with him did.

My favorite mission friend, one who served with me when I was assigned to the mission office for a month, is a writer in Los Angeles. He's written for several well known "reality" shows and some that are lesser known, including "Fat March", "Dancing With the Stars", and currently, "Supernanny". Who knew that they had writers? (Alright, I did - because he told me so about two years ago when he told me about "Fat March".) In any case, this is the guy who told me to follow my heart and become a writer. Well, he's still working at it, while I'm just pursuing it as an occasional hobby.

I only mention these stories because they are so amazing. The other guys from my mission days were also all doing well. It was great to see them and catch up after so many years. For my next post, I'm going to have to scan in some pictures from our mission days and do a little "then and now" post.

George Bush doing R.E.M.'s "The End of the World" - Awesome!

2009-04-11T08:42:00.001-07:00

Those of you who felt more loyalty to the last administration than I did may not enjoy this video as much as I did ...

Baby On Board ...

2009-04-08T05:45:00.000-07:00

A devil baby, astride a raging dog, shooting lasers from its eyes - now that is something I would try not to crash into!

Jumping Off a Cliff (a short story)

2009-03-29T18:50:00.000-07:00

So, I wrote this story after reading an article about Hemingway. One of the individuals interviewed in the article, a contemporary of Hemingway's who'd known him in Spain, claimed that Hemingway was obsessed with death, that it was his obsession that drew him to bullfighting. As I read the article, I was drawn into a confrontation with my own obsession with death. It is so inevitable and such a mystery at the same time, that I find it hard not to dwell on it. I'm particularly fascinated by people who choose to give their own life for something. In this story, I've chosen to imagine what it must be like to make that decision in a situation, that like death itself, is particularly inscrutable to me.

"Jumping Off a Cliff"

by Michael Hunter

A long time ago he saw a man do something crazy: jump headfirst off a cliff. He'd been playing near the cliffs with his brother when a sudden motion - something arcing away from the cliffs in a free fall that was both beautiful and chilling - caught their attention. As it fell below the horizon, his brother shouted, "it's a man!" "No, it's not!" he shouted back as they both raced to the edge of the cliffs to see what such a fall would do to a thing.

But it was, it was a man. Standing at the top, they could see him down below, laughing and splashing in a small pool hidden at the base of the cliffs. When he caught sight of them looking down at him, he whooped and shouted something in a foreign language.

"It's an infidel" his brother had cried out and they'd both run home, hearts pounding.

His brother. The thought brought him back to the present. He felt the restless boredom of the crowd around him: the bus was late. What had happened to his brother? he wondered, fingering the device in his pocket.

When he was older, the infidels had come into the village where he lived. One of them had spoken, his language broken and accented, "American G.I.s, are you knowing where they are? Soldiers, American soldiers? Are you knowing?" His words sounded funny, but his eyes were deadly serious. The people in the village - his aunts and uncles, his sisters and cousins, his rivals and enemies - none of them had spoken, their fear was like a gag.

"Islam is greater than you all!" his brother had shouted suddenly into the silence, then he'd broken into a run. One of the infidels raised a rifle, but the one who'd been talking pushed it down again. Others chased his brother down the street and brought him back.

"Are you knowing?" The man had asked his brother while the others held him down before the silent crowd. "Are you knowing?" Now his brother, too, was silent. What was there to know? His brother had said what the village felt, but no one knew where the Americans were. When his brother offered nothing to fill the emptiness of their waiting, the infidels had consulted with each other, their language a strange and evil incantation, inscrutable in its power. At the end of it, his brother had disappeared, taken by them and never returned.

The woman beside him spoke, snapping him from his reverie. The bus was coming. The crowd began to shuffle together, jostling for place. He saw their faces now, each one beautiful and tragic, they were more than just the sum of their parts, this mass of bodies waiting for a bus. His pulse quickened.

He watched the bus approach, its wake a ghostly plume of dust, dancing briefly in the air before falling back to earth. It came to a halt, brakes squealing their quotidian complaint. The crowd began to board, bearing him forward to the threshold. Was this what the man had felt, standing at the top of the cliff? Fear and doubt fusing with an intensity of hope, a desire to know and feel what comes next?

The door was before him. He hesitated, a man about to jump off a cliff, his finger poised on the trigger hidden in his jacket. Though the morning air was cool, he was sweating, but didn't feel it. He hoped it would be like that man - one crazy motion, a leap into space, and, then, a joyful celebration in his own personal paradise. He took a last breath and boarded the bus.

Video of Me Losing My Last Judo Match

2009-03-24T19:13:00.000-07:00

So, tonight our Sensei had DVDs for us with our matches from the last tournament on them. The only match of mine that was recorded was the one between me and my friend from the club. Enjoy!

Judo Master (or, as my wife likes to say, "Judo MasTAH!")

2009-03-21T09:49:00.000-07:00

Well, last Saturday was the big day. I've been taking Judo with my kids for about a year and a half. Since starting, I've had two personal goals:

1. To eventually get a black belt.
2. To start competing in local tournaments.

No, I don't have a black belt - I'm still working on that goal - but I did compete in a tournament sponsored by our club. It was my first tournament, and I had two primary goals. (Yes, I like the number two - I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with Western Civilization's obsession with duality, maybe it is my background in computers - binary numbers and all that - maybe it's a potty obsession (think about it), or maybe I just don't like to count to three.)

Anyway, my two goals:

1. To not get hurt.
2. To not look too stupid.

I was concerned about them in basically that order - if I was forced to choose between getting hurt and looking stupid, I knew I would be choosing to look stupid. And my concern about that was ramped up the week before the tournament when one of the other members of our club, a strong little eastern European who used to compete in mixed martial arts, showed up with a nasty bruise on his forehead.

"Did you get that in an MMA fight?" I asked, trying to reassure myself that a beast of a bruising like that couldn't have been caused by Judo. (It is the "gentle" way, after all - look it up, you'll see what I mean.)

"No", he responded enthusiastically. "I fight in tournament. Other guy, his Judo better." Greeeat, I thought, I may be showing up at work in a week looking like I grew a really ugly third eye.

But I put that thought behind me (after all, the tournament was still almost a week away) and didn't really feel any nerves about it until the day of the tournament at the weigh in. In spite of the fact that I've been dieting basically since the day after New Years, and that my scale at home says I weigh 195, I weighed in at 200, which put me at the lower end of the 195 to 220 bracket. I had been hoping to drop enough to weigh in at the upper end of the bracket just below that, but I guess I'm still too fond of eating. (I'm an American, after all - I've got a reputation to uphold.)

The tournament was held in the gymnasium of an academy up the street from the rec center where our club meets. After weighing in, I climbed to the top of the bleachers and settled in to watch the officials setting up and to try to guess which of the other competitors were my likely opponents.

I'd been told I may be competing in the Masters division (Yes, thanks to my age - over 30 - I'm already a "master" of Judo, never mind that I only have a green belt, the first belt after white.) so I was looking for guys over 30 who were about my size or 20 pounds bigger. It wasn't long before I spotted a graying black belt with the posture of a military officer and the quickness of a dancer. Although he had a bit of a gut, it was clear he would be a formidable opponent. Having just learned that in the Masters division it isn't unusual to mix rank beginners like myself with much more experienced players, like the guy I was watching, I realized there was a good chance I could end up fighting the guy. Great, I thought, my first tournament will be over before it even begins.

Eventually I spotted another member of our club, a friend who I practice with quite a bit since we are close to the same size, and went down on the mats to warm up with him. After we started warming up, my nerves went away and I started to get excited. We did some light sparring, and I concentrated on getting in close to set up for a throw since I felt like that was where I was the weakest. (For some reason when we spar during practice I tend to hang back out of throwing range until the other guy closes with me - which is not a good thing, since that usually means the other guy has the position he wants and you don't.)

After the warm up, the officials had us all line up and bow in. Then the games began.

I had to wait for several matches before my name was called to come down to the officials table to check in for my first match. Although I'd been feeling pretty good after the warm up, my heart rate really spiked when I heard my name called and my nerves came back worse than ever. After checking in, I stood in the holding area trying to convince myself that my nervousness was a positive thing - I could harness it to give me extra energy during the match, like those mothers who get a jolt of adrenaline and lift cars off of their children. Then my name was called to go to the mat.

I was encouraged when I realized my first opponent was a short, slightly paunchy green belt close to my age. Perhaps I had a chance of winning my first match after all. It wasn't until the match started that I realized I'd overlooked some basic physics. HIS center of gravity was already below mine WITHOUT requiring any extra effort on his part. I managed to hold my own with him for close to two minutes (the matches last four) before leaving myself open for a throw. In Judo, if the other player throws you correctly, the match is over. Our match was over.

After my match, I watched my friend compete against an older, taller, heavier guy. My friend has a blue belt, the next rank after green, and his opponent had green, so I thought my friend had a good chance of winning. Wrong again, although he did get good position on the guy several times.

Although we are similar in weight and build, it wasn't until my second match, when I had the same opponent, that I realized my friend and I were in the same division and bracket. My friend is in his mid-to-late teens - given that my first opponent was closer to my age, I thought I was competing in the Masters division. Not so. (I guess they recognized I wasn't a master after all.) I had a fleeting thought about competing against him before my second match began.

With this opponent, who looked to be in his mid-twenties and clearly outweighed me, I decided to change my strategy. With my first opponent, I'd worked at closing the gap and ended up rushing into his throw. With this guy, I worked the legs. Every time he started to move, I tried to sweep his leg. I could tell it was messing with his game (that was confirmed when he came by after the match to tell me it had), but never found a way to capitalize on it. In the end, I stepped into a throw he was setting up and that was the end of my second match. Again, I managed to last about two minutes.

After that I watched my friend lose to my first opponent (it seems short, heavy guys may have a natural advantage in Judo) and knew we would end up competing against each other. By now I'd realized our division consisted of just us four. Whichever of the two of us - my friend or I - won the match would take third place.

After several matches in other brackets and divisions, we were called to the mat. Having sparred with him a fair amount and watched him compete all day, I knew my friend's weakness was that he didn't always close on his throws, leaving him open to a counter throw. I decided to stay in tight and try to keep my center of gravity lower than his so I'd be in good position to throw him if he failed to close.

Our match went longer than the others we'd competed in. At one point, although I don't recall how it happened, he ended up upside down, wrapped around my leg while I basically sat on him and tried to work him free so I could pin him. To get the picture, imagine one of those cartoons of a monkey shimmying up a coconut tree. Now, flip the image upside down. My friend was the monkey and my leg was the tree. So much for not looking stupid. (Turns out you don't care that much about looking stupid when you're in the midst of a match.) In the end, I couldn't work him free, the ref stood us up, and the match continued. Although later some other club members pointed out that I'd almost thrown him several times if I'd've (double contraction score!) just followed through (oh, the irony!), he ended up throwing me with a feint we'd been practicing in class the week before. So much for bringing home a win.

I didn't go home empty handed, though. Continuing my personal leitmotif of winning by losing, it turns out they award two bronze medals - one for fourth place, as well. That's right - all you suckers better fear me - I'm a bronze medalist in the light heavy weight seniors division for Judo.

Fireball is Dead

2009-02-26T17:09:00.000-08:00

Tragically, just after commenting that if my blog were a pet it would be dead by now, I discovered that my son's pet toad, Fireball, had died. This is relevant because I was the one who had most of the responsibility for feeding Fireball. Unfortunately, she only ate crickets and the occasional wax worm, both of which had to be bought in small quantities from the pet store, and she only ate them once or twice a week, so I would, on occasion, forget to feed her for a week. Once I found her little dried up body (a toad's body MUST be 90% water), I realized the last time I had fed her was about two weeks ago, just before we left to visit my cousin in Ohio. Apparently she was hardy enough to make it one week, but not two. The day I found her I felt really bad and kept thinking about it all the next day, but it was much harder on my poor son, who kept crying every time he thought about her death. Ah, Fireball, you were a good pet. I'm sorry I forgot to feed you.

S.M.A.R.T Goals

2009-02-23T05:39:00.000-08:00

If you have ever at any time had to engage in goal setting in a business environment, you've probably heard of S.M.A.R.T goals, but perhaps, like me, you can't always remember what the acronym S.M.A.R.T stands for. Well, trouble yourself no more - I have the solution to your problem. That's right, I've documented below what each one of those capital letters stands for.

S is for Smelly - You know the old saying, "so close I can taste it"? Well, your taste buds are part of your olfactory system - if you're going to get close enough to that goal to taste it, it's gonna have to be smelly.

M is for Marketable - What's the point of having a goal if you can't convince others of its value? You've got to think like your goal is a street whore and you're it's pimp - get out there and hustle that goal!

A is for Aardvark - If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand. Every goal needs an aardvark.

R is for Retractable - How can you be a winner if you sometimes lose? You can't - that's why your goals always have to be retractable.

T is for Table - You're going to need somewhere to put your goal. I like to put mine on a table.

There you have it. If you'll just remember this simple mnemonic, "Smelly Marketable Aardvarks with Retractable Tables", you'll always have S.M.A.R.T goals.

The Washington Post Magazine's 2009 Valentines Fiction Contest

2009-02-21T11:19:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm back. To those of you who follow along, bless you for your patience. Obviously, if this blog were a pet, it would be dead by now.

Anyhow, those of you who have been following along may recall that I entered a short story in the Washington Post Magazine's 2008 Valentines Fiction Contest. (See this post if you're interested.) Well, for obvious reasons, I didn't win, nor was I a runner up. What I submitted held the embryonic outline of a story, but I never fully freed it from the dark incubator of my imagination to live on its own. That said, really, my goal last year was simply to submit some kind of fiction to something, soooo ... as they say in school, I'm a winner just for trying. (Go, me - win by losing - woo-hoo!)

Anyway, there's a new contest, and another chance to lose, this year. See this link for details. I've copied the image for this year below. (Yeah, it's small. If you want to see the full image, go to the link.)

For some reason, this year's image was more inspiring to me, and I ended up writing two stories. (Which is good because my goal this year is to write two stories a month.) I've included them below. If you're inclined to comment, I'd be interested in knowing which of the two you like better and why. For both stories, I'd also be interested in what you think works or doesn't work. (Of course, if you don't want to be my virtual editor, feel free to just *read* the stories.) I've got until May 4th to choose which one to submit.

Story Number 1: The Illusion of Leaving

That day, my daughter, Carrie, showed up at my door, claiming she was on her way home from work and wondering if I had a moment to look at her clutch. Though I'd helped her with her car in the past, I suspected she'd really stopped by just to be sure I was okay. At the time, my wife, Marlene, and I had recently separated after twenty-seven years of marriage; of our two daughters, Carrie was particularly concerned that I wouldn't know how to get a long without her mother.

“Sure,” I started to say, “come on in. I'll be happy to look at your, uh, your, uh, ...” But for some reason I couldn't say the word “clutch”. I kept opening my mouth, expecting the word to come out, but it just scuttled deeper into the recesses of my mind, away from my grasping tongue.

“Dad,” Carrie said, concerned, “Dad, are you okay?”

I looked back at my daughter, baffled. For a moment, she looked like herself, and then she didn't. Things shifted in my head and she looked briefly like a very blurry version of a Vegas showgirl and then she didn't look like anything.

That was the last sight I ever saw, and, strange as it might sound, the most beautiful. That vision of my daughter as a blurry Vegas showgirl was a revelation to me.

When I woke up in an intensive care unit a few days later, I learned I'd had a stroke. It affected my speech and made me blind. Although the doctor told me at the time that there was a chance my sight would return, it never did.

It's difficult to explain the revelation that came to me in my blindness without telling you about my marriage and why it fell apart.

By the time I separated from my wife, the bitter kernel of dissatisfaction I'd been tending in my heart for the latter half of our marriage had hardened into a cold disdain. Shortly after our daughter Carrie was born, the vitality began to seep out of Marlene. She seemed to lose interest in almost everything. Our sex life was the first thing to suffer. The two month waiting period after Carrie's birth stretched into a year. Whenever I'd try to touch her, she'd make an attempt to participate, but her heart wasn't in it.

When I'd first met Marlene, she'd had a beautiful, almost bewitching quality, that made me ache physically when I looked at her. Though we were both virgins until our honeymoon, when I'd touch her, it was like touching a beautiful instrument: I could feel the music in her body, waiting to be released. After we married, though, and our daughters were born, she began a gradual fade into the caricature of the dowdy housewife. Bit by bit, she built a wall of television, laundry, housecleaning, and children's school activities between us. I tried to feel my way around the wall, but, as time went on and things didn't improve, I retreated into my career. If the girls were out for the night, I'd find reasons to stay late.

Through all this, our daughters grew; as they did, Carrie reminded me the most of Marlene. It was as though at her birth, she'd captured Marlene's soul and taken it with her. As she got older, she looked like a younger Marlene. It was like an echo of Marlene had returned to me, but in a form that I could never touch or hold. You might expect that I'd resent Carrie for that, and yet, just the opposite happened: as she blossomed into a young woman, I found that I could laugh and joke with her and almost live again. I was always careful to avoid confiding in her too much; I never wanted to turn her against her mother. If anything, I hid my feelings too well – she became convinced that I'd never be able to make it without her mother around to care for me.

By the time Carrie left for college, I'd retreated to magazine pictures and movies to fan the fading embers of my passion. I longed to recapture all I'd given up to be with Marlene. Throughout everything, I'd never been physically unfaithful to Marlene – I didn't want to hurt Carrie or her sister like that – but I was increasingly haunted by images of women in enticing poses, young women who made me wonder if I'd made a mistake never daring to look outside the confines of my marriage. I began to fantasize about going away to Vegas and paying a beautiful, young showgirl to live out my fantasy with me. Looking online, I found a woman who seemed to offer what I was looking for. That act finally brought things to a head.

“What are you doing?” Marlene had said, when she'd come across me that evening in the den looking at the web site where the woman advertised for new clients. “What are you looking at?” The confusion and disgust in her voice was too much for me.

“I'm looking at someone who enjoys sex, someone who might actually want to be with me – even if only for money!” I said angrily. Marlene just looked at me, then her lip began to quiver.

“Don't start crying now,” I continued roughly. “You haven't cared about me or what I do for a long time – why start now!” Marlene turned away from me, her shoulders shaking. After a moment, she left the room.

“That's right,” I called after her, “Go back to your television!” I felt a sickening rift in my heart, like the words I was saying were tearing my soul. After she left, I paced the room talking to myself, reciting the ugly rosary of my accusations against her.

When I talked myself out, I looked into the emptiness inside me and found nothing left. That night, I slept alone in an anonymous motel on the side of the road to a future I no longer knew if I wanted to own.

The day after I woke from my stroke, Carrie stopped by. “I brought someone to see you,” she said. “I told mom you woke up and she wanted to come by to be sure you were okay.” I heard Marlene enter. I hadn't seen her since I'd rented the apartment.

I tried to mumble a greeting, but the words wouldn't come out right.

“Can he speak?” I heard Marlene ask Carrie.

“Not yet,” Carrie said, brightly, “but the doctor says he should get most of his speech back in a few weeks." She paused. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit.” I heard her leave the room.

The room was silent, then I heard Marlene pull up a chair. Across the hall, I could hear the television playing. We sat in silence, neither one certain how to cross the void.

After a while, I heard Marlene shift in her chair and felt her hand touch mine. It was then I realized she was crying quietly.

“Why didn't you ever talk to me? I was so alone and you never talked to me.” She whispered between quiets sobs. “And now you can't talk at all.” Her fingers beat against my hand like tiny fists, then grasped as if reaching for something to steady her.

“I only ever wanted you to love me. But after Carrie was born ...” Her voice trailed off. “I was never enough for you then.” It broke my heart to listen to her. The image I'd seen just before my stroke, of Carrie, looking like her mother, dressed as a showgirl, flashed before my eyes. I tried to tell her I was sorry, but my tongue was awkward and I could only mumble sounds that wanted to be words, but weren't.

In the weeks and months that followed, all through my recovery, I don't know why she chose to do it, but Marlene was there. Once, after I'd regained most of my speech, I tried to thank her and then apologize, but she only patted my hand and said, quietly, “don't.”

When I was released, she came for me. I didn't ask about the apartment. Carrie moved in with us, “just for a little while” she said, “to make sure you and mom are okay.”

That was more than a year ago, and, as I listen from my room, I can hear them both working happily together down the hallway. As I listen to them, to me, it is appropriate, and painful, and beautiful that the last memory I have of seeing is of a blurry Vegas showgirl – and more so that it is a memory of my daughter Carrie, looking all the world like her mother reincarnated.

Story Number 2: Leaving the Big Country

“In a big country dreams stay with you
Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside”
In a Big Country, by Big Country

The image that woke him at night and haunted his thoughts was the the image of her just before the bomb went off.

"Why don't you tell me about that?" The doctor asked.

"Tell you about what?" Cole asked.

"Tell me about the dreams."

"Doc, I've already told you about the dreams. Talking doesn't make them go away." In his mind the reel starts again: he's in the bradley, thinking of her.

"What the fo-monkey is that?!" G-Max is saying, using one of his homemade replacement curse words. Then the bomb goes off. For a millisecond he can still see her in his mind, then her image is enveloped in a halo of shimmering blue and black, and he blacks out.

"Why do you think that image is so important to you?" In a previous session, Cole had told the psychologist about the dreams that started while he was recovering in the ICU at Landstuhl. He'd got it into his head there that he needed to read the Bible from beginning to end. Maybe he'd thought that it would shield him from the guilt, maybe he'd hoped it would make him worthy of her again - whatever he'd hoped, he hadn't counted on it affecting him the way it had.

'Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.' Those words in Isaiah, the dream always started with those words: sometimes Cole was saying them, sometimes G-Max said them, sometimes she hung over him like an avenging angel, saying them. In the worst moments, the child was saying them.

"You know, after you shared your dream with me, it got me thinking about the Bible myself." The doctor was still talking. "I found this verse in Job: 'Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.' When I say that, what does it mean to you?"

"Doc, this is stupid." Cole sighed. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it doesn't mean anything special to me. I got blown up, my buddy died in an RPG attack - all those things involve sparks. That's all it is." He'd been coming to these sessions since he'd arrived at Walter Reed for rehab. They didn't really make any difference, but the military felt better. Talking couldn't replace the foot he'd lost or G-Max or ...

"Corporal," the sergeant was barking through the static in his ear, "clear that house!" Somewhere in the other alley, just over the roof, the sergeant and the rest of the squad were pinned down by machine gun fire. Cole signaled to his team. G-Max shattered the back door with the butt of his rifle, then threw a grenade into the opening. As the concussion rocked the house, the team rushed through the broken door. It opened into a kitchen. Cole barely had time to register that a boy and a woman were down on the way into the next room. Nothing moved in there. Cole signaled to G-Max, who tossed a grenade up the stairs. Following the blast, they rushed to the next floor. A child was screaming up there, a horrible, keening sound. The sergeant was cursing in his ear. "Wrong house, you got the wrong house, corporal! Get out of there!"

After that, he still thought about her, but he didn't call or text. How do you tell someone like her you killed a mother and her two children? How do you tell her you still don't know if you feel bad about it, that you'd do it again if you thought the raghead killing your crew was in the house?

You don't.

As time went on, he tried to stop thinking about her, but his dying heart was infected with her. If he didn't resist thinking about her, she drifted into his thoughts; if he tried to resist, his thoughts fought him, fixating on her. He was going through the drill in the bradley – first fighting her memory, then pretending to ignore it – when the bomb went off.

The dream, he hadn't been conscious for any of the things that happened in the the dream. He was unconscious when G-Max pulled him from the burning bradley. He was unconscious when G-Max lay on top of him, covering him with his body while bullets and rocket fire sliced through the air. He was unconscious when the concussion of the RPG blew G-Max off of him and tore away his foot. He didn't see or feel any of that until he started living it in his dreams in the ICU at Landstuhl.

"You're quiet. Do you want to share what you're thinking about?"

"No, Doc, I don't. I've had enough talking for today." Recently Cole had begun hording pain medicine; he was done talking, it was time to do something.

"Okay, Cole. Well, I certainly hope you'll think about what we talked about last week."

"Sure, Doc, I'll think about it."

Out on the street it was getting dark. As he walked, Cole could feel his prosthetic, alien and hard.

"What's your hurry, gimpy?" The man's voice was mocking as he stepped from the shadows. "Slow down there - I think you got something of mine." The man stepped in front of Cole and stiff-armed him to a stop. He raised a gun, gangster-style, with the grip turned sideways and pointed it at Cole's chest. "Gimme your wallet."

It was clear from the way he held the weapon, thumb-down, within striking range, that he didn't know what he was doing. Reflexively, Cole's body moved to fight back, but he bridled himself. He could do it himself or let this man do it - maybe it was better if it was someone else. "Go ahead and shoot." He responded without emotion, looking the man in the eye.

The man struck him a downward blow across the face. As the blow caught him in the side of the head, the searing pain lit a fire in his body like the charge in a gun. Sparks kindled before his eyes, reminding him again of Isaiah 50:11. Through the sparks, he could see the man's hand coming up again, the pistol pointed slightly outward, away from his body. He slammed his left hand hard into the man's right hand, jerking the man's arm back down briefly, then yanking it up and straight out from the man's side. As he did, he twisted the barrel of the gun so that the grip rotated toward the thumb-side, pulling it out of the man's grasp. As he pulled the gun free, he swept his right leg past the man's right leg - the prosthetic held - then mule-kicked backwards, punching his right hand into the man's chest with all his force. The man crashed into the ground, head bouncing off the pavement. For a second his face went slack, then he looked up at Cole in confusion.

Cole had the pistol pointing down at the man's face. He could feel the surge of energy like an electric current coursing through his arm and into his trigger finger. He flexed it slightly. It would be so easy. Her face flashed into his mind, the image from his dreams. "This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow." He could hear the whisper of her voice.

The child had died. In spite of everything he'd done, the child had died.

"Get up, man - get outta here." He gestured with the gun. The man was still in shock. "Get up!" Cole shouted, "I said, get OUT OF HERE!" That jolted the man into action. He scrambled to his feet and ran down the street, one less death in a broken world.

Cole threw the gun into a nearby dumpster, then stood on the street for a long time, trembling. When he started to walk again, he realized he was crying. It was time to go home.

Campaign 2008 - Me vs. He-Man

2008-11-04T18:57:00.000-08:00

With the internet playing more of a role in elections these days, I decided to run my own campaign via Gmail's IM status feature. Not to hoist my own petard with myself on it, but you can't argue with success. (Well, you can, but success always takes the moral high ground and won't argue back. Oh, success, why must you be so inscrutable!)

Cover the Earth

2008-09-12T05:14:00.000-07:00

I love Sherwin Williams' logo! Check it out - a bucket of paint being poured over the entire earth and the phrase proudly proclaiming their intention to "Cover the Earth"! Awesome! It's almost like they don't even know there's a green movement.

Go, Sherwin Williams, go - cover the whole earth!

Mike-ku

2008-09-08T14:44:00.000-07:00

Odd - here's an old post I started, but never published:

---

So for some reason I was thinking the structure of haiku was 3-5-7, but I was wrong, so I'm calling this form mike-ku (I know, I know, you already invented it or somebody else did - blah, blah, blah, blah-blah ...)

Here's my first mike-ku:

Trembling leaf
I am not the tree
I am the cold knife cutting

---

I don't know why I never published it. I like the mike-ku - although, it is a little on the dark side. Not that that would have stopped me. I must have just forgotten I'd started it.

Anyhow, if you've got a good mike-ku to share, feel free to post it as a comment. (Or feel free to comment and tell me how mike-ku already exists and it's called something else.)

Gmail Chat Status

2008-09-08T14:22:00.000-07:00

Lately I'm enamored with the free text status you can set for yourself in Gmail chat. I enjoy coming up with random statuses (statii?) for myself. Here are a few of my more recent ideas:

"Racing with rats."
"Making the roses stop to smell me - *sniff* - I'm delicious!"
Playing Skipper to your Gilligan."
"Fighting fire with fire - take that, Smokey!"
"Bulldogging it like a Jello wrestler on crack."
"Riding shotgun on a herd of angry weasels."
"Kick-flipping over the abyss - skate or die, dude!"
"Making the bulls run with me."

Now, if I could only find a way to have them randomly cycle through on their own ...

What I did this summer

2008-08-22T19:00:00.000-07:00

Mostly I worked - but that's not really what I want to write about. Unlike last summer, when my family and I took the month of July to travel across the country visiting friends and relatives, this summer I only took a little over two weeks of total time off. With summer coming to an end, it's those two weeks of time I want to focus on.

On July 3rd, in spite of the fact that I'm no longer living the carefree life of a college student, I acted like one anyway and stayed up all night to complete all of the missions in "Medal of Honor, Heroes 2" on the Wii. My wife was proud of me. Wait, I mean she made fun of me. Whatever - I was proud of myself. I'm now a sergeant major in the SAS (at least in the virtual world). Go me! I mean, mii!

Needless to say on July 4th, I was pretty punchy at the ward breakfast; although, when I explained why, most of the guys from church understood. After the ward breakfast, I slept most of the day so I'd be ready for the sacred communion of fireworks. (And, yes, all you women out there (Tracy), I agree - I have an understanding wife. I know if I was your husband, you'd make me stay up and play with the kids, just so I learned my lesson.)

If you know me, you know I'm not being facetious when I refer to the Fourth of July fireworks as a "sacred communion". I'm not normally very social, but there is something about the Fourth of July that makes me want to be with other Americans and watch the sky light up in celebration of all the sacrifices that have been made to give us the gift of freedom. And for me, the bigger the crowd, the better.

When I was a teen, I used to go down to the national mall to watch the fireworks just because the crowd was so large. That doesn't really work now that I'm the father of small children. Instead, it's become our family tradition to view the fireworks over the lake at the Columbia Mall. This year, after some cajoling, our friends the Oberings joined us and, in spite of some initial light rain, the fireworks did not disappoint.

...

On August 1st, I flew to Denver to participate in my niece, Jenniel's, baptism. My brother, Dan, Jenniel's father, has recently returned to activity and is very enthusiastic about living closer to Heavenly Father. I enjoyed the opportunity to visit with him and discuss the Gospel. It also turned out to be a bit of a mini family reunion. Grandma Betty, my grandmother on my mom's side, and my mom and stepfather, Bill, all came out for the baptism. That night we all went out for dinner with Dan, Jenniel, my nephew, Cameron, and my sister, Flora, and her husband, Matt, who also live near Denver. Afterwards, we walked around the temple grounds and took pictures. (Mom, you still owe me a picture.)

August 2nd was the day of the baptism. Jenniel had asked that I perform the baptism and I was honored that she would ask me. That didn't keep me from making a mistake in the wording of the prayer, though, so I actually had to baptize her twice. In spite of that, it was a very moving experience and Jenniel seemed very happy as she came out of the water.

After we changed into dry clothes, my mom spoke about the gift of the Holy Ghost and then I confirmed Jenniel. I felt the Spirit strongly during her confirmation and felt inspired to bless her that, as she followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost, she would become a leader among her peers. I'm looking forward to seeing that promise fulfilled. Jenniel is a special girl.

In addition to our family, Dan had invited two friends from where he used to work and they both came. Jen, Jenniel's mother and Dan's ex-wife, was there as well. It was good to see her.

After the baptism, we went to a public pool that puts other public pools to shame. You can get in for four dollars and it has two full sized water slides, a lazy river, and a giant 1000 gallon bucket of water that fills up every 20 minutes, then flips and pours water on the crowd below. We had a lot of fun there, then wrapped up the day with a barbecue at my cousin, Melissa's, house. She and her husband, Lance, were kind enough to host us at the last minute when Dan and Flora changed plans (originally it was supposed to be at Flora's house on Sunday).

Sunday, August 3rd, I went to church with Dan and his kids, then we all headed to Flora's for a delicious dinner of salad, peas, and homemade mac and cheese. (Mmm, mmm, goood!) Dan's kids and I then spent the night at Flora's house. Flora and I chatted while watching a movie with the kids, "Howl's Moving Castle". While I enjoyed the movie, it was a bit weird. I guess I haven't watched enough japanime to get the aesthetic.

Monday, August 4th, was my last day in Denver. In spite of the altitude (Flora lives in the mountains above Denver), I opted to go for a morning run at 5:30 AM. Last summer, when we were at Flora's, I lamented the fact that we never saw a bear, a sight that Flora had said wasn't that uncommon. A couple of weeks later, she even sent me some pictures of a bear in her yard. I had plenty of time to reflect on that as I ran. When I got back and commented to Matt that, shortly after starting my run, I wondered if I wasn't a little crazy to be out there when there could be bears in the area, he said, "Why do you think I never go running?" Touche.

Flora and Matt both work in Denver and have to get an early start, so we got the kids up and left by 6:30. Matt dropped Flora at work, then drove me and the kids to Dan's place. The kids and I then spent the morning at two parks near Dan's apartment. After lunch, we hit the Sonic for a cherry limeade in honor of my wife, who turned me on to them, then headed to the airport for my return flight home.

...

Well, it is taking longer than I expected to chronicle my two weeks, so I will have to continue in another post tomorrow.

Bob, uh, I mean John Denver

2008-07-23T04:20:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this action shot in honor of my last post. (Dad! Stop singing to Bob Denver. I mean, I know you love him and all!) Props to Supersonicjan.

"Annie's Song"

2008-07-18T09:42:00.000-07:00

See, here is the thing - what if the foundation of your life turned out to be a lie? I'm listening to "Annie's Song" by Bob Denver and it always makes me think of being a child because my father loved Bob Denver so much when I was a child. As a child it made me think of my mom and dad and how they loved each other. Only it turns out they didn't. When I got older, my parents separated and divorced and my dad came out to everyone. So I'm sitting here listening to the song as I work and crying because the song reminds of me of something so beautiful and so false.

Child

2008-07-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

Here's a poem I wrote Sunday while I was sitting on the stand at church.

"Child"

A brightness
this birth
into another place
and time
starts its ticking
an accounting
or a gift
a sentence
passed
before a crime can be committed.
I wait
the uneasy father
witness to
a travail
I have no power to stay.
You pause
a thing of fearful
ugly beauty
then
a breath
a cry
a plea.
Life begins anew
my heart
your heart
my blood
your blood
a seedling god
in my trembling
mortal hands.

The Wisdom of Fishes

2008-07-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a story I just finished recently. I started writing it right around the time I wrote "Bone Dog" and thought that it might be a children's story as well, but that's not how it turned out. Those of you familiar with "The Old Man and The Sea" by Ernest Hemmingway may see some echoes of that story in this one. I've always loved "The Old Man and The Sea" and will admit that I drew inspiration from it for this story. Hopefully I haven't done it any disservice and you enjoy the story.

"The Wisdom of Fishes"

Jose stood on the rocky beach, looking out into the distance. It was late afternoon. All around him was the sun, the sky, and the sea. He curled his toes in the hot sand. Above him, the sea birds looped and bobbed, arcing down to steal a piece of fish or to land on the water where they bobbed like toy boats.

He heard the sound of the fishermen at the dock. They were unloading their boats, talking and laughing - the lucky ones. They'd caught their fish and would soon be heading home to share dinner with happy families.

Jose held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was no sign of another boat coming in. He walked slowly back to where grandma was working in the small garden.

"No llega," He said. "He isn't back yet."

Grandmother looked up. "Llegara pronto. He'll be back soon." She sighed, though, as she said it. It had been several days since he had returned with any fish. The fact that he wasn't back yet was not a good sign.

Jose bent down to help grandmother. Together they weeded and thinned the plants in the little garden until the dark of the late evening settled around them. When the moon appeared between the clouds rolling in, grandpa still wasn't back. Jose and grandma fixed a small meal of greens from the garden, then turned in for the night.

Later in the night, Jose awoke to the sound of quiet footsteps. He heard grandpa sigh wearily, then settle into his bed. Outside a light rain had begun to fall and the drops echoed like tiny pebbles tossed lightly on the tin roof. Jose drifted back to sleep and dreamed of large exotic fish leaping from electric blue seas and racing across horizons of white foam.

In the morning, grandpa was gone again.

"Abuela, grandma, where does grandpa go to fish?" Grandma was in the tiny kitchen brewing a pale herbal tea.

"Hijito, little son," She said without turning, her back still to him, "grandfather fishes the deep waters, where the oldest and wisest fish live. They are harder to catch, but they are larger and give you more strength."

Jose remembered his dream - the large exotic fish dancing in the deep ocean, the flash of white foam on the crest of a large blue wave curling in on itself. "Will he catch one today?"

Grandma sighed, then poured the tea. "No se. I don't know."

They drank the tea in silence, then headed out to work in the garden. The sun's rays were pale and weak in the early dawn. Throughout the morning the rays gathered strength, though, until, by late morning, grandma and Jose were working in the full heat of the day.

"Descansemonos," said grandmother. "Let's rest. It's too hot to continue working like this."

In the shade of the little hut, they drank some more tea. Jose wondered if grandpa was standing on the deck of the little fishing boat in the heat of the noon day sun. Grandpa was a little man, but strong. At ten years Jose was already almost his size, but grandpa was much stronger. He wondered if the heat sapped grandpa's strength, the way it did his own. He thought about it and decided that it did not. He had once seen grandpa carry a fish as big as a man all the way from the dock to the market. The sun had been hot that day, too. He sat thinking of the mystery of it - how grandpa could carry a large fish in the hot sun while he was already tired just from standing in the heat trimming plants in the garden. ... He fell asleep trying to work it out.

In the late evening, grandpa did not return. That night there were no quiet footsteps carefully working their way to the bed that grandpa shared with grandma.

In the morning, at breakfast, there was a grim, determined set to grandma's face, one Jose had never seen before. He felt a new fear moving like a deep cold current in his heart. There were stories about men who sailed out in the morning to bring home food and never returned. He opened his mouth to ask grandma about grandpa, but something in her face as she poured the morning tea stopped him.

Later he tried to work in the garden, but felt too weak and worried to continue.

"Abuela, may I go to the hill?" Jose asked.

"Si, porque no? Sure, why not?" Grandma looked up from her weeding and wiped her brow. Her eyes were tired under the brow of her sun hat.

Jose left for the large hill just outside of town. The hot sun streamed down from an open sky. The day was hot, but a strong breeze was blowing in from the sea. Jose could smell the salty, faintly fishy scent of the ocean. He worked his way slowly, but steadily to the foot of the hill. In the shade of a small tree he sat to rest until his heart stopped jumping and turning in his chest.

He thought of the time he had helped to unload fish from grandpa's boat. He had found a smaller fish at the bottom of the pile, half buried in the briny water that sloshed the bottom of the boat, its gills still opening and closing, opening and closing, like the wings of a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. When he had grabbed it, it had struggled in his hand, thrashing and pumping, surprisingly strong for its size. He had almost dropped it at first, but then he'd gripped it more tightly and soon its struggling had weakened, then stopped altogether until it lay almost serene in his hand, its only remaining movement the butterfly motion of its gills, opening and closing, opening and closing.

Even in the shade, the sun was hot and for a moment he felt faint. His thoughts felt slow and confused. The hill - there was still the hill. His heart was steady again.

He rose and began the work of slowly climbing to the crest of the hill, his pace measured and even, first one step and then the other. Throughout the climb, the sun beat down upon him like the constant roll of waves from a distant shore. Toward the top of the hill, his heart again began its reckless struggle to escape, twisting and turning and jumping in his chest. Small points of light swam before his eyes. He lay down and waited.

After a while, his heart calmed again.

When he felt strong enough, he stood and looked out to sea. He thought he saw something tiny and white bobbing out in the distance, but when he wiped the sweat from his eyes there was nothing. He walked slowly back to the shade of a tree partway down the hill and lay down to rest.

When he awoke, it was dark. In the distance he heard the sound of the water lapping at the shore. The night was cool and he found it much easier to climb again to the top of the hill. The sky was cloudless and the moon bright. He looked out again to the sea. He thought he saw something moving steadily in from the distance. He lay down a while, then rose and looked again. There was nothing.

He rested again, then slowly made his way down the hill and back to the hut. He carefully opened the door and stood in the entrance, listening. Inside he heard the soft, measured whisper of grandma's night breathing. There was no other sound. He carefully made his way to his bed and lay down.

"Hahlo, hahlo!" he awoke to someone shouting. "Is anyone there?" There was a loud and hurried knocking at the door.

He stood and hurried quickly to the door. It was early morning. Grandmother was already rising. At the door was another fisherman from the village, Senor Fuentes. "Vengan, pues, rapido! Hurry quickly!" He said.

As they made their way at a half-run to the docks, Senor Fuentes explained how another group of fisherman had found grandfather unconscious on his boat, drifting at sea. "The fish he had tied to his boat was enormous," said Senor Fuentes, "judging from what was left of him, that is." Sharks had eaten most of the fish in the night. When the other fisherman found him, they'd had to cut the remains of the fish free to use the rope to lash grandpa's boat to their own.

At the dock, Jose stood, watching as the other men supported grandpa, helping him to step unsteadily from the boat to the shore. His face and arms were sunburned a deep red like boiled crab. He felt vaguely sick and ashamed looking at grandpa in his weakness.

"Abuela, grandfather," one of the men said, "you need to eat, to regain your strength. Take one of my fishes, take a big one, take two."

"No, gracias" said grandfather, shaking his head wearily "I will catch my own. And this time it will be bigger."

The man shook his head sadly at grandfather's response, then turned and made the same offer to Jose. Jose looked at what the man was offering. The fish in the hold were beautiful - large and strong and colorful, like the fish in his dream. He could imagine the sweetness of their flesh, the strength in them becoming his own. He longed to take one, then thought of grandfather and how it would shame him. He shook his head "no" then turned away quickly from the man and walked to where grandfather waited.

As they walked away together from the dock toward their little hut, grandfather reached out only once to steady himself against Jose, then gathered his balance and walked the rest of the way alone. Grandmother had already gone on ahead.

In the morning, grandpa was gone again.

Bone Dog

2008-06-19T19:37:00.001-07:00

So, this is a kids story I wrote a few weeks back. I like it; although, it is only the second draft, so there may be a few more changes in the works. I've asked my dad, who is an artist, to consider illustrating it. If he does, I'll post his work as well. (Assuming I get his permission to do so, of course.)

"Bone Dog"

Bone Dog was made of bones. He didn't have any hair. He didn't have any skin. He didn't have anything at all. Just bones.

The other dogs had hair. The other dogs had skin. The other dogs had everything. And bones.

But their bones were on the inside. Bone Dog's were on the outside.

"I want my bones on the inside, too," thought Bone Dog. But he didn't have an inside. Just an outside.

There was a big park in front of Bone Dog's house. All kinds of dogs played there.

Bone Dog wanted to play there, too.

But when Bone Dog tried to play with the other dogs, they ran away or tried to eat him.

One day one big dog even threw Bone Dog's tail bone to the other side of the park. "Go fetch," he growled with a mean smile. Some of the other dogs laughed.

After that, Bone Dog wished he wasn't a bone dog.

Every day he sat in his house during the day watching the other dogs play. But he didn't ever go play himself.

He was a sad dog.

One day, after watching the other dogs play in the park all day, Bone Dog went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. He sat in his room looking at the park through the window.

"If only I were like other dogs," he thought.
Then Bone Dog saw something, something surprising.

There was a dog playing in the park at night. But this dog didn't look like the other dogs. He was a silvery shadow dog.

The silvery shadow dog played in the moonlight. He jumped and spun and chased his tail. He looked like he was having fun.

"He's probably mean," thought Bone Dog.

Just then the silvery shadow dog saw him in the window. Bone Dog looked away quickly, but the silvery shadow dog barked to him happily. "Come out and play," he barked.

Bone Dog pretended he couldn't hear. He wanted to play, but he was still afraid.

The silvery shadow dog barked at him some more. "Hey, come out and play," He barked.

"Maybe he's not mean," thought Bone Dog. He wagged his tail bone hopefully.

"Come on," barked the silvery shadow dog. Bone Dog ran down the stairs, out the door, and into the park.

"I'm Bone Dog," he barked happily.

"I'm Ghost Dog," barked the silvery shadow dog.

He and Bone Dog ran and jumped and laughed and played all night. And in the morning, Bone Dog was so tired that he fell asleep right away. He didn't have time to watch the other dogs play.

After that, he and Ghost Dog played in the park every night. And after a while, Bone Dog forgot about wanting to be anything other than a bone dog. He was too busy being friends with Ghost Dog.

The End.

Sticky - Existential Warrior

2008-05-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago to amuse myself at work, I started creating stick figure cartoons using leaves from a sticky pad. Later on I branched out into using the backs of receipts as well. (That's just the kind of guy I am.) In any case, I've been reviewing them and think the first one I created is my favorite. Enjoy!

Beat-A-Matic 2000

2008-05-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

So my youngest daughter was being kind of nasty today when I got home (She seems to be going through some kind of phase - for details, see my wife's blog.) and it got me to wishing for the Beat-A-Matic 2000.

What's that? You say you've never heard of the Beat-A-Matic 2000?! The handiest parenting device for the lazy parent since television?!

Well, alright - that's probably because it's something I thought up when I first realized that one of my responsibilities as a dad is to be the disciplinarian.

See the trouble with laying down the law and then enforcing it, is that you become the bad guy. And who really wants that? It's certainly not something I imagined when I was thinking of becoming a parent.

*A younger me thinking aloud* "Hmmm... perfect! And then I'll be the bad guy."

In any case, the Beat-A-Matic 2000 solves that problem handily. It's a spanking robot that you keep in your closet. Then, whenever your kids are being bad, you just press a button, and - viola - the Beat-A-Matic 2000 appears magically to discipline your kids. And best of all, you can act as surprised as the kids. "No, Beat-A-Matic, no! Don't beat my children!" Now you're the good guy and your kids still get disciplined.

Ah, the Beat-A-Matic 2000 - it might be my best uninvented invention yet.

When Harry In Real Life Met Sleepless Sally In Seattle ...

2008-05-02T20:05:00.000-07:00

She Was Wearing 27 Dresses, Carrying A Little Black Book, And Trying To Lose A Guy In 10 Days After Attending 3 Weddings And A Funeral Where She Was Always A Princess Bridesmaid And Never The Princess Bride (Nor The Corpse) ...

Have I left any of them out?

Romantic comedies - they're so awesomely formulaic! I just watched one tonight with my wife. And by "watched one with my wife", I mean she chose it, then promptly fell asleep. Which, ironically enough, is how I end up seeing most romantic comedies these days - with the woman of my dreams snoring in my lap while I watch two confused souls:

meet,
fight,
realize they are all wrong for each other,
fall in love,
realize maybe they aren't all wrong for each other (but that they can't tell each other),
have some bad thing happen (usually caused by the man, but sometimes by the woman),
separate on bad terms,
pine for each other (cue the scenes of them at work, visiting former haunts, watching the phone ring, listening to answering machine messages, blah, blah, blah, while staring mournfully into space),
have an epiphany (true, he's a jerk who trashed my name publicly, but we're *meant* for each other),
race to catch the other before they leave, *gasp*, forever (nooo! don't get on that plane, she really does love you!),
joyously, tearfully, tenderly reunite, and then ...

"One Year Later"

get married before a happy party of family and friends who knew they were meant for each other all along and have magically decided to let bygones be bygones.

The brilliance of the formula has inspired me to invent what I am sure will become my legacy - "Microsoft RomantiComeditron XP" - a little piece of software (for Windows only, sorry Linux lovers - no pun intended) that takes two names and automatically generates a brand new romantic comedy. Now we can literally have 10 or 20 new romantic comedies premiering each year ... um, wait a minute ... we *already* have 10 or 20 new romantic comedies premiering each year. (HEY, did someone steal my idea? What's a man got to do to get a legacy around here?!)

What? ... What's that?

Sorry, I've got to go - my wife just told me she could never be married to an insensitive jerk who doesn't love romantic comedies. It's time for me to go pine (cue scenes of me staring mournfully at the computer screen while sad music plays in the background).

Desert Mirage (My entry in the Washington Post's fiction contest)

2008-04-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

So, in the February 10th edition of the Washington Post Magazine, they announced that they are sponsoring a contest for original short fiction dealing with the theme of love and based on the image on the cover. When I can figure out how to get my scanner to work, I'll post the image on the cover.

Although, I still haven't finished my other short stories and am pretty rusty at writing fiction, I made it a goal to enter a story in the contest. My entry is found below. In my opinion, it's not my best work, (although I tried) but it is complete and got entered before the May 2nd deadline. (I guess this one is more about following through than anything else.)

"Desert Mirage"

For my seventeenth birthday, I tried to give myself the gift of freedom. At sixteen going on seventeen, I was still young enough to believe that if you ran fast enough, you could break the thread of your own history -- and once you broke free, who knew where you'd end up? I had days where I imagined myself riding off into the sunset with a rugged young cowboy from one of the nearby ranches or driving to Las Vegas to become a famous dancer. Other days, though, felt like millstones around my neck. They literally dragged me down beneath the surface of time and left me suspended, watching impotently as the river of life passed over me. I felt like a female Pinocchio, waiting to become a real girl. I hung on woodenly, one hand clinging to the smooth, glossy surfaces of dreams while the other fought to pull me up over the rough edges of reality.

If you stand out too much in a small town, you're bound to see trouble. Living outside of town on a chicken farm, with two parents born out of state, and flaming red hair in a land of brunettes and bottle-blonds, I was a freak from the word “Go”. By my teens, I had built up a hard shell of delinquency. I spent a lot of time with the tougher young ranch hands from around the area. As I approached my seventeenth year, I still hadn't gotten into any serious trouble yet, but there was no doubt around town that some of those ranch hands were hoping it was only a matter of time.

The morning I turned seventeen, the sky was blue and clear. My favorite ranch hand at the time was a boy of nineteen with red hair like my own. He'd skip out pretty regularly on his morning chores to drive me to school and that morning was no exception. As I lay with my head on his shoulder, staring up into the open sky, I let my young chauffeur kiss me goodbye, first once, then twice, then ... oh, I don't know. I felt the his desire swallow me whole, then spit me out again, like Jonah's big fish. I washed up on the shore of the schoolyard exhilarated to be alive. I kissed him one last time with just enough passion to let him taste my excitement, then headed into homeroom.

The thing about homeroom was Stacy Carmichael, a bouncy, bossy blond and head of the cheer leading squad. With the sky so blue, I'd almost believed I could forget she was there. But with Stacy, almost isn't enough. I'd only been sitting on the floor studying for a couple of minutes when she burst into the room, smirking to one of her friends as she looked down at me. As she tried to step over me, she tripped on one of my books and called me “a stupid carrot topped freak”. The baby blue of the day flashed bright red. Her mouth hadn't even closed yet when I punched her in the face, breaking her two front teeth and a bone in my left hand. It wasn't the first fight I'd been in that year; I was suspended immediately and sent home.

Once I was off the school grounds I stood at a cross road. There wasn't much to do in town on a week day, but going home seemed pointless. I could imagine the scene at my house. The Carmichaels would already be on the phone, threatening legal action if my parents didn't do something “to fix that out-of-control daughter of yours”. I could see my mother standing in the hallway, tears springing into her eyes as she listened to the tirade. “Why are you doing this to us?” She'd ask me accusingly when I showed up.

“I'm not doing anything to you!” I muttered under my breath. “You think it's easy to be me in this crappy little town? If anything, you're doing it to ME! Everyone thinks we're freaks 'cause we're not from around here – and I was BORN here!” To emphasize my point, I turned down the road away from my house and headed towards the ranch. I'd already broken one thing today and I was feeling reckless enough to break another. I half hoped if I broke enough things, there wouldn't be anything left to hold me.

Up the road at the ranch, I spotted one of the other ranch hands near the road. “Where's Eric?” I asked. “Working over that away in the barn,” he said, pointing with his thumb, “but if you're looking for trouble, maybe I could help.” He added the last bit with a wink. I ignored him and turned toward the barn. I could already see Eric coming out the door. With his red hair, he stood out even from a distance.

By nightfall, we were on the road, headed for Vegas. Our plan didn't consist of much more than a desire to make it to one of those drive-through chapels and get married. Ever since I'd first kissed him, Eric had been asking me to marry him. It was now or never. I couldn't leave, though, without taking something from home. Before we left, I crept back into my house and grabbed the first thing I saw lying on the counter – my father's wedding ring. “Something borrowed,” I whispered nervously to myself as I headed out the door, slipping it onto my finger.

The next morning dawned under an open desert sky. We'd driven through the night in Eric's old convertible and I'd fallen asleep against his shoulder. The sky was so clean and blue when I woke that I felt I could cut a fresh start out of it. “Something blue,” I laughed and Eric looked puzzled until I pointed at the sky. Then he smiled and winked.

By late morning, though, the sky had begun to cloud up a little, and I didn't feel so sure about Vegas. When I glanced at Eric, though, he was looking resolutely ahead.

It was a little before noon when the sheriff and my father caught up with us on the Nevada border. The sheriff took Eric off to the side of the road while my father got into the car with me.

“Son, this girl's a minor.” I could hear the sheriff saying to Eric. “If her father chooses to press charges, you're looking at some serious jail time.” Eric just looked down, scuffing the dirt with his boot.

In the car my father looked at me for a long moment, his eyes weary. Finally he shook his head, then kind of shrugged his shoulders and asked, “Why did you run away with this boy?”

When I didn't answer, he glanced at me again, saw his ring on my finger, and suddenly barked in a voice he'd never used with me before, “Answer ME!”

“I HATE living there!” I said, bursting into tears, “You don't know how much I hate it.”

When I got back home we never talk about what had happened. The only time my mother ever mentioned it again was the day of my father's funeral. At the time, I was struggling through graduate school and didn't know whether to drop out or to continue. After the service at the church, my mother invited me back to her place for lunch.

“I want to tell you something about your father,” she said. “I know you think he never understood you. After the trouble with that boy from the ranch, I saw how you kept him at a distance. I know at the time you thought you knew what love was, but you didn't. Let me tell you what it meant to your father.

“Your father's dream was to be a cowboy. Unfortunately growing up back east he didn't realize that ranching is a family business, something you grow up doing, not something you hire yourself into. We'd already married before he came to the realization that ranching wasn't going to be his life. Your older brother was born shortly after we married, and then you come along. One day he took a look at his life and realized that the image of the lone cowboy riding over the hill into the sunset didn't include a family and he had one.”

At that she paused and looked down at her hands, lost in thought. After a couple of seconds, she spoke again.

“Some men I've known would have left at that point,” she continued, her voice catching a little, “but he loved me and you kids too much to walk out on us for a dream.”

“Of course, he never would have told you any of this. He was too decent for that. I'm only telling you now because I want you to understand what it means to really love someone. He didn't just give up that dream for me; he gave it up for you, too.”

I'm older now, approaching middle age. To look at me, you might believe I've been this old forever – I know my kids do. The weight of all these years is only an anchor on my body, though, not my heart. There's still something about the empty blue of an open desert sky that gets to me. When I first see it, it makes me think of promises about to be made. It's only after the night falls and the clouds roll in that I think about how most promises end up broken. Still, in the morning, when the rain falls and the desert blooms and you see that image shimmering on the road just up ahead, I can't help but to believe the world is still good – even for all its broken promises.

X Girlfriend

2008-04-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

It's odd to encounter someone from your past and see in them the seed of a person you used to know now grown into a person that you don't.

A few weeks back my wife found my high school girlfriend's blog and cued me into it. When my wife and I were dating she used to refer to this girl as my first wife because of how much history we had together. There was more than a little truth in that jibe. I learned a lot about love from loving her.

Of course, when you marry, you close the door on your romantic past. But you can't know someone the way I knew this girl and not wonder over the years whatever happened to the person who used to be the center of your world. It's not that I'd ever want to return to the past or trade my wife for her. But I also can't deny that who I am today owes something to that history - and there have been times when I wished I could bring the all of the pieces of me, past and present, together into one coherent whole.

Naturally, now that I know about her blog, I haven't been able to resist keeping up with her by looking at it regularly. It's interesting to see what she is up to now, but also a little strange. I've known for sometime now that she and her husband are out in the world living their own lives, independent of my own, but I've also maintained the fiction that the girl I once knew is still somewhere out there, too. Of course, she's not. She's all grown now, blogging about her husband and four kids.

I suppose that the idea that I could ever bring all of the pieces of me together into one whole is an illusion, too. Ultimately we all have to take the pieces of our lives as they are and make them work together without ever having all of the answers.

What it is

2008-04-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

It turns out it is easier to write the occasional poem than to finish any of my short stories. (Alas, I'm too lazy for my own good.) Anyhow, here is my latest attempt to satisfy my desire to create something other than a project schedule or a meeting.

The world is what it is man
You can step off it
If you can

And why does it go where it goes
Who knows

I only know
I don't know
(That's so)

The world is what it is
Man

A thinking man thinks
About thinking

A doing man does
What he can

And all of the others
My sisters and brothers
Are waiting for something to land

The world is

What it is

Man

Awaking

2008-04-25T06:15:00.000-07:00

Another poem. This one started percolating when I took out the recycling this morning.

What are these strands
of food and sleep
that bind me to you
puppet earth?

I, this wooden boy
sleep walking
in the divine mystery
of the spirit night,
wish to wake
from this stage house dream.

Who calls to me
from the footlights?

Who sees me
the statue in the stone?

Is it my pinnochio father?

Or another?

The besk kung fu movie ever

2008-04-11T03:39:00.000-07:00

Recently I had the opportunity to again view a snippet of the best kung fu movie *ever*! Yes, I am talking about "Kung Pow", a movie where a man fights a cow.

Man Fighting a Cow

You can't beat that! Not even if you're a crouching tiger hiding behind a dragon.

Ten Sky Night

2008-04-08T04:36:00.001-07:00

Here's a poem I thought of on the way into work this morning (or maybe it's more free verse, whatever):

Life
the kaliedoscopic mystery
seen through a pinhole
of light and sound
frequencies resolved and unresolving
casting platonic shadows
upon the caves of a wall
that exists only in the mind.
These living stones
that strive
to be born into cathedrals
wherein echo the solemn footsteps
of truth.
We are forever beholding
in our beholdeness
the face of a God
as seen in a mirror
that reflects our own fears and hopes.
"But do you really see me?"
He says
and herein is found
the lonely sound
of one handing clapping
in this ten sky night.
We are too much drawn
to illusion
as we journey
through this endless night
guided by
a pinhole
of light.

The Gift (Synopsis and background)

2007-12-22T11:38:00.000-08:00

I told this story to my son and his friend on the way to Judo. We've got a twenty minute drive to get there and lately they've been asking me to tell them stories to pass the time. I made this one up as we drove. When I finished my son said, "Dad, that story made me cry." To which his friend replied, "Yeah, sometimes things that make me happy make me cry." And my son said, "Yeah." So, there you have it, an endorsement from two young boys. (In case you need an adult's perspective, when I shared the boys' comments and the story with my wife, she said, "Yeah, that is good.")

I'm just putting the synopsis down right now, but will write the story after I finish my other story, "The Ill-Made Knight". (Unless I get impatient. Then maybe I'll write this one first and then finish the other.)

The synopsis is as follows.

There are two ranchers, both growing in wealth and power, living in a small western community. The one man, Duke, has a wife and a son. The other man, Joe, has a son and a daughter. Both men believe they have the right to graze a certain pasture. As they gain more animals, the conflict increases to the point that, late in November when Duke happens to come upon Joe's son trying to rope a stray steer belonging to him in the disputed pasture, Duke shoots him dead. He then enlists his right-hand man on the ranch to falsely testify that he was with Duke at the time to bolster his story that the shooting was justified because Joe's son was trying to steal his cattle. Naturally Joe is devastated and wants revenge.

Being such a small community, the town only has one church. Although neither man is particularly religious, both attend on holidays -- Joe because his mother was a religious woman and feels he ought to be more religious and Duke because his wife expects it. On December 24th, both men are in church. The pastor preaches a sermon about God's love as manifest through the gift of his Son. Joe, whose loss is so recent, can only think of his own son and how he was killed so young and so unfairly. Throughout the sermon he plots his revenge against Duke.

Unbeknownst to both Duke and Joe, Duke's son and Joe's daughter have fallen in love. Even though she has warned Duke's son to stay away, he wants to give her the gift he has gotten for her and makes a foolhardy visit to Joe's ranch. He manages to meet her in the dark and give her the gift. In the meantime, Joe is staring out the window into the dark, thinking about his son's death and the pastor's sermon. In the moonlight, he sees Duke's son crossing his land on the way home from his rendezvous and raises his rifle. Sighting down the rifle, he thinks of God's son and then his own, then finally lowers the rifle and says through tears, "Merry Christmas, Duke."

So there you have it. I hope to get it written soon, so check back sometime next month.

The Ill-Made Knight

2007-12-19T11:15:00.000-08:00

"The boy thought that there was something wrong with him. All through his life -- even when he was a great man with the world at his feet -- he was to feel this gap: something at the bottom of his heart of which he was aware, and ashamed, but which he did not understand."

- The Once and Future King, T.H. White

Lance lay on the cell floor staring up at the ceiling. The night guard coughed, then spoke without looking his way. "So, I hear tell you got caught traveling with a group of them mormon pioneers." He paused, then when Lance didn't respond, he said, "Given your history, I'd have sooner believed a traveling band o' demons than a buncha mormons."

"Believe whatcha want." Lance responded with derision.

"Awww, go ta hell." The guard drawled.

"Go to hell" - well, that he would, and probably at dawn if the town lawman had his way, but that didn't mean he couldn't help a group of good people get to heaven.

The night guard shifted on his chair, then got up from his post and walked outside. There wasn't anyone else except Lance in the old town jail. It would've been easy to break out of here if he'd been traveling with anyone from his old crew. This little town was hardly the kind of place where he thought he'd buy it. Well, he'd made his decision when he walked away from that group to help the pioneers. As much as he'd grown to love the mormons, it was unlikely any of them would be back to break him out. Even if they'd want to, he was certain they didn't have the experience to pull it off. Small as this little jail was, it still took a certain kind of expertise to break a man out. That and a willingness to kill if need be.

Lance stood up and walked to the barred window. The moon was bright and the stars looked like someone had pricked holes in the sky. Maybe his mormon friends were right and there was some kind of heaven away from all of this. Maybe that starlight was just heaven streaming down from those holes.

At that thought, he snorted. I'm turning into some kind of poet, he thought, quietly laughing 'til he felt a lump rise in his throat and a tear prick at his eye. Well, if this is what poetry did to a man, then he was glad he'd had less of it than most.

"Leave that to them mormons" he said without realizing he'd spoken aloud.

He lay back down on the cold cell floor and thought about how he'd come to be here. His mother'd be saddened to see him this way. Although everyone knew him as "Lance", his given name was Lancelot, a gift from his mother. Like most gifts, though, it was something the giver had wanted more than the getter. So many times she had told him the story of the noble knight Lancelot, how he'd fought like a lion to champion King Arthur's cause, how no one could best him at arms, how he'd struggled so long to be worthy to perform a miracle. Well, she'd gotten the arms part right. There weren't many men who could draw as fast or hit their target as well as Lance. Plenty a graveyard could attest to that.

He hadn't meant to end up this way. In the beginning, he thought he'd like to be a preacher. He'd only learned to shoot a gun because it was a necessity in the little town he'd come from. A little town not too different from this one, he thought, darkly amused by the irony of coming full circle. It's probably no different here. A man is expected to know how to defend himself and his family.

Well, Lance had been the man of the family since he was seven. His father had died young in a fight over water rights. Other men had wanted to be his father, at least they'd wanted to be with his mother, but by the time they came around he'd already learned the hard truths about being a man. About how sometimes you just have to do a thing because it has to be done, no matter what doing it does to you.

He thought then of the traveling preacher, unconsciously turning his thoughts away from his first killing.

Aside from his own father, the traveling preacher was the one man he'd loved as a boy. He hadn't wanted Lance's mother - although, Lance had wished to have him for a father - not because his mother wasn't worth wanting, but because the preacher was too good to ever take advantage of a poor widow, no matter how pretty or available. What he had done, though, was to teach Lance about the Bible, not the way his mother had, by reading him all those strange and formal "thees" and "thous", but by telling him the stories in words that breathed the fire of life into those dead old pages. Even now, he could feel their stories inside him like the history of friends he'd never known.

Daniel in the lions' den, that's me right now, he thought, stirring from his reverie. The night guard had come back in and sat whittling something from a stick. He paused when Lance stirred, looking at him for a moment, then went back to whittling.

Lance stretched, then rolled onto his side and went back to his memories of the preacher. Father Cartright was his name, but to Lance he'd always just been "Father". Father had shown up in town the year after Lance's father'd been killed. Men had already begun to gather round Lance's mother like dogs around a bitch in heat. When Father first showed up, Lance had hated him as he'd hated the others. It was filthy what they were doing, no matter how pretty their words were, and he'd sworn that none of them would unseat his father.

It was the night that two men killed each other over his mother that Lance realized Father was different. Prior to the fight, both men had shown up wanting to court "Miss Lake", as they'd called his mother, in spite of the fact that she hadn't been a "miss" in a long time. Father was already there, sharing a message about the comforts of heaven. He'd just finished the story of Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, when the men had shown up arguing at the door.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, can't we behave like brothers? This poor sister has suffered enough." Father had said, attempting to play the peacemaker, but the two men had already come close to blows and wounded pride is the wound that sometimes takes blood to heal. Neither of the men had stayed to court, probably out of shame at something Father had said to them outside the closed door.

Later that night, old Mr. Fischer shot the younger suitor, Dan Laramie, in the back. A dawn hanging took care of Mr. Fischer, but had done nothing to make the other men clear out. If anything, they behaved like that old story about the snake with so many heads: where two were cut off, four more sprung up to take their place.

Ultimately, though, his mother hadn't settled on any of the suitors. When they continued to come around, she began to talk about moving back east to live with her mother.

By the time Lance was twelve, she'd made arrangements for both of them to leave in the fall. They'd already begun to take down the old homestead that September when Father showed up looking concerned. The weather was unseasonably warm that day and he'd asked if he could speak with Sister Lake outdoors.

Lance was large for his age and had already established himself among the other boys as someone not to be crossed lightly. There were even a few men in town who hadn't come off so well against him. (Although, whenever the story was retold they always claimed to have gone easy on him "since he was just a poor boy without a father to teach him right.")

Lance's temper and his habit of fighting those who angered him, regardless of their size or age, were the reason Father had come to visit that morning. As Lance listened through the door, he'd heard Father say, "Miss Lake, I'm afraid I come bearing bad news. As you know I love Lance almost as though he were my own son. Given his short fuse, I thought you ought to know that it has come to my attention that ..." Here he had paused, then Lance had heard the rustle of petticoats and the crunch of dry grass beneath heavy boots as Father and his mother had walked further away from the cabin. Although he had wanted to sneak out to where he could hear them better, he was already ashamed of himself for listening through the door. Instead, he'd busied himself packing things until his mother had come back looking tear-stained and worried.

"Lance, I want to speak with you," Father had said. They'd gone outside

...

And so on. I've outlined the rest of the story below.

His father's killer is coming back to town. Father tries warn his mother to get out of town so that Lance doesn't do anything foolish, but the man shows up early. Father attempts to intervene, but is beaten and humiliated by the man. Lance witnesses the beating and kills the man in a gun fight, then leaves town on the run. Later, after becoming pretty hardened in the life of an outlaw, Lance encounters some mormon pioneers in trouble on the plains. Reminded of Father by their mode of living and their habit of calling each other "Brother" and "Sister", he leaves his gang to help them out, but is ultimately captured by the local lawman. Flashing back to his life now, he talks with the jailer about God. At dawn, he is condemned to hang. Standing on the gallows, he sees "Brother Parker" in the crowd, a mormon man he'd grown to love during his time with the mormons. As the noose is fitted around his neck, he sees Brother Parker transformed into Father, then he swings.

I'll be working on finishing this story over the holidays, if you want to check back in. I expect it will end up around 3000 to 4000 words before I'm done. I'd be interested to know what anyone thinks of it so far.

...

So the holidays are over, but this story isn't. So much for that goal. Happy New Year to anyone who might be following along. I've gone ahead and continued the story below. I debated whether or not to leave these comments right in the middle of the story and decided, why not, this is how the story evolved, so this is how I'm going to leave it.

...

to talk away from mother. When they'd walked a ways away from the little cabin, Father had turned to Lance and looked him in the eye.

"Lance", he'd said, "I know you've tried very hard to be a man since your father was killed, and I hope that some of what I've taught you has made you want to be a good man, too."

At that, he'd paused, as though uncertain how to continue. Finally, he had said, with a catch in his throat, "Your mother is going to need your help more than ever, son. It isn't easy to leave everything you know and start all over again."

Here he had paused again, then continued, "Promise me that you'll stay here today and help her pack, Lance. Don't go into town tonight. You can say your goodbyes on the way out tomorrow morning."

Lance had agreed; although, he'd felt certain that there was something more to what Father was saying. In the morning, he'd learned that he'd been right to think so. As they'd passed through town the next morning on their way out, one of the boys from town had seen him and gone running off down the dirty street. When he came racing back a few minutes later, a ragged tail of boys from town streamed behind him, their faces burning with excitement.

"Are you going to fight him, Lancie?" one of the boys had shouted as they'd caught up with the wagon. The question had caught him like a sucker punch and he'd looked around in confusion at the circle of eager faces surrounding their wagon.

"Fight who?" he'd asked, but his mother was already on her feet slapping at the town boys with the riding crop and shouting, "Get out of here! Get out! There'll be no fighting here today. We're leaving town! We're leaving!" There was something wild in her eyes and the boys had backed out of reach as she'd slashed the air with the crop.

"What are you talking about?" he'd asked again as the boys had fallen back from the wagon. At that his mother had turned blindly and struck wildly with the riding crop, catching him across the face. "Be still!" She'd been shouting, "Just be still!" He'd seen tears glinting in her eyes.

The boys were silent now and some looked ashamed.

Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die

2007-11-05T18:43:00.000-08:00

So tonight I thought I'd list some things I'd like to do before I die. I'm making this list mainly because I'm curious to see how it changes over time. So here goes the list, in no particular order.

I'd like to go skydiving. I'm curious to find out if I could actually jump out of an airplane. And if I could, I'd like to know if I'd have the courage to just relax and enjoy the fall or if I'd be hyperventilating the whole way down. Either way, I figure that, unless I plummeted to the earth and exploded like a watermelon a la a Gallagher comedy routine, I'd be really happy to be back on the ground.

I'd like to publish a children's story. I've already written one that I really like. I wrote it in college. I even started illustrating it. Unfortunately, I've never completed illustrating it. Perhaps I'll make the time to finish it next year.

I'd like to get a black belt in judo and compete in tournaments. To be honest I don't even care how good I am or if I win consistently. I'm more interested in two things:

- Developing a better sense of my own body. I'd like to develop a better intuitive sense of my physical presence in the world and come to grips with my physical strengths and weaknesses.

- Doing something that requires some physical courage. There isn't a lot that happens to me anymore that requires me to show some physical courage, and for some reason, I miss it. I really don't know why because I remember how I used to feel the icy hand of fear gripping my stomach every time I got in a fight or thought I was going to get into one. Nonetheless, I miss it. Not the fighting, the ability to tamp down my fear and do what's gotta be done.

There's more to the list, but I'm running out of time tonight. Maybe I'll continue it later this week.

Stinkoman!

2007-10-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

How I love to waste time at www.homestarrunner.com! This week's episode of Strongbad Emails has an easter egg that lets you create your own Stinkoman comics. (http://www.homestarrunner.com/stinko_comic.html) Check mine out below.

"Dude", a Badge of Love

2007-09-20T07:35:00.000-07:00

So this morning my daughter came up to me with a sticker that says "DUDE" and said, "Here, daddy, this is for you." She then pressed it to the front of my dress shirt with a look of satisfaction on her face.

When I got to the train station to get on the MARC, I considered removing it, but then I remembered how happy she looked putting it on my shirt and decided I could wear it for just a little longer.

By the time I got to work, I'd forgotten that I still had it on. My supervisor looked at me quizzically and asked, "Why do you have the word 'DUDE' on your shirt?" I looked down, remembered my daughter's smiling face, and said, "Because my daughter wanted to give me a sticker this morning."

The world may see "DUDE", an oddly incongruous sticker, but I see a badge of love.

Women's Lotions

2007-09-14T04:43:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else noticed that women's lotions and shampoos have more to do with food than they do with skin care or cleanliness? The other day I came home and my wife was slathering her hands with something called "Watermelon Essence & Mint Jelly"; earlier that morning she'd washed her hair with "Extract of Apple & Lime" -- When I walked through the door, I thought we were having fruit salad for dinner.

Seriously, though, I figure it's either got to be that women have taken this whole "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach" thing waaay too far or they're just really hungry. I mean, why else would you cover yourself in food? Mmmm, Janice have you tried the "Essence of Caramel with Chocolate Extract"? It's divine -- Don't eat it, though! There's just something wrong with that.

Speaking of which, I tried drinking some of the stuff the other day -- WHOO-WEE! It DOES NOT taste as good as it smells!

I've decided that they can't be doing it for us men, though. If they were, they would NOT be using extracts of fruits and vegetables. Mmmm, honey, do I smell barbeque sauce and ribs? Now THAT would be something a man could appreciate. A beautiful woman and a grill, that's pretty much a man's paradise.

I guess I should be grateful that they're not doing it for us, though. The problem is, when I smell barbeque, I want to eat barbeque. Too much of that might turn into a beautiful woman ON a grill. I don't know, officer, she was slathered in barbeque sauce -- things just got out of hand. The sad thing is, he'd probably understand. That's alright, I've done it once or twice myself. Mind if I try a rib?

Yeah, it's got to be something to do with how diet-conscious women are. If I can't eat it, at least I can wear it.

Love is a Stranger (a work in progress)

2007-09-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

Here is a short story I started working on several months ago.

"Love is a Stranger"

Mrs. William Schaeffer was in the garden weeding when the man approached from the field. The day was hot and the whistle of the noon train still echoed in her mind's ear. The man came from the direction of the depot. As he drew nearer, she stood and wiped the grimy sweat from her brow.

The man walked as though he carried a great weight, but he carried nothing. Seeing Mrs. Schaeffer, he bent his the trajectory of his walk toward her like a stone falling back to earth, his face hungry, like a child's face when it sees its mother. His clothing bore the dust of many roads.

Seeing him, Mrs. Schaeffer thought that he looked a sad figure. He seemed smaller than he was, as though the weight of life on the road had shrunk him into something smaller than he was meant to be. Thinking of life on the road, she remembered her husband and felt her heart stiffen. The man was a bum. There was no point in romanticizing him out of proportion. She bent back to her work.

A few minutes later, the man was at the fence. He drew his worn hat from his head and coughed to get her attention. Mrs. Schaeffer lingered a moment longer at her work, then stood and said, with steel in her voice, "What?" Her eyes met his and she saw that they were clear, but tired. So he was human, she thought to herself, and not just another dog from the road.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I'm looking for work. If you have something for me to do, I'd be much obliged." He spoke softly, but it was clear that his voice had once been strong. She looked at him a moment longer, then looked away. She wondered if her William wasn't somewhere, hat in hand.

"Well, there is the garden to be weeded. If you'll do that, I'll make you lunch; I'm a widow, though, so I can't pay more than that." She looked at him again, the steel back in her heart.

"That suits me fine." The man said, and he took off his coat and came through the gate.

After he'd gotten started, Mrs. Schaeffer gathered some of the riper vegetables and went into the house. The kitchen had a big picture window that looked out over the garden. She washed the vegetables in a basin and watched the man working. He made steady progress. After a time, he paused, removed his hat, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He stood for a moment, then stretched his back, and bent back down to his weeding.

Mrs. Schaeffer thought of her father. How he had loved to farm! She remembered him tall and strong, glistening with sweat and coated with a fine covering of soil, smiling as he raised the glass of cold water she'd brought him from the house. Men these days were weak, dry as tumbleweeds. They rolled where the wind took them and didn't know what it meant to have roots.

And that is as far as I've gotten.

The general gist of the story is that the main character, Mrs. Schaeffer, meets a stanger, a drifter who reminds her of her husband, a man who has also turned to the road and who she resents. At the same time, the drifter reminds her of her father, the first man she loved and admired. The drifter stays on to help her out and eventually she comes to love him. After he moves on, her husband returns and, thanks to the thawing in her heart brought on by her experience with the drifter, she is able to see him in a new light and love and accept him again.

Now, if I can just find some free time, maybe I will finish it.

Bad Jokes

2007-08-31T12:46:00.001-07:00

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Reading this post may lower your opinion of me.

If you know me, but don't know that I have a juvenile sense of humor, well, then you probably don't know me all that well. My wife likes to say that when it comes to humor, I'm a 12-year old trapped in a man's body.

So, with that to recommend me, here are a few jokes I've made up recently.

1. Here's one you'll never find in Reader's Digest's "Life in These United States":

I knew things were going to be a little crazy when the new test lead stated that he couldn't bring both his testes to the meeting.

"Testes?" I asked with some hesitation.

"Yeah, testes -- you know, the guys who test stuff." He said.

Riiight, those testes. At least now I knew he had two.

2. And now one that you might:

Recently I was out walking my pet weasel, as I do every night. We'd just stopped by our favorite mulberry bush when my neighbor's pet monkey burst through the window. "All around the mulberry bush ..."

3. Now for some vocabulary:

dotcommunist: (noun) A true believer in technology as the solution to every problem.
Sample sentence: "I tried to convince my boss that the problem was with our policies and procedures, but he's a hard-line dotcommunist; now we've got PeopleSoft."

mommunist: (noun) Children who prefer their mother to all other adults including their father.
Sample sentence: "When I walked into the kitchen, the mommunists were clinging to my wife's legs like marxists to a defunct ideology."

It's true -- I think communists are funny. Those wacky Reds! They actually think everyone should just want to share stuff without getting anything for it -- Wait, I think those are parents; communists just want everyone to share the means of production. Oh, well. Whatever. They're both crazy ideas that don't work.

Ba-dump-bump! I'll be here all night.

Dan, I hardly knew ye

2007-08-30T08:19:00.000-07:00

I've copied below the body of an email exchange I had recently with one of the guys where I work.

All,

After close to 6 years at Vecna I have decided to move on. It has been a great time, and I feel privileged to have been able to get to know and work with many wonderful people. During this time Vecna has experienced great growth and success, and I am sure will see that success continue in the future.

My last day will be Thursday, Sep 6.

I will remain in the DC area and so hope to see many of you around, and wish everyone the best.

- Dan

Dan,

Man, it's hard to believe you are leaving! You're one of the last of the elder statesmen of Vecna engineering. Well, I can't claim that we were close, but I have appreciated the technical expertise and experience you've shared and the guidance you've given to the projects I've managed. Thanks.

Good luck in your new endeavors.

Mike

Mike,

Thanks! i think that's the first time i have been called an "elder statesman". kind of frightening - but i'll take it as a good thing :-) . it was a pleasure working with you also on the few occasions we did, and good luck in the future.

-dan

So why does this exchange mean anything to me? At first brush, it's just a pleasantly mundane email exchange between two coworkers, one who's staying and one who's moving on.

Now for some back story.

When I first met Dan, I didn't really know what to make of him. I was just another new guy while he was clearly part of the engineering "in" crowd. I got the impression that he had important things to do and didn't really have the time to talk to someone new and relatively green like myself. As time went on, I never really made any inroads into the engineering "in" crowd, but luckily for me, I had other friends in the company that I knew prior to joining the company, so I managed to get along in spite of that handicap.

The thing is, in the early days when I joined Vecna, it wasn't the kind of place where a loner or introvert was likely to succeed. Getting into the "in" crowd wasn't just something to make the work day brighter, it was necessary to keep your job. Your daily work life was ruled by three big realities:

The "Free Market System" (FMS),
Your "Minimum Billable Requirement" (MBR), and
The fact that Engineering was king.

Now, in a lot of startup IT companies, the third reality is well-understood and is just taken as a given; however, the first two realities were both new to me. Having never been a lawyer or a consultant, I'd never experienced first hand the joy of trying to track every minute to one client or another in order to meet an imposed minimum number of billable hours to be generated each week. Furthermore, in spite of my general familiarity with and support for free markets and capitalist economics, I'd never lived with them as a daily reality.

But that changed when I joined Vecna.

You see, at Vecna, at the time that I joined the company, everyone had to shoulder the responsibility of ensuring Vecna's continued profitability by making their MBR every week. If you missed your MBR too many weeks in a row, you could expect to have an uncomfortable talk with the company president.

And how were you to meet your MBR?

Well, at the time I joined the company, you did it by participating actively in Vecna's FMS. You see, in the FMS, all employees are peers and free agents who make contracts with each other for work that they need completed. So how do you get work (so that you'll have some that needs to be completed)? You market your skills and experience to someone who has work that needs to be done. Assuming that they accept your offer, you've got work, and, if they don't, well, every hour that you spend hunting for work is non-billable and counts against you meeting your MBR. Oh, yeah, and the FMS -- it's completely unregulated, pure laissez faire economics.

So I think you get the picture:

If you don't meet your MBR, you're out of a job.
To meet your MBR, you've got be hustling every day in the FMS, competing against people who have already established their presence in the market place and can leverage their personal relationships.
The engineering "in" crowd rules the FMS.

Now, imagine having that reality dawn upon you at about the same time that you realize that you are never going to be a part of the engineering "in" crowd. That was me about three or four weeks into the job.

So why am I telling you all of this when this post is supposed to be about me and Dan, a coworker who's now leaving the company and with whom I was never really all that close?

Here's why:

About that time (three or four weeks into the job), something happened that ensured I would never be all that close with Dan.

During my first job, my brother, who is just a year younger than I am and who matters a great deal to me, gave me a toy monkey. Nothing big, just a monkey with a banana on a string attached to the monkey's belly. It's made of plastic and is about two inches tall and an inch in diameter, and if you hang its banana over the edge of the desk, it will walk to the edge off the desk and fall off. Not all that valuable. Except to me.

Every job I've gone to since, I've taken that monkey with me. I've even given him a name - Mao. For a while, a coworker and I in my first job had a running joke about Mao. "Bow to the Moa!" We'd say to each other whenever anyone would call us for help and then we'd chuckle. We even took pictures of Moa, blew them up, and made a poster.

So you see, Mao was a big deal to me.

When I joined Vecna, they'd just recently moved to a new building and set up a cube farm on the second floor. Dan and I were assigned cubes in the same aisle directly across from each other, an arrangement that would seem insignificant, except for this fact: his desk was the closest desk to my own that wasn't blocked by a partition.

Why does that matter?

One morning, I came into work to find Mao broken in pieces on Dan's desk.

Well, you can imagine for yourself how I felt about that. Here he was, an accepted, even venerated, member of the "in" crowd who couldn't even be bothered to talk to me on most days, who had just assumed he could play with my monkey and now it was broken. AND HE HADN'T EVEN BOTHERED TO HIDE THE EVIDENCE!

I was fuming. All morning long, I thought about it. At this point, I was very familiar with my precarious position in the organization. But I couldn't let it go. HE HAD BROKEN MOA! Finally I dashed off an email telling him to leave the things on my desk alone and sent it before I could talk myself out of it.

Then I never heard a thing from him about it.

Now here's the trick of it all: One morning, a few months after I'd finally gotten established, I was watching the President's children playing in the office. It wasn't uncommon for them to be there because he is the President and his wife is the CEO, so the company and its offices are just an extension of their family home (something that was literally true when the company was first founded). Anyhow, as I watched one of them grab something from someone's desk, I suddenly realized I'd been totally wrong about Dan. He hadn't touched my monkey at all. I felt a great sense of foolishness mixed with shame.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

He had never called me on my accusations and he still hardly spoke to me, except when absolutely necessary. Suddenly, I could understand why. No doubt, I'd come across like some kind of paranoid lunatic, someone best to be avoided as much as possible.

And so much time had passed. I didn't really know how to broach the subject, and, besides, maybe he'd already forgotten the whole incident. I didn't really know. In any case, it seemed best just to let it be water under the bridge.

Except, of course, that you can't actually do that.

Every interaction that I had with him from that time forward was always colored by the fact that I'd once accused him of something he hadn't done and had never apologized for it. Eventually, as you can tell from the email exchange, we came to have a functional working relationship, but we never became friends or even just friendly coworkers.

So, you see, in a way, my email to him is an attempt to say "I'm sorry" and to acknowledge that I know he is a better person than the kind of person I accused him of being. I hope he saw it in there somewhere, hiding inside the mundane well-wishes of one employee who is staying on to another employee who has decided to go.

Good luck to you, Dan. I wish you well in your new endeavors.

Land Shark

2007-08-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

So, tonight I thought I'd write a little bit about why I call my blog "Candy Gram".

Growing up, I heard bits and pieces about a Saturday Night Live skit involving a land shark. My parents weren't regular viewers, but they'd watch SNL from time to time. Anyhow, at some point they'd seen one of the land shark skits and were talking about it one evening in my presence. Being about 5 or 6 at the time, the idea of a shark on land wasn't as funny to me as it was to the adult world. Even after my parents had reassured me that there were no such things as land sharks, I remember being scared that they might be wrong and I could wake up one night to a shark hovering over my bed.

Well, obviously that never happened.

What did happen is that I got older and realized that rather than being a threat, a land shark is pretty funny. In fact, as I got older, I started to realize that a lot of things I'd been afraid of weren't so bad. Looking at them from the other side of childhood, I began to see them as silly or ridiculous -- like a shark, hunting on land. Anyhow, in some way, as I matured, "land shark" came to represent the bogarts that inhabit the silly, irrational, superstitious part of my inner world: more funny than frightening when you see them for what they really are.

So what's all of this got to do with my blog's name? Well, the most well-known skit of the land shark has the land shark trying to get a woman to open the door by pretending to deliver what? That's right -- a candy gram.

[Scene: A New York apartment. Someone knocks on the door.]

Woman: [not opening the door] Yes?

Voice: (mumbling) Mrs. Arlsburgerhhh?

Woman: What?

Voice: (mumbling) Mrs. Johannesburrrr?

Woman: Who is it?

Voice: [pause] Flowers.

Woman: Flowers for whom?

Voice: [long pause] Plumber, ma'am.

Woman: I don't need a plumber. You're that clever shark, aren't you?

Voice: [pause] Candygram.

Woman: Candygram, my foot. Get out of here before I call the police. You're the shark, and you know it.

Voice: I'm only a dolphin, ma'am.

Woman: A dolphin? Well...okay. [opens door]

[Huge latex and foam-rubber shark head lunges through open door, chomps down on woman's head, and drags her out of the apartment, all while the Jaws attack music is playing.]

From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Landshark.

What's that? I've got to go. I think I hear someone at the door.

Inaugural Address

2007-08-25T07:11:00.000-07:00

So, here it is -- my first post. My internal editor is going crazy right now. It doesn't help that I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish with this blog. Am I going to try to be funny? Serious? Am I writing this for an audience? For myself? I don't know. I guess I'll work it out as I go.

I just reread that first part (internal editor, remember?) Man, this is going to be boring crap! So I guess at least one thing is decided -- I'll be writing for myself.

So anyway, I've been thinking lately about what it means to be alive.

Recently, my family and I took a long vacation and traveled across the country visiting friends and family. Everywhere we went we did things fairly spontaneously. (If you knew my wife, you'd know why I felt like I had to add the qualifier -- she's definitely an organizer, even on vacation.) We spent a lot of time outside and did more things in that one month than I normally do in a couple of years. We went four-wheeling, boating, rafting, swimming, and hiking. We visited national parks, museums, and local attractions. I read six books, just because I wanted to, not because I needed know what was in them. I took some risks just for the thrill of it -- minor things, sure, it's not like I'm Lee Majors (that's right, I'm old enough to have watched "The Fall Guy").

Coming home, I realized how arid my emotional life has become. So much of what I do in my life, I do just because I have to. It needs to be done. So I do it. Look, I know life isn't supposed to be all fun and games. And, besides, that is not really what I'm getting at. I know I lead a blessed life: I live in a country at peace; I've got a beautiful wife and four wonderful, creative, exasperating children; I've got my health; I've got food to eat; I'm well-paid; I don't have to beg on the streets -- I could go on forever.

The thing is, I want it all to mean something. Emotionally, I mean.

I'll be upfront with you. Metaphysically, speaking, I do think it all means something. I don't think this world is all there is. I believe we're down here for something. I believe there is a God who sent us here and who watches over us as our lives unfold. But believing that doesn't mean I always feel like it means something. A lot of times all of the high-minded ideals I keep trying to make a part of my life just feel like another checklist of things I've got to do.

Go to work - check.
Read with my kids - check.
Serve in my church - check.
Try to be more helpful around the house - check. (Well, sometimes, anyway.)
Serve a stranger in need - check. (Alright, I guess if I'm being honest, more often than not I'm more like the overly busy priest and Levite than I am like the Good Samaritan.)
Be a better person - check? uncheck? (How do you know?)
Take out the garbage - check.

Sometimes they get done, and, as you can see from my comments, sometimes they don't.

I guess that's the thing. There are so many things to do in this life, things that have to be done, that really don't matter all that much, they seem to crowd out the things that do. I mean, I wonder if that priest and Levite weren't just too busy to stop and help. They probably muttered under their breath as they walked by, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Somebody's bound to stop and help him. I'd do it, but I've got to get to the temple and burn things."

Going on that trip made me realize that I don't want to be that guy anymore. I want to do things that matter. I want to stop living my life based on the things I have to do and start doing the things that matter to me.

The question is, will I?