How to Fritter Your Life Away in One Easy Step

Step 1: Find a hobby that really interests you. To the point of overdoing it. Never be bored or feel unproductive again. End.

I admit, I've had those moments I hear about from others. The ones that go something like, "I don't know what I would ever do with myself if/when I retire!" Right. Sure, after my 10 hours of sleep, sometimes I have those thoughts too, but they are the product of shear slovenliness and lack of energy. Those who share my occasional weakness in this area are never the types to say that kind of treacle. As if continuing to be another corporate plow horse for decades was some sort of personally productive virtue. Those are folks who really need a hobby or two. I have more hobbies than you can shake a stick at, as some of you probably do. Practice across several musical instruments by itself could kill each and every day while I slowly sat myself into Attila the Blob. But I'd be killing it at the jam session. I'd just need someone to wheel me there and back. But it would sure suck up the rest of each day!

No, mine is a motivational issue (I'm guessing I have some company, gauging by commentary "out there"). My one virtue is that I tend towards obsession in certain areas. Obsession tends to burn the ever-dwindling hours of each day that I am not required by economic reality to roll back and forth in my corporate hamster ball. My mom calls it frittering the day away. While an amusing term, it implies the activity is somehow trivial or lacks substance. Spending all day on social media would be in that vein. But mastering a new reel on the mandolin or working towards not embarrassing yourself when the bluegrass break comes your way is absolutely not. Is it a skill to master social media? Perhaps if you are 80. But, if you are 80, I'd say that even starting a musical instrument is a good productive hobby to commence. Plenty to fill the gaps in the swirl of all that is music. Obviously a good read always makes a nice filler, if not productive in quite the same way. But unless you struggle with reading, well, productivity is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.

This brings us to the beholder. Ever notice that when you are obsessed with something, most others tend not to be? And you tend to blab on about your obsession until you see the tell-tale TEGO in your victims face (Their Eyes Glaze Over)? That's why we have to have Meetups and clubs and societies and what-not. So we don't bore our loved ones and coworkers to death, with talk about things that make life worth living for us. For those with abundant hobbies, the likelihood that your significant other is going to have a similar love of this pastime is vanishingly slim. That is why the lingering 50's idea of couple togetherness is full of crap. Sure, because you had kids to raise together. Or she did. Well, see! Even then it was a bunch of crap because even raising the kids wasn't really a shared task. It was more like a diversified business venture. Dad had his three-martini lunches and business meetings at the club while Mom wrangled the little monsters at home and maybe played bridge with the girls once a week. Or maybe it was the 70's and there were some equal opportunity ennui complete with latch key kids and economic stress. Then they wondered why they didn't really know each other after twenty years. Feminine mystique...mother's little helpers...Alice's pills... Is drinking together a hobby? But are there beer pong clubs for those over 80? I dunno. Maybe. But I'd call that a classic failure of the imagination. Plus it seems like the endurance would be a killer. A little weed enjoying the Great Outdoors in some forest seems like a wiser choice. Camping! Now there's a pastime that can really make the day fly.

Sure is hard to break all that cultural programming of togetherness though, isn't it? The standard was (still?) that one or both of you was bored to tears, made a bunch of sexist comments about whoever was getting their preferred extra curriculars and why, while the Pyrrhic victor shot eyeball darts to make sure the fun was being ruined...suspension of disbelief gone. And...scene! Good clean fun all around. And that, my friends, besides growing economic independence for women, is why the biggest growth demographic is single person households. All that forced romantic togetherness trying to come up with mutual obsessions just killed the drill.

Oh, cynic, I hear you cry! Your relationship is different. Sure. And a whole percentage of the American populace also thinks they have been abducted by aliens. I'm not saying it can't happen. Just come back and talk to me after 20 years. Tell me about your shared hobbies. The ones you obsess over. And no, your porn collection or cats don't count. I'm sure they are both lovely and give you lots of joy, but they don't tend to be a shared passion. Except at the club level. If you are one of those lucky souls, I say again: come back and talk to me in 20 years. Some things are just experiences that don't lend themselves to sharing. Or maybe I'm just a boring translator. Could be. Or maybe you are. Or maybe we were just never meant to be together because you love watching men's sports and the Transformers, and I love playing my banjo and jamming with anyone who will have me. Don't feel bad. It's not you, it's me.

To Sleep, Perchance to Scream

This turns out to be a post that I composed several years ago by now. It never left my draft folder. I don't remember why. Most of the dramatic stuff has past with just a lingering afterburn left by now. With the wisdom of passing time and crisis lived through, I'm thinking definitely hormones. Fuckers. Now that I've used that word, I might have to turn on the "adult content" warning on this blog. No, I think I'll wait until I get an evil digital overlord warning. Considering the tiny audience, I'm guessing no one will be too scandalized. So, for any ladies "of a certain age" out there who happen to stumble on this in the future, this is for you. In case you need it to feel sane or empathy for someone you know who seems, well, a little unhinged. Maybe. Maybe just got the raw end of the DNA dice roll.

I think I need a shrink. Or a sports car and a boy toy. Or both. The other day, it occurred to me that this might be what is often called a midlife crisis. For men, at least. That's because, besides the somehow fey "male menopause", there's not really a male-centric word for it like there is for nearly everything else. Except, come to think of it, there is that "men" in there. I feel crazy. But not that cinematic, cathartic, find-yourself, feel liberated sort of crazy. It's more like, "oh, my god, how did I allow things devolve into this? What am I doing?" Is it my life, or my hormones, or both? Is this what it feels like when the estrogen goes bye-bye? If it is, then I understand why Big Pharma sold so many of those little HRT pills. And I haven't even gotten to the daytime commercial content yet.

I need a life viagra. I feel like I've been slapped around and all my dopamine pulled out. Is that even legal? To be on the street with no visible means of mental support? It feels perilous. If I weren't so dutiful, I'd have already called in crazy for the last year, I think. That bit where you find yourself in your twenties…it's seeming so good right now by comparison. When you're twenty, you don't have much, if anything, to lose, presuming you aren't already married with kids (yikes!), which I can't imagine many are. If you're lucky like me, I was finishing up college then. World is my oyster theme. Except for the oyster seemed really far away and looked more like, well, more like an oyster, but with no shell. And definitely no pearl. Formless. What a dumb metaphor. I wonder how many people are on the far side of the oyster and still no sign of pearl? Probably more than I think, 'cause that's always the way it is. You just don't realize it until, well, you're my age.

It feels like a bad trip. Or, rather, a good trip gone sort of…mediocre. At least with a bad trip, there is drama and that sort of hyper-sensitive, over-stimulated, exposed nerve ending feeling that at least lets you know that something is definitelygoing down now. Although, at the moment, I do have a spooky sense of exactly that sort of feeling. But I know how to "correctly" (I hope) interpret it. I know I'm not going to die right this second.It's almost like the beginning of a panic attack, of which I've only ever had one in my life, brought on by an unfortunate ulcer drug cocktail interaction.

So here I am. Experiencing the same old hormones leaving the body moments experienced by a bazillion women through the ages. At least I hope that's what it is. Could be some crummy relationship crud in the mix too. Could be some crummy work situation issues in the mix. Could be my sorry ass is just that. I wish I had the energy to scream. Maybe tomorrow.

PollyAnna Nightmares

Dark night of the mind. A heathen despairs in the face of too few words to evoke the sleepless unfolding of that chemical, electrical stew that is the brain and can no longer prevent the emotions trickling, then spilling out and out and out onto the pillows. There is no soul, only sole, the most desolate of the two. Now there will be no sleep for even this most devout dreamer. It is a perpetual motion machine, with cogs whirring, brain ablaze, hamster wheel turning, electrons firing, despair and frustration throwing themselves against the walls of why did you allow yourself to dwell on the tide you've been holding back for so many years? My face is tense, I don't let it all out. I want someone to get some sleep, even if it can't be me. To be in bed and not sleep or nearing it is anathema. I don't understand real insomnia, except dimly on these occasions. Tiredness is not part of the equation, unless you count the mental weariness of damming up the occasional swells and sucking mud of moderate despair. Moderate. Not knife wielding, tailpipe breathing, bullet eating despair. Not the kind that creates a public stir or sends you home in a basket. Moderate. This seems obvious. No great American dramas are formed from moderate despair, only the grand or the grindingly lifelong, overarching kind. They all consume at some level, but some are more wearing. Again, I can only imagine the deeper., can't get my face off the floor or outa the basement noose. Or so I think.

I start to wonder about my DNA, like some college friends' obsession with alcoholic parents and their thinking they will fall to addiction through bad genes only. Two "wacky" grandmas in their own ways, each seeming relatively sane in most of the contexts in which I ever knew them and yet ever so faintly off. Seems like whining. Like a poor excuse for not sucking it up. Doesn't feel like it though. Even so, the possibilities recline there in the back of my scrambled feeling brain, like some horrible meme or jingle that won't leave, and just huddles in a corner, rocking and smiling idiotically. Just there.

Evil humors. I can very much see in these moments how religions take hold. And yet I still do not understand. It does not make anything feel better. Never has. Although, you could argue that since it is not there it doesn't have the chance to. Some supernatural power! Not even enough to make an eleven year old believe in it. Even when I was a kid, and my best friend's family went down in their small plane, and I ventured a prayer (what else was there to do?), I knew it was a waste of time. A waste AND it didn't make me feel better. AND I felt like a grade A hypocrite (ok, so maybe only a grade B; after all, I was only a sixth grader). So much for comfort and hope. I suppose there's equal mental illness among the religious as irreligious. Maybe more in the former, I suspect, but likely unrecognized (you know…hand of god and all). Whatev', to use a "word" I absolutely hate, and yet find vaguely amusing due to its clear declaration of "I don't give a fuck" in a single faux word. Just enough of the word to demonstrate you just don't care, with a chaser of disdain. Ahhhh…not at all refreshing. Like this distressing lack of sleep with its distressing, isolating, lonely thoughts. I could really chew some scenery right about now if my stomach didn't feel like it was about to eat itself instead (and that is not a happy feeling either).

Even though it seems even more important to take a sick day in this instance, I'm pretty sure it's not contagious. At least not in this form. It might cause other variants, of course, to have to witness the effects, experience the downer, or mutate, possibly eliciting a "Why can't you be more upbeat/positive?" Or some other more passive aggressive response. "Because, I have brainless Pollyannas all around me to show me the error of that way of being!" These are the ones who never seem to do the paperwork or documentation. Maybe that's it, you chirpy no-paperwork mother-fuckers! If you don't understand Dilbert and laugh, then not only am I truly sorry for you for that loss of comedy options, but you have obviously lead a charmed and/or non-corporate life, or you are twenty and this is our first real job. I hate you. Fortunately, those two feelings cancel each other out. I think.

It sounds like it is raining out. Just in time for a 2:00am closer.

Irony, thy name is patriot.

Before 9/11, our nation's freshest emotional scar and now the latest shorthand for everything that threatens and undermines "the American Way", I had a lot more patriotic feelings. And since I was a kid I've always loved the flag as a graphic representation of this country and it's ideals. My brother and I had matching flag Speedos. Loved it, loved matching my brother. It was my favorite suit ever, with the added oddity of having left strange dark tan lines that temporarily worried our pediatrician. Not much SPF in white nylon apparently. Immediately before 9/11, I was actually thinking I might buy an honest-to-gosh American flag to put out. Not one of the cheesy nylon made-in-Taiwan things you see everywhere, which always screamed irony to me, but an actual US-made, natural fiber real deal (ok, maybe a little smaller, but still). Then, the towers fell. I'm not gonna lie. I couldn't really process it right away. I watched the second one go down live on TV. I listened to my brother do a little freak out on the phone about driving down for our planned backpacking trip. I told him that staying home would not solve or change anything. We went on our little overnight. There were too many bugs to enjoy it for longer, but we had a pretty good time, it was fun in the end. There was not a plane that flew overhead. It was only a little odd at the time. It's more eery thinking about it all these years later.

But what really irked me in those days (still does) was the instantaneous plasti-patriotism. It wasn't me though. It was everyone else. All of a sudden flags were everywhere, like the when a local team wins the Superbowl/World Series. But we hadn't won anything. We'd lost something. A big something. And I don't mean buildings or planes. We couldn't comprehend what we'd actually lost. And there was so much more to lose in the ensuing years. Vengeance was the easiest and most accessible emotion. I indulged in it. Absolutely. But, suddenly, what I couldn't indulge in was the graphic display of reactionary jingoism. I get it, I get it. People must rally and heal and do the national group hug (I still cannot bring myself to watch United 93. The personal, individual horror, outside all the nationalistic blah-blah is too much. I get emotional). Yeah, yeah.

But where were all those people before? Where had they all been as "Fair Trade", the WTO, Walmart and cheaper and cheaper goods undermined our wages, our economy, our standard of living, our national sovereignty? Kennedy Democrats and military Republicans had always been flying mostly cheapo American flags—many looking shamefully battered, I was always disappointed to see. Everybody else back then was like—meh! Did I wish that there were wall-to-wall stars and stripes as far as the eye could see? Nope. Was I annoyed and disappointed by the opportunistic and sudden display of synthetic Americana sprouting like so many cheap car lot commercials everywhere I looked? Yeah. I was. Still am. Yay, Lakers! Yeah, Raiders! Eff yeah, USA! Does that make me ashamed to be an American? Of course not; not only is that idea offensive but is facile and ignorant. It just makes me wanna slap my fellow citizens around for their tardy reactionary displays and grotesque personal choices.

BTW, do I see all these latter-day patriots at the polls, or writing to their representatives (do they even know who they are?)? Do I see them at the recruiting office? Or see them urging their kids to serve? Not too many…though they do seem to be over-represented among the ranks of those who stumble over themselves to "appreciate" others' service (a special sentiment to all who would accuse anyone else of not "loving their country" or impugning anyone else's patriotism, if you have never served—or made the honest attempt and been rejected—especially when you were young and had those choices to make: Shut the F up). Is there a dissonance here? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm just past tired of hearing the flapping jaws of presumption. And it's invariably over descent. It brings out the worst in chicken hawks, neocons and now Republican former hippies. Real convenient by the time you're middle aged or older. Like St Augustine: it was all good while he was debauching his way across the landscape. But now that he's had his fun, he's seen the light. And he says, do what I say and not what I do. Just like your mother. Only none of you but one is my mother. Mom gets a free pass, mostly 'cause I'm pretty sure I'd win any debauchery contest between us. But I could be wrong.

But I digress. Back to tragedy-induced gratuitous flag-waving.

It's very much like the treacly old sentiments about not appreciating what you have until after tragedy strikes. That is us. En masse. But the way many apparently decided to show their solidarity was to fly a bunch of tacky plastic Chinese-made flags. I don't remember seeing a single dignified, natural looking textile Old Glory anywhere that wasn't there beforehand. I gave up the idea of putting a nice one up myself out of personal protest and disgust. Of course, no one will "see" this unless they read it here or have had this conversation with me before, and not many have. Though I feel stirrings now and again—the design and emotional symbolism do pull—it still may still be years more before I can again think of displaying a proper flag. Who knows. By then, there may not be much to celebrate at the rate we're currently going. After all, last survey I saw, a majority of Americans randomly polled on the contents of the Bill of Rights, thought it was a bad idea. Go USA. While we're at it, why not let the government into your bedroom, blood and bank account? You don't have anything to hide, do you? Oops! Too late. After more than two centuries we can't even keep our few basic tenants straight much less react to current events or see our own need for reading glasses. It's far easier to just fly a piece of cheap plastic crap at our doorstep. Soooo much easier. I guess that's what passes for American solidarity anymore. It is easier than the alternatives. Like proactive thinking about actions and consequences. Being part of the solution instead of the problem, and on and on.

Jingoism does not equal patriotism anymore than idol worship equals romantic love. Do not presume that I am not a proud American because you cannot tell the difference. Descent is still the most American of all ideals. And fifty falling buildings will not change that.

Oh, Rapture Day, Callooh! Callay!

Heaven, hell, or just the smoke detector?

I don't know about the rest of you, but I've been hearing about The Rapture ever since I was 12 years old and my best friend revealed that me and the rest of my young friends were all going to be left, essentially, on the newly remodeled hell on earth when it came, while she and her family ascended to the heavens and eternal bliss with Jesus. In that little microcosm of international religious representation, this was quite shocking news. Since I was an inchoate agnostic, soon-to-be atheist, this was shocking for a different reason than for my friends, who actually appeared to be following in their parents Buddhist, Catholic, Greek Orthodox and mainline Protestant footsteps, as much as a twelve year old can, at any rate. I, on the other hand, had one of my first introductions (if you don't count a few odd family members) to my first insane nutcase whack-job belief system, and it was in the form of my best friend.

How could this have happened?! It was so close and so unexpected. Like, like…a Revelation. And it was. I still remember that circle of faces in the hall, and the silence that fell upon us as we had that group eye-blink moment, complete with crickets and shocked expressions. Really? So now that The Rapture is again upon us, courtesy of a minor math glitch, and one publicized religious nutball (not that I think there is only one), I gotta say again: Really? And don't you go thinkin' that just because all the other religious nutcases out there are saying this guy is wrong and givin' them all a bad name, or whatever, that he is in a small minority. Oh no. There are many others, if statistics and polls are any indication. The idea that they are pissed about this whack-a-doodle is, frankly, hilarious, 'cause their big beef is that, even though they too believe in this crazy believers flying up to the heavens and heathens being left "below", the bible says that the actual date is on a need to know basis. And the only one that needs to know is god (please note the small "g"), not us. Talk about your splitting hairs. 'Cause it's just a declaring of a date that is the problematic part. You crazies.

Although, as I understand it, this is all supposed to commence at 0600, which is definitely problematic, as I intend fully to be happily asleep when the fun begins. Hopefully someone will have their DVR set, cause I know this is gonna be a popcorn muncher.

Next up: the Mayan calendar's end-of-days (if you don't count the "end of world" that follows the rapture, in October 2011, of course). It's further afield than good ol' all-American non compos mentis that I find far more amusing, when it's not being a menace, but hey. I'm sure, true to form, Americana will be amply represented in that demonstration of lunacy too. As George Carlin said, and I paraphrase here, we've got front row seats to the greatest freak show on earth. So enjoy, and don't forget to visit the concession stand before the feature presentation begins. And ya might want to stick around after the credits…I hear it's a whopper.

The REAL time in a bottle

This is what my day's last Culinary Adventure contained (thanks to a coworker for that perfect word combo!). It began with trying to conquer the poached egg. Alas, a second failure, despite having googled advice and technique from the internet. I even got brave and used balsamic vinegar, but that just made a more colorful mess as the whites ran a muck in the roiling stew of water. Patting it all back together with a slotted wooden spoon made for a pathetic little pile of goo in the plate. Not unpalatable, but not right and definitely overcooked (that part was my own fault, I have a feeling, as I didn't want to toss the mess into cold water to stop the cooking). Everybody out of the pool!

So, I end my day with something less predictable, but more prefab. I'm really just trying to stay awake after my graveyard into this morning so I can flop back for more, though different, in the morning. It's harder than you might imagine, to stay a demotivated lump on the couch after being up for more than a day, thoughts of productivity dancing in your head, AND still stay awake. It's the kind of thing that seems reasonable right up to the moment the key hits the lock on the way in the door. But, with a little help from my darling, coffee, and, later, my long-time associate, Dr. Pepper, the battle is nearly won. That and some lively Facebook posting has kept things humming along. It really is better to be up in the late evening. I don't care what other people say.

Now, why is it that I feel like I'm going backwards in my so-called career? Well, my friends, a "regular" schedule will do that to ya after a few years, I guess. Event stagehand work is like being on a never ending hamster wheel, no end in sight, even when the LED is shining directly into your eyeball and they are slapping you around telling you to go home already. Just because it is a "different event" doesn't mean it's not the same hamster wheel with the same shavings and alfalfa pellets. Since I've never quite gotten it together to get any goals going, I guess I might have already arrived and didn't know it. As Peggy Lee sang, "Is that all there is?" Only my feet hurt, so I'll pass on the dancing for now. Just pass the monkey butt powder instead. Gee, thanks. Yeah, it's a brave new world even when it's the same old shit. Strange. And yet, oddly familiar.

Thinking, the Real Endangered Theses

The first interesting headline of my day: Irish Atheists Challenge Blasphemy Law.
 (In Ireland, blasphemy is now a crime punishable by a €25,000 fine).

They did this by posting a list of so-called "25 Blasphemous Quotations" including selections from everyone from Jesus to Mark Twain to George Carlin (this last being one of the most terrific ones of the bunch, though all are quite good reading). Simply amazing. And yet not, sadly. You may follow the following link to read them all:

http://blasphemy.ie/2010/01/01/atheist-ireland-publishes-25-blasphemous-quotes/

Having arisen at the crack of post-noon, enjoying the last of my week of recent vacation with a heavily milked and saccharined (welcome, new word!) coffee, I feel privileged to have the luxury to be able to read this list and story. Although the list is not earth-shattering, this is a view not widely shared through much (most?) of the world, obviously. Even though I again despair at the idea of such crazy thought control as law, I only have so many despair molecules anymore. I've long ago understood that we will not all just get along. Especially because of those who do not like those who fail to toe the line of religious belief. And, despite the yearly exercise in holiday shenanigans surrounding whose season it really is and why and how, I tire of the relentless onslaught upon the tiny minority of actual atheists. It's not that I feel personally singled out even. I do still feel compelled on occasion to remind individuals within "the presumptuous masses" that, while I may not celebrate with religious displays, nor necessarily agree with the salutational yoga that often is represented as "political correctness" gone wild (a redundancy?), I too can enjoy the various other seasonal celebrations without being hammered with the baby Jesus. Besides, does anyone really believe that Americans would really enjoy the season en masse as we do without the rampant economic consumption and displays that DO NOT feature Christian religious symbols? Oh, cultural history, me must again fish you out from under the collective rug and dust you off…

Is it politically incorrect to call all of the endless hoards of unrelenting, attention whore, religious believers "wackos" (that is the nicest term I can muster)? Perhaps. But there are so vastly many more of them than non-believers, it seems a fairer observation than the reverse (ooh! reverse discrimination, ye ugly head has risen!). After all, despite their constant and voluminous press calling out their favorite  traditional whipping boys and girls--witches, pagans (aka "devil worshippers") and atheists--it really is all the "other" denominations that are their usual and far more powerful rivals in all things high religious and civic dudgeon. This gives some comfort, I must admit. They are so much more numerous and diverse. It reminds me of the famous Martin Niemöller quotation ("First they came for the Communists…"). I have come out many times on behalf of others in conversation and, trust me, it is not fashionable, nor common. It reminds me of the rapidly disappearing Yankee spirit, which includes the idea of religion being a private, personal thing, not a public sleeve-adorning display to be foisted on others.

My personal philosophy is keep your hands to yourself, keep your religion to yourself and mind your own business. I think that is an eminently workable and reasonable modern way of attempting to live, even as we are ever more subsumed in glitteratti gossip at every turn. Of course I would. And it allows for others' to carry on as they please without stomping everyone else into the nearest pew. And, I simply do not understand why such basic golden rule living seems to have gone so out of style, except for the idea that we as human beings apparently always know better than the other gal. And it drives us mad that others' have other ideas and ways. It really does. Or, at least, a large percentage of us seem to. It's when these masses begin to make a boarding house reach to my plate and abode and body (!!) and try and tell me how to live that I get twitchy. I feel myself becoming positively pugnacious. I can never have enough rocks to throw. And I know I am in the minority, always, which makes the rocks more important than ever. Thank goodness I am not also a pacifist. In most other countries of the world I would either be dead already, or in prison, or an outcast (soon to be dead and/or in prison, therefore).

This brings both an odd sense of undeserved good fortune as well as the obligatory despair. And that brings us back to the beginning: Thinking and ideas versus blasphemy.

And on that note, I believe I will take full advantage of my place, time and privilege to enjoy some moderate consumption and take in the last of the day's light. Too much depressive thought can hinder further thinking, after all.

I'll leave you with the George Carlin quotation:

“Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!” (George Carlin, 1999)

It's Aliiiivvvve!

It occurred to me the other day that when I am really upset, I cannot compose my thoughts. It is like panic. It feeds upon itself and soon you are jibbering in a corner, talking to the dust bunnies. And there are many dust bunnies in this household. Metaphor? Yes. Reality? Alas, also yes.

So, when a well-liked co-worker suddenly died a couple weeks back, I was thinking, "hey, a serious topic for my blog." But, now I don't think so. It would be a great thing for a personal journal, probably. And I know there must be those blogs out there that are essentially the same as that, only public. But that is not for me, despite all the public blubbering that I do on the occasion of every funeral I attend. That I cannot help, it seems. I have tried. And, I admit, except for music of any kind, when I become inexplicably Pentacostal, the religious portions do cause my head to clear so that I can again practice self-control while contemplating those little hinged thingies that everyone likes to kneel upon at random intervals. This is the true meaning of saving grace.

You see there is no such thing as an uncontrollable, emotional outburst of a blog. You may think you see some evidence of this, given the state of the online content out there, but no. And you may be the biggest geek this side of the Silicon Valley, but you can control your blog. Trust me.

So, on this occasion, I thought I could channel this energy (*cue the woo-woo music*) into my much neglected blog. No can do. I could not find the words. It felt so meaningless. Despite what the religious will tell you. Despite what we all do to try and give it meaning, in order to derive some comfort. There simply is none. Possibly why it is so maddening in the end. Literally. It just is. And no one can tell me that there is a otherworldly "plan" or "reason" for a 35 year old to just die of leukemia.

And here I am doing what I said I could not.

But in the wake of that horribleness, I realized that what I could write about was a reconnection, not a terrible ending. Just yesterday, while wasting more precious moments of my life flopping about on Facebook (yes, I know), I found an old friend listed under a name that I should have known all along he'd use. We're talking an almost 25 years ago friend, someone from college. Then, this morning, he called. It was an amazing thing. It was like talking with a ghost, honestly, a ghost from my past. Almost not my past, but someone else's. I've never understood it when people say "it seems like only yesterday." Often even yesterday doesn't seem like yesterday to me. But twenty-five years? Another planet. I had antennae and walked on six legs back then. I have pictures.

How do you compress nearly a quarter century into an hour and a half conversation? They were mostly the reader's digest versions. But, that didn't matter. My memory has always been terrible, so there was a lot of reminding to do on his part. But the important part was that back then we had a lot of fun while running about trying to educate, find ourselves and get our social bearings simultaneously. There was a fair amount of Peyton Place in it too, as I do recall and try to remember when I observe my much younger co-workers winding themselves around the mystery of it all while trying to hold down a job that bestows many a bizarre schedule on a weekly and sometimes daily basis.

It was an oddly familiar pleasure. Talking to him, I felt small echos of the simple fun and exhilaration we used to have with the most mundane things and situations. Of course, some of it was fueled by extracurricular substances that enhanced the experiences, but I found a tidbit of bona fide nostalgia creeping over me. In many ways, back then, it was like being a two year old, for whom every little thing is a great new thing or show to behold. Only better, because you were a proto adult and had control over where and when and what you did instead of being put to bed by your parents at 7 pm. But that was another life, a communal one that allowed one to exist in a glorious privileged bubble, reinventing yourself as you went, opening the cookie jar whenever the mental munchies came upon you.

I didn't realize that I missed it anymore. I missed him, and all of the technicolor exuberance and crazy possibilities, all compressed in a tiny college petri dish. All these years later he summoned it back, just a bit, in between the years of sadness and loss, running, searching, and finally moving on. I remember feeling the loss of community upon graduation. Acutely. A rarefied four years gone forever. It was a kind of agony to dwell on it, even with the array of tattered feelings and charred bridges strewing the exits. In the end there were no Hallmark moments to cast a glow over us. Just a couple of middle aged cackles ruminating over our long ago shared past, and trying to fill in the second half a lifetime. He knew most of the words, the names, and places, while all I could remember was the decay of the metaphorical music. But I guess that's pretty good, considering.

No wonder I blubber at funerals. I may give them up soon.

Alas, Poor Buell Blast…

The bike that was my first real motorcycle has ceased production, I found out today. That's it, the little cube in the picture (well, not MY bike). Although it wasn't a classic and it was underpowered and guys with small weenies liked to make fun of it (mostly in the safety of print) and there weren't many of them out there, and it did get curious stares often, I did love it. Oh, yes, I loved my little Reflex too, but not quite in the same way. The scooter was sleek, refined, smooth and needed no additions; it was a complete blue work of art.

My little Blast was more wart-like. But simple, basic. It was a steal, used, and had a mysterious starting/back-firing issue at first that the illustrious HD/Buell mechanics failed to solve. Instead, a denizen of a terrific little online forum offered a simple solution that resulted in a bike that, while still a burbly, tater-tot-sounding single, an itty bitty Harley, ran like a top after that. It was a little, lightweight but bomber piece of naked goodness. Yes, I made my first offering to the bike-eating juniper with my little Blast. Discovered the true horror of freeway rain grooves. My first adventures in cosmetic mods and their addictive qualities, not to mention the meditative satisfaction of simply polishing, gazing and contemplating the possibilities, were had with my Blast. It was not fast, but could turn on a dime, if you would only do the balancing. It ate twisties for breakfast, if you were only brave enough to let it run wild.

If I had never had visions of freeway riding of any consequence, this is the bike I would still have. Self preservation at speed in crazyland called. The lure of the "road trip" and the call of the modern Huck Finn adventure called. Yes, the dumb but vast super slab was whispering my name. So much easier to hear when there are no doors and windows around you. Strange siren call. Still I took my first road trip with my Blast, even if it ended badly and solo with double luggage strapped and stacked onto every last millimeter of its little pillion space. It was my ride up a harrowing late-night, chilly, black twisting pass of sudden and fierce gusting winds, after a long, too hot day of sweat, and too many extra unplanned miles. Not to mention the crash. My first ride, nonetheless.

Apparently Buell feels that the Blast does not deliver the proper message or impression of the entire line that is its bread and butter: American Sports Bikes. Too bad. I thought it was a great intro bike myself. I didn't give Buell a second thought originally; they were ugly. Cruiser dreams only. Then, unexpectedly, the ugliness grew on me. Somehow the oddity began to appeal. I don't think I would have ever given Buell another thought if it were not for the Blast (the Lightnings are über ugly I still think).

So long, Buell Blast. You were my wee potato mobile for a formative riding year. My first moto-crack high. You taught me how to handle the basics and even appreciate that 360 lbs was lighter than I thought was possible, even as I had to huff you up out of the grips of the evil driveway shrubbery one day. Another first. Sweet dreams.

Couch, Thy Name Is "Aaaaaaaaaaa!"

Again, my journey to the center of the couch is complete. My journey to the center of the bed is not. Again. I was goin' along so well, and then, $6 mil later in Mafia Wars, well, my concentration was shot. Long email to an ailing co-worker and friend, some digital pillow fight, some nice game loot...I almost succumbed to another round of custom domain. I'll take that up tomorrow perhaps. Only $10/year! I remember when it was $35...**rests on her gnarled cane, stroking her single Hungarian chin hair**(ok, two...bah!) How could I not? The only thing that pops up under "eclectic duckbite" is an ANCIENT (can you say 13 years old???) music linked page from my original HTML-slinging past.

I have not tried in a while, but, in years past, I have tried to remove it, but the path of corporate ownership has gone and it is now floating about, disembodied, old dead email link, little baby face, without any culpability or editing in its near future. Waaaaaaaa! Just like the little animated gif baby I made so long ago. Can you tell what is going on with her? I thought it was cute at the time and now it is like the digital living dead. Ahhhhhh! Yep. Maybe I'll go on that wild goose chase again.

Bring on the popcorn. This could be entertaining.

A Floor with a View

This is a little bit of a surreal shot of one of my favorite positions: horizontal. All you salacious minds can just stop right
there…

Yes, from this view it appears that I have elephantitis in my left leg. It is also a view I neve see since that would require some effort to rise from the fabulousness that is prone.

It is my first phone entry in quite a while (see Snoopy, earlier).

Had an outstanding second day off with some relaxation, a lovely ride along Santiago Canyon, a movie on the fly, some nice BBQ and a
sumptuously sleek and dark ride home, that felt otherworldly and hypnotic and seemed to go on forever…

It almost did too, since after a while we became worried that we were goin in the wrong direction (stupid Irvine!). But, thanks to a little
pause for an iPhone moment, we were back on track. Despite the momentary interruption of "are we getting there?" this is the kind of night that makes you want to just ride into the night and not stop until the sun begins to slip the suggestion of color before you, then slide into some dark and cool bedding and not rise until the sun sets again and you are off. Mmmm…

Couch Surfing

Here I am again. Ensconced on the couch. It is sunny and looks a little breezy and I am full of tacos. But it is a perfectly fine way to spend the second of my two days off. I wonder if others look at their "weekends" this way? Probably not. Straight from the old contract. "Second of two days off."

Hoping I can get the motivation to pry myself up and take a ride. Oil freshly changed, chain freshly lubed and even the chain guard freshly cleaned of its accumulated gunk. That is how I spent much of my productive time yesterday (first of my two days off). It's not rocket science, but more of a meditation, I find. It's the journey, not the destination. The slow journey. I need some more stuff to make it a little less goopy on the cement outside the garage. If I could just get a few more weeds to grow into the cracks, I could always park it over them and they would catch the drippage. 'Course they also might catch fire after all that, which would be a sight indeed: a motorcycle over a hot weed fire. Not so very nice. Another perfectly good idea gone into the dumper.

This touches on the subject of "the small things in life." The "being" part (versus the "human doing", as someone said). I've been concentrating on the merits of this idea for quite a while now, as it has always suited me, but I have struggled against it for a great many years. Less stress with the "being." This translates: whatever seems good to be doing or not doing at a given moment is fine. Enjoying it? Valhalla. The should's and could's and what-not are immaterial. It's not a perfect system, of course. Ya gotta do certain things eventually. It's just that the list of "things" gets remarkably smaller and less important. Like all those appalling emails that seem to be so popular amongst older folks (65+...creeping closer and closer) that exhort one to "dust less, enjoy life more!" These are the very people, I think, that have spent most of their lives doing all those other things that "had" to be done: cleaning, fixing, straightening, doing all the kid-related stuff, appointments, and on. Especially the former: cleaning. Not like your regular cleaning, from what I have surmised, btw, but the kind that used to be the norm for your garden variety housewife of 40 years ago.

I guess if it had been me, I'd have been the recalcitrant, smoking, diazepam-taking, crabby wife whose house didn't quite make the grade, as judged by "the other wives." I never did chew all the way through the "Feminine Mystique," but the pages I did get through gave me the idea vividly enough. Not hard to figure out where the mystique came from: boredom and dying life aspirations. "What are they THINKING and what do they really WANT??" Uh, I'd like some real mental stimulation and a whole adult life. No mystery there. Unless you figured women were not really human beings in the same mental sense. I happen to know someone whose life was shaped by that bifurcated social reality. I lucked out, I suppose, between the era and my childhood. Choosing between the abundant possibilities was the more pressing concern to me. Not that it wasn't also clear that there were still "limitations," societally speaking, like funding for school sports and and who was asked to move tables and who was not (e.g. physical abilities). That would be a long diatribe whose time is gone I think.

As usual, time marches on and so does "progress." At least in that area a bit. The possibilities open more each day, I think. But, it is really what the individual conceives for herself, isn't it? That is my strong suit, though I have scaled things down a bit, just out of laziness. Laziness is a luxury, I've come to realize. This sitting on the couch stuff and pondering the stories of the day, the things I might buy to help me on my way, the discussions over motorcycle projects & plans, or just inane banter, the communication with others in email and Facebook and even a dumb game or two (yes, you, Mafia Wars).

Where is the sunshine in all this? It's not only out there, right where I can see it, through the picture window, but also as a state of mind. And that's a good way to wrap up this post.

Moving On

My much neglected blog.

It's been more than a year since I sold the Buell and Reflex and bought a Honda 599. It was in sorta sorry shape, but, as Michael says, I saved it. I've dolled it up to my personal fit and taste and now it is a singular beast. It even has its own UFO on the back.

But after having frothed my way through most of the year chomping on the bit of accessories and minor modifications, I've hit a bit of a slump with the warm weather. Today I actually got up off the stick and got the bits for an oil change. Starting back in with the basics. It's been so hot my mind has just left it and wandered into the freezer. No longer. Today I rode into work and it was gloriously cool for the 10 minute freeway excursion. Thanks to my fabulous Olympia-poke-your-eyes-out jacket, the venting kept me from melting completely on the long way home on side streets.

My new facebook/mafia wars fascination has kept me from revealing all here in my blog. Poor "old" tech. Along with actually exercising regularly, I'm going to turn over a semi-new leaf and make an attempt to actually post to the blog every now and again. Maybe even look up the necessaries to post from the old iPhone. We shall see. Perhaps inspiration will strike.

Coming topics I have thought to write about, but haven't: My motorcycle, or More obsessive behavior; People I Know are Dying All Around Me; Enjoying the Small Things: A Cynics Oddly Uncynical View; What Is Wrong With People? To The Bottom Of The...and others that I have yet to remember and/or think about. I don't even know if anyone is reading any of this, so, I won't feel as constrained, except that perhaps my parents might remember that it is here and pop in (well, maybe Mom and my brother).

iPhone Post Test

This is a test of the emergency iPhone blog post. If this had been a
real emergency you would have been told where to go, ya know?=}

MacWorld Expo 2008!

So, I'm here at the MacWorld Expo with Mom and my brother and a friend. Mom and brother's first time! I feel like an old hand. Last night, we watched the Steve Jobs keynote on Mom's Macbook, and it was a lot of fun. I didn't expect to be sucked into the new stuff, but now I see possibilities, as a true gearhead. The file was quick and seamless, and began playing flawlessly (with a couple pauses in between even) within seconds. So much nicer than two years ago when the Quicktime download took more than a half hour on our DSL.

Ogling all the stuff and trying hard to not pick up a lot of promo materials. I still have stuff from ten years ago...in a bag...still sitting in my room. Bleah. Don't laugh. I sometimes have a hard time throwing stuff away. I still have an old Soviet style Power Computing poster! Those were the days, when being a mac head was like being in an embattled camp. Ah, sweet revenge!!

So, it's only been an hour or so here, and already I'm a whoring my body with PR from a couple companyies: Storyist ("I stand with the writers", which I actually do as a good union worker and believer in such things), and DriveSavers, which I've never had the money to use, since none of my weeny little data was ever worth trying to save with outlays of money. :( Just shows what you can really stand to lose. But, a very good service, from my brief contact with the company years ago.

All kinds of doo-dads, which I always love. Beautiful weather outside, too! Not that we will be seeing much of it. Har. Good temp inside, feet doing ok so far. We have just enough gack between the four of us to be thoroughly entertained by the possibilities and accessories. Now I'm thinkin' I may "need" a new iPod so I can accessorize with the new stuff that's out there, because my poor little third gen, black and white, 20G iPod doesn't have a lot of "followers" with accoutrements. :( Yes, this "need" thing.

The AppleTV has my newest attention after the keynote last night. I need a life. Badly. But the couch is still one of my favorite friends. Too bad the couch doesn't have a dispenser (yet) for the medications I'm gonna have to start taking because of all the sitting about on my bum, listening to my arteries harden along with whatever is playing on the Pod.

Good times! Get out there and enjoy the show! I am!

My First Blast

I have been remiss in adding to the blog for a couple months.

Back in late May, I became the proud owner of a 2003 Buell Blast, delivered to me courtesy of the Harley Davidson dealer that did the 1K service. It was all very exciting. The seller was very nice and allowed me to test ride it around the neighborhood to be sure I wanted it. It was so different than the MSF class bikes or my Reflex. So...burbly. The Blast is a very different ride than your standard rice burner or even a UJM (Universal Japanese Motorcycle). For starters, it's American made. Buell is owned by Harley Davidson, started by a former HD guy. It is much more elemental. The term "thumper" is definitely accurate at idle and very low speeds, even at 492cc's. But, as others have noted, it smooths out in the higher gears. I'm just psyched to have "my first motorcyle," and put my newly-learned MSF skills to use finally. Great class, but, oh, how fast the skills seem to fade without use! Shocking. As they say after passing the class, "you are now qualified to ride a motorcycle at 20mph in a closed parking lot." Very true. Actually my first motocycle is technically a Honda Reflex, a 250cc scooter. But, no clutch. Automatic transmission. Alot of body fairing. Don't drop or you will be sad and your wallet will be even sadder. Super cute and cool looking and very fun to ride, but not the same. I feel guilty not riding it in favor of the Blast, but I've been trying to get out and gain experience with the manual bike.

I've put about 500 miles now in the last two months, and it has truly been a blast, each and every time I get it out. It is nimble, nimble, nimble and turns on a dime. Corners and curves are so much fun, it can be a little scary. Over, over, over...yes! I have yet to scrape a peg, but don't like idea of it, despite the siren call of the turns. The little thing just goes right over. Quite lovely really. I am afraid I will be spoiled for other bikes. I catch myself thinking about what my next bike will be (a Suzuki sv650, btw), but then feel guilty, as my little Blast is so cool and unusual and fun. How could I? I have yet to see another on the road, but now find that I notice every other bike out there. So I know I haven't seen one. Have gotten a few interesting reactions too. Questions, folks checking it out while parked and one fellow even backed up at a stop to check it out, then gave me a thumbs up. Entertaining and fun, to be sure.<

The Blast is more of a naked bike. I hated the look at first. Went round and back between small cruisers, beginner sports bikes and other naked bikes. Then I had to have a Virago 525, which Yamaha no longer makes. Had to had to had to. But then I came back to the little Blast. This is the nature of obsession.

Now, if I could only find a pair of boots that inspire me and that I could walk in too...

With the weather now hot and hotter, it is a challenge to put on all the gear and take the bike out during much of the day. My new windshield that is so fabulous at freeway speeds unfortunately also keeps my jacket from thoroughly venting as it used to. I found out yesterday that if I lean to the left a bit, I get a little rush of air through the jacket vents. Ahhhhhh! But, I seem to be getting used to that hot, sweaty feeling when sitting at lights especially. It is just so much fun that I can put up with the heat. On the positive, with the windshield in the way I also don't cool down too quickly once the day's swelter begins to die. Riding at night, though dicier for visibility, it truly thrilling. Hypnotic almost. I always liked driving at night, but riding at night is extra enthralling. Fewer cars in general, of course, but, I don't know... Looking forward to the weather cooling down. Never have liked the broiling waves of endless asphalt that seem to be the rule in these parts. Blech. Trees, trees, where are my trees?! Nope, just a lot of road, which, in this case, is just as well, as I can ride onto it on the bike. Despite all the gear (and it's ATGATT, for sure: All the Gear All the Time), even short trips to the store, or Post Office are fun. Who knew?

And, to add to the fun, I managed to solve my first performance problem with the help of a truly awesome and useful Yahoo Group dedicated to the Buell Blast. A couple screw turns and some exploratory part removal later, no more stalling before warm up and occasionally (!) at lights. 'Course, the new-rider-re-start-the-stalled-bike-as-the-light-turns-green moments were, to say the least, character building. And strangely morale-building. Getting oneself out of an unfamiliar sticky situation pumps the ego (as well as the adrenaline). Considering that it sat for most of its previous life of four years with only 1K miles on it, things could have been so much worse. But no! Service manuals are great. Thank you Buell Blast Yahoo Group! I can't recommend it enough for any who are interested.

Keeping a wary eye out for the cages (cars) is the priority, of course, since so many accidents are caused by cars not looking for and not seeing bikes. So, am perfecting the Zen of Motorcycle Riding. Keepin' outa trouble and away from trouble, which is all around, it seems, courtesy of the ubiquitous cell phone, in large measure. More on that later, perhaps. Meantime, I enjoy the ride ever more each and every time I'm out. Mm!! Keep the rubber side up all!

Bullet Proof

I have never been bullet proof or immortal (that I know). As far back as I can remember, I do not recall ever having had this feeling. Others have, I am told. Usually young guys, from what I hear. The first time I ever heard about this phenomenon was years ago from a good friend. He told me a story that included a tale of physical peril which injured him as a result. It was at that point in his life, he said, that he realized he wasn't immortal. Interestingly, this is a person who, at that point in his life, had lived through two tours in Vietnam. But that is another story entirely.

"Bullet proof" is a commonly used term for this idea. When I first heard about this feeling, I was amazed. I had never heard of such a thing, though it is supposedly common in young people of a certain age. Apparently, I slipped by this age envelope without noticing, as I have always felt an inherent sense of physical jeopardy. Indeed, I remember feeling amazed that I had made it past twelve years old, and then, twenty. Now, you would think, given this orientation, that I was a cautious individual from way back. But, you would be wrong in a way. When I think back on it, it occurs to me that this attitude came as the result of a few early experiences with physical excess and the pain that resulted. There are two that particularly stick out, mundane as they may seem.

At the age of ten, I decided to see if I could do one hundred deep knee bends, which sounded like a challenge to my young brain. Nice round number. It turned out that it was not nearly the challenge I thought it might be. At the time. The next day I could barely walk. The simple idea of it had never occured to me. The mind boggled. Delayed muscle reaction to excessive exercise.

I "threw my back out" when I was eleven. Much later, I would realize that I probably just pulled a bunch of back muscles as a result of doing a playground monkey bar maneuver that involved standing on top of the bar, swinging forwards until momentum allowed my legs to swing out and my hands release, flinging me away from the bar and landing feet first on the ground. A little scary. Super fun. Done it before. Then, one day, it just didn't work out quite right. Again, could barely walk for days. Only this time, the result was immediate. I don't know when your first muscle pulls were, but I think I was perhaps ahead of my time for a kid not engaged on parent-driven, serious, competitive sports.

I think these early experiences were formative. Pain was not good. I mean the kind of pain that resulted from just being a kid running around like a banshee, like normal. Burning energy like so many spare plastic army men. Not like being dumb and putting your finger in a light socket, or playing with matches or knives. These are the things you were warned about continuously, and they always made perfect sense to me. You could see the consequences would be undesireable. To me at least. Perhaps another symbol of my overactive imagination. That is another story by itself. But no one ever really said, "Don't do too much of that exercise!" or "Watch out! You might pull a muscle!" Even though Dad seemed to do both of these two things on a regular basis. It was said later, but not before I already had a smattering of first-hand experience. You know, how many of those darn deep knee bends constituted "too many?" Who knew? One hundred, it turned out, was too many. But fifty probably would have sufficed for the cautionary effect on a kid just messing around in the back yard. But, you know, going overboard is in the nature of being a kid, in a way. Testing the limits. I just learned those earlier than many, apparently. Having to hobble along at the age of ten as if you needed a walker was definitely not an experience I wanted to duplicate on purpose.

And, I could extrapolate from these experiences, it turned out. Many years of this continuous extrapolation (AKA How much pain and disability do I want to possibly endure?), have lead me to what I think is fairly sane risk analysis and mitigation. In fact, I am the queen of risk anticipation. When one must make a living physically, she is forced to face this nearly every day. And it does not have to be grueling or overly demanding, just physical. As in, you can't just hobble into the cubie the next day and type away all day in MS Office, then get paid.

So, when a very likeable cohort of mine was recently in a major motorcycle accident and almost killed, it particularly bummed me out. Fortunately, he will recover and has a lot of friends and family to support him as he does. But the thing that astonished me was the unquestioned anti-motorcycle sentiment that swirled about in the immediate aftermath. Now, don't get me wrong. I get it. But, then again, I got it before. As in, it's an inherently dangerous activity, and there are wacko drivers behind every hydrant. But it is a risk that you decide to take in return for the potential enjoyment of the activity. Hopefully, you also factor in a lot of risk management, but I understand that many don't. How sad is it, then, that it took a life-threatening accident to put that into perspective. It was there before. And, to be honest, I felt sort of traiterous, listening to all the "motorcycles are bad" sentiment. It just didn't seem polite to even think, "in spite of your misfortune, I'm going to ride again." But people do. Many believe that it cannot happen to them. I've never been one of those. Lots of shitty things happen every day.

I understand that this is not the politically correct view in many ways. I also understand that it is life altering and can take the fun completely away from anything. On the other hand, a few months back, I was a moment away from being killed in a car myself by the wreckless behavior of another automobile driver. As it turned out, I sustained relatively minor injuries in the end, mostly due to some quick reactions by me and my driver at the last minute, and the safety features of the car (side curtain airbags on a VW Jetta, to be specific; I recommend these highly, both the bags and the Jetta). Let me say, that when I was healed enough to drive again, it was very spooky, to say the least. For a while. No fun at all. Nerve racking. I could have made other arrangements, taken the bus, whatever. But it is more convenient and timely to drive. The freedom it provides trumps the inherent risk. And there is inherent risk. On the other hand, I could drop dead from a brain aneurysm, like another friend from work did a few years ago.

Perhaps I would have a different perspective if I were the one in the bike crash. It could well be. But, on the other hand, crummy things happen every day to good people. Especially recently. Like a cloud hanging. In my vicinity, the under fifty crowd of folks I actually know and work with has been taking a beating in this regard. Crummy things happening en masse. Injuries and illness in a tight little cloud of blackness. A real continual downer to say the least. And yes, it makes one really appreciate what one has. But, for so many years, for various reasons: finances, work, fear, risk aversion and even just lack of available friends and cohorts, I've felt as if I never really explored things more at the edges of life. OK, some, very early on, when in my pack behavior stage. But once I began trying to scrape out a living, it dwindled precipitously. Fear took over for much of my life. Fear of a failed marriage, fear of loneliness, of what others think, fear of failure, of financial ruin, of hurting someone you love, of not being able to make a living. And on and on into the sunset.

I'm tired of being afraid. I've been tired for a while now and cannot live that way any more. It's been a slow process and has its gaps here and there. Sometimes the gaps are enormous (more on that later). But that is what life is all about, isn't it? What risk are you willing to accept in order to live life in all its aspects? Life is not short, for the most part, as the saying usually goes. Here, life is generally long. Maybe too long in too many cases, if my family's experiences are any indication. It is way too long to just languish without at least reaching out for experiences and challenges. Managing fear is a true challenge. Going with the flow and staying within the lines only takes you so far, it turns out. The rest is about managing the risks of staying alive, while still feeling alive. And they are legion.

As they say, tragedy is easy, comedy is hard.

Funky, Art & Just Old Funk

So Jerome turned out to be sorta cool, if you like to cruise local artists, with creations of all kinds from prints and ceramic, to textiles and glass and a lot in between. About half the place is falling apart it appears, the other half or so is either renovated or in process. Quite a few structurally dubious buildings that appeared to be inhabited, scarily enough. Lots of Harleys driven by visitors. I didn't see anything but (well, two ancient looking Hondas that I'd guess were actually residents or employees of shops, but hey). Used to be 15K or so residents during the height of copper mining activities which peaked in the 1920's. Sort of a Hippie revival started in the 60's and 70's. Hard to imagine in such a relatively small area. "America's Most Vertical City" and "Largest Ghost Town in America". I usually think of a ghost town being unoccupied, but, with a grand 450 current residents, it most certainly is not, small as it is. But, nice and funky and old, with less pretension than those shops in Tlaquepaque, I think.

More info for the curious: http://www.azjerome.com/default.htm

Bought my first piece of art (after much searching during the year), an ultra cool photo print by Tom Narwid of a slot canyon called Antelope Canyon. Abstract looking formations in close. Hard to describe. See his site below for more info. And he mans his gallery himself, which is great because he was fun to talk to and made me an offer I could not refuse on his print. If I'd had more $$, I would have bought more (so hard to decide! Not my strong suit anyway), but this my inaugural purchase, so I didn't want to get too crazy. If you are ever in Jerome, visit the American Landscape Gallery. The day I we were there,

Check out his gallery online:
http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/american-landscape-gallery.html

Also, check out Phil Timper's work, at the Artist's Coop, for "digital media" art, which I liked a lot (nice site, btw):
http://www.jeromeartistscoop.com/artist_timper.html
His personal site is also particularly nice: http://www.philliptimper.com/pt_high.html

This is the sort of digital non-representational work that looks like it might be easy to throw together on a computer (like so many things the art neophyte thinks are possible with a mere flick of the tablet), but oh, SO is NOT! Obviously personal taste here, but, you know who you are out there.

I was sorely tempted by "Doesn't Match My Couch", the title of which made me laugh out loud (anyone who has studied art in any way will understand), and "Bagpipe Innuendo." The titles are a whole fun by themselves, I thought.

Afterwards, alas, the trip ended early with a big 'ol raging funk. Me in the decidedly unhappy crosshairs. The more things change, the more they stay the same. My interstate vacating karma had slid suddenly and precipitously into the dark side. So, goodbye AZ. Apparently, our semi-dead lawn is contributing a lot of bad Feng Shui to my life...then seeping into the house from outside and hitching a ride into another state. Sounds serious, doesn't it? Is that even possible? Who knows. Glad I'm not superstitious.

Sedona

So, here we are in the famed Sedona. Fascinating. My Dad and Stepmom have been gracious enough to invite us to come up here and see the famed Red Rocks, take in the various sites and trapezo-de-touristas and hang out in general. So far, the weather is very nice and even gets cool at night, which I have enjoyed very much. Had to put on my fleece and a hat (!) this evening to avoid a chill. Lovely food, great views nearly all around. But, I find that the resorts, despite pleasant grounds and ammenities are sort of like a blight on the stunning landscape. Like someone plopped a giant CGI composite in 360 around the man-made stuff. It is weird to behold at times.

Fortunately, even a hike on what was sort of the equivalent of the I-5 freeway (so many people on the trail--nice to see everyone out, but not all at once!) was a simple pleasure that felt restorative, even as we raced back for our ill-advised meet back time, after which the National Guard would be called to scape up our bodies. Always add an hour to what seems like more than enough time. I kick myself for not sticking to my schedule guns, despite knowing better. I am so used to going solo, I guess, and being the sole judge of timing, I wimped out. I hate to rush on the trail, though I seem to do it more than I like, mostly racing the sun, being a late riser. The interesting thing about all the people on the trail was, everyone who stopped along the way to talk about where the trail ended, etc., was super nice. Or at least it struck me as more unusual than...usual. Even had word trickle back from another hiker as to the outcome of the "end of the trail", an actual sign saying just that. Amusing in every way. I don't remember ever seeing such a thing before. We didn't see it ourselves, being about a quarter mile short, we guessed, because we ran out of time. That and a few snaps later with my handy dandy little Gorillapod on SD500 camera, we were off on our race back to the trailhead. Though we "sacrificed" B's ankle a couple times (ow!) and his fussy foot in general, we were rewarded for our efforts by a end-of-the hike mule deer siting along the road. And a picture. It turns out I really needed that hike. A real plus to the day. Not long, the Boynton Trail, but worth it.

Overall, I can see why the place is absolutely chock-a-block with New Agers of every stripe. Crystal this, Aura that. It is not enough for many to see the tremendous Red Rock formations and strangely lush surrounds as an astounding natural wonder, part of the earth's timeless geologic beauty. It must be something more. Something mystical. So, in celebration, they plop businesses made of ticky tacky down in the midst, to tempt needy souls to spend $$ and thereby achieve spiritual awakenings, cleansings, centerings, enlightenings, meanings, all complete with sacred, man-made crystals. I mean, I like Enya music as much as anyone, but really. Is all that necessary? Of course it is. It turns a buck. I suppose the citizens of Sedona enjoy the taxes well enough. Keep that traffic moving, boys!

Did I say that there seemed to be churches in every other corner as well? See above for same.

Oh, and Pink Jeep tours EVERYWHERE. Gotta wonder. Yet another buck.

By the time you get to wilderness or a National Park or Forest or Monument, you really appreciate them. They seem so quaint and simple by comparison, despite the inevitable goo-gaws to be bought there as well. I still love them and need to give more of my money to them. A small drop against the rampant tide of unfettered commercialism. Phew!

Tomorrow we are heading to a place called Jerome, which sounds very promising in its funkiness and retro-hippiness. As far as Sedona, if you hoof it into "the woods", I think you get a far better appreciation for the thing's majesty. Even a little way, I think. But, I can see that in no time at all, the place is becoming a grade A trapezo-de-tourista, as the Furry Freak Brothers would say. If it isn't already there. Too bad. It seems that the well-to-do, when they decend in numbers, they also tend to "ruin the neighborhood", cluttering it up with spas and resorts that no regular person can afford, or appreciate. Artifice.
Perhaps it is just the nature of our "tour", but why not more camping areas? Are there any in numbers? I will have to research this. I will ask about it. Perhaps there are some here that are just not part of the "tour."

The "upscale" art is fun to cruise (is there any such thing as "downscale" art--besides grafitti?). I always appreciate that. I find it strangely meditative and hypnotic. One of my vices, when my feet will hold up long enough to stand, stroll and ogle what others have created. It is always vaguely inspiring looking at it all. I wish I could patronize more of it (any?) On the other hand, where would I put it? I suppose we have enough bare walls that could use something, but I always feel as if there should be more of a plan instead of a random collection of stuff. My random selections would be truly horrible to behold, I'm afraid. And, I always fear that I will tire too quickly of looking at them. One of the many reasons I have never been able to decide on a tatoo, of all things. So permanent. It would have to be something I would not have to look at every day. I cannot abide a single color favorite for more than a couple years, much less a design or picture or creation. Ah well. It's still fun to think about though.

I have to admit, I do find myself drawn to the red clay-color (more of a golden brown) dye that a local company uses on their t-shirts. If only they had sweat shirts. I need another t-shirt like I need another hole in my head (well, perhaps another ear might be nice sometimes, but really...it's hard enough to find sunglasses and hats that fit...)

Here's the view I'd rather be enjoying right now.