T minus 4 days (plus lemon and honey)

I once read a story about a man trapped in a snow globe, though that revelation didn't occur until the end of the tale. Except I think it was a short film. Or perhaps a cartoon. But it's an idea I didn't think of, I can't remember well, and I don't care enough to either find it or attempt another episode along that same vein.

In this world of finite ideas where none are new, it's curious how often a concept feels inspired. Yet, I'm sitting here, rehashing faint memories of vignettes that didn't catch my eye the first time around, but linger in my subconsciousness. Today's weather was blustery (thanks, Pooh!), but not bad enough to turn my thoughts to snow. So far as I can detect, I'm not suffering from claustrophobia, nor am I waiting for some divine force to shake my world. My status remains pretty durn quo. Hmm.

My hope is my brain has slowed to focus on Nano. Similarly, my hope is that my body (at least my metabolism) has sped up for Flabberino. Both start this Saturday at midnight, and within a paltry two hours, I sacrifice 60 minutes to the ghost of daylight savings. Somewhere around that time, I intend to be surrounded by writers - who, I once again reminded myself last night, have the social skills of right-brained tech programmers. It makes sense - when you pour out your soul, your thoughts, and your brain on paper for the world to read, it's often best to leave your body somewhere said readers can't do damage.

Because we're vulnerable. At least those of us who take the time to invest energy, emotion, and care into scribing. Whereas I continue to blog about the idiocy of blogging. There's a conclusion to draw involving anti-matter or evil dopplegangers, but I can't put my finger on it. I sometimes think I am my evil twin, and there's a nice me out there somewhere. I wonder if he can write.

Sweathoggin'

My co-workers sweat a lot. So I'm told, anyway.

I used to irregularly attend yoga during my lunch hour. It wasn't entirely doing yoga, as even the basic positions are difficult to reach (nonetheless hold) for an inflexible lump such as myself. I suppose you could call it practicing yoga, so long as the connotation carries the idea of a five-year-old practicing the violin. (Not coincidentally, I made some of the same squeals.)

It isn't like I want to yoga. (Is it a verb like golf? I've never heard someone say they wanted to tennis.) But it was a way to stay in better shape, or at least attain other variants of this shape. It loosened my perpetually tight hamstrings and helped me relax some, especially during the cooldown meditation period (read: naptime) at the end of the sessions. The only attendants were the instructor, a kind, encouraging woman, two fellow students (far more accomplished and enthusiastic than myself), and me. Thankfully, I was never positioned in such a manner that I couldn't escape or unfold myself.

When I inquired about yesterday's lunch yogurt (as I term it), I was informed they're now without the instructor, opting instead to learn from a video. More disturbingly, while the video title is yoga, it "feels more like Pilates." As if yoga didn't hurt enough?

Even so, I thought I'd join yesterday's stretch-n-kvetch (and occasionally retch) session. Except, as 11:30 rolled around, I discovered I'd taken my workout shirts home. I had a pair of shorts - two, even - but no top cover. Throw me out in the middle of a field on a hot summer day, and I think nothing about removing my shirt. Skins for basketball? Done. But learning Pilates while concentrating on a video and flopping around foolishly in front of coworkers? Nah.

In lieu of sweating it up, I chose my alternative workout. How many calories do I burn chewing and swallowing M&Ms?

Top O' the Hour T'ya

Spring, summer, autumn and winter each have six letters, which is why it's confusing how people say fall. Or change it to fallow. With each season (another six-letter-er) containing six letters, that leaves two letters for each month, yet we usually abbreviate them with three letters apiece. At the rate we're going, the calendar will never switch over to the metric system. But time never tried to go that direction - 12 hours, 12 months, 3, 6, 9 on the clock's axes (axii?)... I mention all of this because yesterday was 73 days away from Christmas. Exactly one-fifth of a year, which has no designation. Ten and a half weeks isn't even 100% accurate.

I still wonder why I wonder whether time was discovered or invented. Fortunately, I no longer debate my debating over it.

At least fourteen of the next fifty hours will be spent in a minivan with my wife, three hyperactive boys, and enough styrofoam peanuts to make sure none of us shift in any transitions. Wish me luck.

Wait. No. Scrap that. Don't wish me luck. Send me cash instead. I'll make my own luck. Specifically, I'll be lucky to have rich, generous friends.

Alternate Career Rejection Notice

I've had to come to terms with the reality that I won't be a gangsta rapper. I possess neither the street cred nor the inherent anger. Statistically, odds are I'll never pop a cap in anyone's ass. My social circle doesn't include bitches or hos, or at the very least, they successfully masquerade those reputations. My 1993 Geo Prism is too economic and fuel-efficient to be considered a hoopde, and besides, the factory cassette player is on the fritz.

Fundamentally, I lack bling. My dental insurance plan doesn't include a provision for gold teeth. Dave Ramsey's budget planning prohibits me purchasing ice for ice's sake. My ears have only the anatomical holes for hearing, and no accompanying piercings. As if this wasn't bad enough, my head is too large to fashionably exhibit the dew-rag look. My pants' waistline may be loose, but any revealing of my boxer-briefs is accidental, unintentional, and somewhat embarrassing.

I suppose I could qualify my children as my posse, but they were all conceived within the boundaries of wedlock, and I'm quite happily married to the woman I adore. I don't even suffer the temptation to pursue a booty call.

On the plus side, I do curse like I was born and raised in Philadelphia. Which I was. How authentic! On the down side, secondhand smoke - be it tobacco, weed, crack, or otherwise - makes me gag, and I value my physical condition too much to experiment smoking it firsthand.

Oh yeah. And I lack rhythm.

So it'll be awhile before I take my demo to any music producers.

Self-Unjustification

One of the topics of last night's conversation between my wife and myself was this blog and the title thereof. She claimed it wasn't very inviting. Plus, once you reach the blog, you have no idea what you're looking at. I responded that the common theme is comedy, though there are sparks of commentary on blogging itself. All in all, I compared myself to Dave Barry (minus the boilerplating), Woody Allen, and Steve Martin. Absurdist humor, like my two men/table/gun/watermelon sketches. Then I recognized how I compared myself to three highly successful, bestseller-writing authors and millionaires. Which means either I'm on a track to success, or I'm pretentious and delusional. I tend to believe the latter.

It's a writer's notebook, providing a launch point for ideas to form/coagulate. More importantly, it's a venue to blog about the annoyance of attention whores screaming "LOOK AT ME! I'M BLOGGING! I BLOG! I'M BLOGGING!" (Picture Bill Murray tethered to a computer.) Which cycles around yet again to the title of this site.

If I wanted a bigger following or varied feedback, I could post these entries on Facebook, because then I'd have 250+ people ignoring me rather than only six. I could use StoryMash to post, but that'd break my self-imposed rule to... I don't really have any self-imposed rules, there. I rag on people who post un-fiction ("non-fiction" doesn't seem to encapsulate what I'm doing here).

This site will never go viral. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it can at least go bacterial.

Far Enough Away That It'll Never Arrive

November is a mere 24 days away, and I've already committed myself to Flabberino, and last night I signed up for NaNoWriMo. For those uninitiated, that's National Novel Writer's Month. In 30 days, I'm supposed to compose 50,000 words. With interesting characters. And a logical storyline. I figure if each blog entry I've put here is 250 words, that'd merely be 200 days worth of writing. Squeezed into 30 days. Minus the weekends, probably. Minus my wedding anniversary, the Thanksgiving holiday, and whatever other days I end up scrapping.

In other words, if things get considerably thinner here on THR, that's why. I'll try to use this to keep tabs on both. And when I brag about 50, that's the number of situps. If I brag about 225, that's my weight going down. If I brag about 2,500, that's a good day of writing. If I brag about 25,000, I'll need to come up with a reason.

Oh! I got one! But a high score on Castle Wars is hardly bragworthy.

Boob Job

My family hit our medical deductible for BCBS this year, so all "required" procedures from now until December 31 are covered 100%. After speaking with my ENT M.D., I've opted to forego sinus surgery. And apparently, breast implants aren't considered a required procedure for men. At the rate I'm going, I'll have saggy chest lumps soon enough. (Sexy, no?)

November 1 is the beginning of the biannual Whiskerino event, where hundreds of men put down their razors and don't use them again until March 1. 120 days without shaving. I can't do it. I prefer kissing my wife, plus I wouldn't last two weeks with my face itching.

Instead, I'm going to start my own personal Flabberino. It'll serve as a filler for those days I'm uninspired to write anything else on the blog. I'll attempt to journal my exercise and diet, and by the end of four months, I'll see (1) how long I lasted (the over/under is November 10), (2) how much weight I lost (o/u is at 218, curious as I'm not dropping 15 pounds in ten days), and (3) how many over/unders I can incorporate in this paragraph (currently, three is a push). Gyms and/or running are both far from enticing, so I'll need to figure out my own path to svelteness. And yes, I wrote that simply to include the word "svelteness." Like someone with a speech impediment describing Walter Payton.

Start date will be 11/1, as I said, because I'm going to Philly in two weeks and God help me, I intend to scarf down an utterly unhealthy sequence of cheesesteaks. Then Halloween candy dishes, though with work's current health initiative, I wonder how many of those'll be filled with carrots and cucumber slices. No, and no.

In the same vein that you're not supposed to go to a supermarket when you're hungry, I probably shouldn't write about losing weight after consuming only a Breakfast Hot Pocket, a german chocolate brownie (with congealed coconut looking dangerously like someone sneezed on it), and a Coke. I'm pretty sure I hit none of the food groups, as I doubt anything listed would be classified as food.

We all have to start somewhere.

Anticipation and Dissipation

Inspiration takes on many forms, but I've never seen it shaped like seven interlinked pretzels. Sadly, I've seen it deteriorating as my desire to write dwindles.

No, that's not accurate. I long to write. It's the actual writing I don't want to do. This has been a recurring conversation I've had with my wife, my friends, my pastor, and a plastic geranium. Thus far, I can't decide who's provided the best answer.

I want to want.

Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of things I crave: sex, food, sports, sleep, good entertainment, plenty of the standards. If I had the option to play volleyball for weeks on end, I'd be a happy (albeit sore) camper. (Oddly, if I had the option to camp for weeks on end, I would not be a happy volleyer.)

I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this on THR before, but it's the same desire I have to lose 30 pounds. As in: none. I don't want to lose 30 pounds at all. I'd really like to be 30 pounds lighter than I am. But the work, effort, diet, exercise, discipline involved in getting there? Hells no.

So I need to figure out some alternate reality where I enjoy - no, crave the writing process and don't only want a finished story. I think I do, but when I find myself behind my keyboard with a good idea (as compared to my multitude of crappy ones), I still can't conjure the push to start. Or proceed. I'm unsurprised at the variety of quitting point options, but there's no less disappointment.

Successful people do.
Do what?
Do anything.