This is the third consecutive year that I'm attempting to scribe 50,000 words in the span of 30 days. Considering I don't write on weekends, that's a buttload of words to churn. And none of these count. I don't expect to succeed this year, especially since I've been struggling like hell to get anything written. It isn't writer's block as much as it is comprehensive lack of motivation. Rough.
While I'm punishing myself at the keyboard, I may as well murder myself across the board. Never one for New Year's Resolutions, I'm going to take this opportunity to make some life changes. Hopefully for the better.
List items, in no particular order or logic:
Clean
Attic
Garage
Car
Desk
Mind
Corner of the room
Change banks
Change insurance carriers
Get Water Company to adjust bill
Enter receipts
Budget
Lose 40 pounds
Park far away and walk to work
50 pushups/situps per day (start with combo, work to individual)
No dessert or candy (today's Halloween. Niiiiiice.)
Write
The Want to Want
Boys' stories
Song for Les
Songs for boys
Chuck's FU story
Chuck's daughter's critique
Bill's critique
Ransom note
Tapioca
Home
Paint kitchen
Replace gas mower cap (gotta have something easy)
No Dominion
No inappropriate sites
Deposit Kitty and birthday checks
Lunches
Atchison
Tucker
Make mix CDs for Les/boys
I've not decided whether I'll invent a reward system; more likely, I'll assign an arbitrary number of points, much like "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" Whose life is it, anyway? Oh yeah. Mine.
I hope to log in at least a few times weekly to update progress. If you're a praying person, I could use your support. If you're not a praying person, I could use your encouragement. If you're a preying mantis, I could use a better bug management system.
Here goes nothing. And lots of it.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thursday, October 14, 2010
One mile up, two miles back
On my drive to work today, I crested a hill and saw lines of taillights illuminating a backup. They occasionally blinked, but most of the time they remained lit. Jerks switched lanes. I immediately checked my rear-view to make sure no one was riding my bumper, then I swerved off and turned down a side street. Better to take my chances with stop signs and back roads than inch forward until the traffic cleared.
The stick shift I drive has lost its clutch twice, and the idea of riding the pedals didn’t entice me. I have no car radio, which only magnifies dead time. Especially time inert.
I didn’t care that the detour was the exact opposite direction from my destination. At that moment, it dawned on me: I happily traded progress for movement. That’s how I live my life. Doesn’t matter if the momentum is lateral or even backwards, so long as I’m going somewhere. Stimulate the eyes. Only tax the brain as I mentally plot my newly evolving map.
This feels like an allegory to something much bigger. Once I figure out what that is, I’ll compose more on the topic.
The stick shift I drive has lost its clutch twice, and the idea of riding the pedals didn’t entice me. I have no car radio, which only magnifies dead time. Especially time inert.
I didn’t care that the detour was the exact opposite direction from my destination. At that moment, it dawned on me: I happily traded progress for movement. That’s how I live my life. Doesn’t matter if the momentum is lateral or even backwards, so long as I’m going somewhere. Stimulate the eyes. Only tax the brain as I mentally plot my newly evolving map.
This feels like an allegory to something much bigger. Once I figure out what that is, I’ll compose more on the topic.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Heaviest 35 Pounds in the World
In my early 20s, I worked in a mailroom. My sense of touch was so refined, I could hold an envelope and tell you whether mailing the contents would require one, two or three stamps. I had a scale to confirm my suspicions, but I was correct more often than not.
My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.
I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.
I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.
I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.
After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.
Y’know, like for a blog.
My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.
I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.
I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.
I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.
After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.
Y’know, like for a blog.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Drive-By Carnies
I have faint memories of riding salt and pepper shakers as a child. For those unfamiliar, salt and pepper shakers are a carnival ride, where you climb inside a small pod at the end of a pole-contraption, then that pod circles while spinning. It's a miserable experience, and I have to chalk it up to being the early 80s as to why they don't exist anymore. Litigation being what it is now. I would never let any of my children ride such a cruel monstrosity, and I may have some resentment issues towards my parents for letting me board the thing, though most of my childhood memories are blurry. As this is one of the few images that I can recollect, I'll assume it's a good thing the rest remains out of focus.
Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)
Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.
The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)
Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.
In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?
I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.
“Sure. Cash only. No change.”
My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.
I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.
As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.
Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.
Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.
Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)
Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.
The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)
Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.
In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?
I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.
“Sure. Cash only. No change.”
My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.
I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.
As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.
Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.
Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Automatic for the Pee
I shall now attempt to list Innovations in Toilet History without doing any research whatsoever:
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Err Jordan
Something persuaded my father to sign me up for wrestling instead of basketball when I was seven years old. In lieu of running fast breaks, draining Js, and denying weakass shots in the paint, I donned a blue onesie, endured mat burns, and suffered endurance contests of six-inches, a cruel coach’s drill designed to build and strengthen abs. Lie flat on your back, feet together. Lift your legs until your ankles are six inches off the mat. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Aaaaaaaaaaand down. Once you collect your breath and convince yourself you’re not vomiting, do it again. Repeat until tears fall.
Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.
These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.
Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.
Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.
Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.
Sometimes.
Occasionally.
Twice.
Anybody need me to set a pick?
Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.
These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.
Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.
Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.
Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.
Sometimes.
Occasionally.
Twice.
Anybody need me to set a pick?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Like Riding a Bike
Unless you consider gimmick limericks for a cafe as writing, I haven't put words on paper in months. It's frustrating, aggravating, depressing, and lame. I've no shortage of ideas - an accumulated journal of ideas passed over the years haunts me, as none of them is currently inspiring. I'm reluctant to give those ideas full respect - it's rare that I have simultaneously great concepts, but only the time to pursue one. I could throw out the sketchbook of second-tier ideas, but that seems counterproductive. No worse than the amount of writing I've done.
And that's how you fill a paragraph by saying nothing. Remarkably similar to the other 106 blog entries, if I do say so myself.
I decided to look for a marketable opportunity this time - perhaps rerouting would help spark me toward the destination of publication? Isn't that why I started this quasi-anti-blog in the first place? Get my brain working a variety of methods with the hopes of something worthwhile popping forth? And then, watch as some multiconglomerate recognized me, decided I filled the Jim-sized-and-shaped-niche that the world so sadly lacks and would so be willing to pay inordinate amounts of American currency for.... (sigh).
I cut out an inspirational comic strip yesterday. http://comics.com/soup_to_nutz/2010-05-23/ Hardly the same spirit as 95% of the comics I appreciate, but I'm hoping to dredge some butterflies out of the drek currently inhabiting the writer's part of my brain.
A writer writes. I daren't credit myself with that title until I at least put something new together. I wouldn't consider myself a mechanic if I didn't fix a machine in months, regardless of how skilled I may have been before my self-and-apathy-imposed layoff.
I'm pretty sure riding a bike is much easier than this crap.
And that's how you fill a paragraph by saying nothing. Remarkably similar to the other 106 blog entries, if I do say so myself.
I decided to look for a marketable opportunity this time - perhaps rerouting would help spark me toward the destination of publication? Isn't that why I started this quasi-anti-blog in the first place? Get my brain working a variety of methods with the hopes of something worthwhile popping forth? And then, watch as some multiconglomerate recognized me, decided I filled the Jim-sized-and-shaped-niche that the world so sadly lacks and would so be willing to pay inordinate amounts of American currency for.... (sigh).
I cut out an inspirational comic strip yesterday. http://comics.com/soup_to_nutz/2010-05-23/ Hardly the same spirit as 95% of the comics I appreciate, but I'm hoping to dredge some butterflies out of the drek currently inhabiting the writer's part of my brain.
A writer writes. I daren't credit myself with that title until I at least put something new together. I wouldn't consider myself a mechanic if I didn't fix a machine in months, regardless of how skilled I may have been before my self-and-apathy-imposed layoff.
I'm pretty sure riding a bike is much easier than this crap.
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