caveat emptor

Motophor

Have you ever seen one of those freestyle motocross events where a guy takes off from a steep ramp at high speeds and jumps to ridiculous heights while performing acrobatics and then, in midair, if everything goes as planned, he regains control of the bike and lands safely and gloriously to great adulation? Have you seen any of these? Perhaps, like me, you're not really a fan of such activities, but you've seen them before while switching channels on the television. Have you seen them?

Well, if you've seen them, perhaps you've seen the guys who completely let go of the bike in midair. While jumping they take their hands off the handlebars and their feet off the pedals and their butt off the seat and they fly above their bike, propelled forward with it by the same Newtonian laws of motion. They are completely disconnected from the device on which they depend for a safe landing. This disconnection lasts only for fractions of seconds, and then they reach out and grab the bike, pulling themselves back onto it to prepare for a proper, non-injurious landing. Can you imagine that kind of dependency on another object? Can you imagine letting go of it and then having to get it back? Do you think you'd be able to let go?

Once in a while something goes wrong and the rider realizes he isn't going to get the bike back. When, in those quick, short seconds, he comes to this conclusion, the rider pushes away from the bike in the hopes of minimizing the damage caused by the landing. It will hurt more to land entangled with the bike than it will hurt to hit the dirt alone. So, he thrusts away from the bike as well as he can and tries to land so as to prevent serious harm. Things are going to be bad, but perhaps he can still avoid the worst of it.

Can you picture all of this?

For me, right now, I feel like I'm at the apex of the jump and I've lost the bike. I'm reaching for it, but I can't quite grasp it. It's not where I thought it was, or I'm not where I'm supposed to be, or something. I haven't completely given up hope of finding that handlebar in the next half of a second, but I'm beginning to worry about the landing.

Hello, friends. How are you today? Do you ever feel like this?

Later. Love.

Things You Can Count On [sic]

There are, believe it or not, things on which you can count in life. To be more clear and less correct, there are things you can count on. Here are a few:

• If you buy the right kind of soil, put it in the right sort of vessel, plant the right species of seed and provide the right type of care, a beautiful flowering plant will grow. It's true. You can count on it.
• If you drive to the Grand Canyon with a watermelon in your car, park as close to the edge as they let you, walk the remaining distance with the watermelon under your arm and throw the watermelon as far as you can out into the abyss, the watermelon will fall into the Grand Canyon and smash to tasty bits on the rocks below. It's true. It will. It's completely reliable.
• If you cover your hair with hairspray and then light a match and toss it into your hair you will set your hair on fire. Count on it.
• If you pour cold milk into a tall, clean glass, add just the right portion of chocolate syrup or sweetened cocoa powder and then stir appropriately, you will have a perfect glass of chocolate milk. No other result is possible.
• If you marinate a five pound beef roast in Italian dressing for about four hours, preheat a properly working oven to 200 degrees Fahrenheit, heat a bit of olive oil in a large, nonstick, cast iron skillet, sear the roast well on all sides, wrap the roast - fat side up - in foil, pouring the drippings from the skillet over it, place it in a large, shallow baking pan, and put it in the oven for at least six hours, maybe a bit more, you will have a delicious roast of beef. It always works.
• If you put one hand softly on the side of the neck of a woman who loves you in the right way, put the other on the back of her hip, pull her close, and kiss her softly on the lips, she will kiss you back. I have found this to be foolproof.

I'm sure there are some things I have missed. If I asked you to list more, I'm sure I could count on you to do so. I've learned this about you. I'm not asking anything of you, however. I'm just happy you stopped by.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S.: Though any of you who are my Facebook friends or Twitter followers have heard, I feel, in the interest of disclosure and by way of explanation of any change that might become apparent in the mood of this site, that I should let you know frankly what is happening in my reality. Yesterday we learned that Susan, my wife, has cancer in her esophagus. We don't know yet the extent or stage or even type of cancer. Tests begin tomorrow to discover all of this. So, the future has become even more of a mystery to us than the future always has been. So, there it is. That's what's happening. Thanks for stopping by.

"Because It's There" and Other Popular Notions

We were pondering magnetism. Is the metal drawn to the magnet, or is the magnet drawn to the metal? By the time we realized that the attraction was mutual, the moment had passed. Life is like loose gears tumbling and bouncing all around. Occasionally they mesh, but mostly they just bump into each other and make a lot of clanging noise.

Did you ever notice that they never show Rocky, from the Rocky movies, walking back down from anything. They show the struggle, inspirational accompaniment blaring, to reach the top. They show the climactic release and elation. They never show, however, the slow dissipation of joy and energy after the celebration. They never show Rocky walking back down, probably alone. I wonder if he feels proud, or just a little silly. Why does the climber come back down from the mountain? Because he's there.

In the first paragraph is used magnets and gears to represent ideas. This practice is what writers call "metaphor". Make up metaphors of your own to express the same ideas. Discuss them among your group members. How does changing the physical objects change the dynamic of the ideas? Be prepared to give examples to the class.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

By Way of Explaining my Dearth of Communication

Sorry if I've been uncommunicative lately. I'm in thinking mode, brain going as fast as it can almost all the time. Makes for fitful sleep, and my temporal lobe seizures have picked up again, like they always do when I get thinky. (Maybe it's just that I notice them more when they actually interrupt active thoughts and don't notice them when I'm vegging mentally. I don't know.) I've actually come to sort of enjoy them, like an old friend or an inside joke. "There is great mystery afoot!" they whisper to me. It makes me smile. They're so silly. Everything is just everything, nothing more. Silly, silly seizures.

Not much to say today. Just tapping my toe to the jazz. It's jazzy. I know you can't hear it, but you can imagine it. Hear it now? Jazzy, no?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Tea Sippers and Paint

"What's your favorite style of painting?" he asked, sipping his tea. (NOTE for new readers: Here at Caveat Emptor, "sipping tea" is a sure sign that a character is an arrogant asshole. Why? I don't know. I actually like tea. In my writing, however, tea sipping is almost universally a sign of asshatery.)

"Finger," I replied, chugging my Red Bull and then belching loudly. (NOTE: I don't actually drink Red Bull. I also do not belch often. It's been know to happen, but it's not like a signature thing of mine or anything.)

Have you ever tried to juggle paint? Not in tubes or cans or anything, just big splashes of paint? It isn't easy, let me tell you. Nevertheless, someone has to juggle the paint. We cannot leave the paint unjuggled.

How will we abide the tea sippers of the world? We will dance our feelings. We will journal our fears. We will open up and let our emotions juggle. We are the dried leaves of humanity, crushed and brewed for the enjoyment of the gods, steeped in doom, damned to be sipped forever.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

An Important Post

I'm here today to tell you a few things and I want you to pay attention because these are important things. Are you ready? Let's roll!

There are so many tools that empower you to talk to people these days. They also empower you to see what these other people are saying. None of them facilitate listening, however. None of them promote understanding. The ability to talk to hear/see other people talk is a good start, though. I'll admit that. On the other hand, we always could do that, just a lot slower. Now we can ignore or misunderstand each other much faster. Of course, we can also really communicate, really connect faster. We can understand each other faster. It's true. The ability to listen and to understand have to come from us, however. The gadgets cannot help us there.

I've been thinking a lot about the wonders of modern technology, like robot bread makers and cars that run on corn and phones that can tell you what song you're hearing. "And where was I when I first heard this song, phone?" I would ask.

"You were in the airport in Chicago, Scott."

"And how did the song make me feel, phone?"

"It made you feel hollow and cavernous, as though you were plummeting far down to certain death inside your own chest, Scott."

"Ah, yes," I would say. "I remember that now. Thank you, phone. You're a good friend to me."

"And you to me, Scott."

I have to be honest with you at this point: I really didn't have anything important to say. I apologize for misleading you in the beginning of the post. I just wanted to grab your attention so you didn't wander away. It was a cheap trick and I shouldn't have done it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Traditional Form of Joke

Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons. Have you noticed this? The other day, for example, life dressed up like a clown and taught me the value of friendship. Funny, right? Life is a little creepy. Have you noticed this?

Now, the joke proper:

A priest and rabbi walk into a bar. Sitting at the bar, drinking a beer in moderation, the priest asks, "Friend, is it true that you can't eat pork?"

"Yes," the rabbi responds, sipping his own beer. "It's true."

"Wow," responds the priest. "That's too bad. Pork's pretty good, you know. Have you ever tasted it?"

"To be perfectly honest, my friend, I've tasted it a couple of times. It's pretty good."

"It sure is," the priest says.

"And let me ask you, since we're asking questions," the rabbi says, "you're supposed to be celibate, no?"

"I am supposed to be and I am."

"And I wonder, have you ever tried...?" The rabbi raises his eyebrows knowingly to the priest and winks.

"Well..." the priest smiles and looks down into his beer, "...to be honest, I have... in the past you know... a couple of times."

The rabbi nods and takes a sip of his beer. "It's better than pork."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I decided to delete this last line because it makes it less of a joke and more of a story. As a joke, it should end with the punch line.

Scene From a Doctor's Office

We are waiting in line at the checkout desk at the Orthopedist's office, waiting to handle paperwork and payment and such. By we, I should clarify, I mean me and my 15-year-old daughter, Robyn. It is a Pediatric Orthopedist, which always feels funny to me because my kids are older. There are all these little babies and toddlers and grade-school children running around. Meanwhile I'm there getting Robyn's cast removed from her broken pinky, the one she broke playing basketball about a month ago. She's almost six feet tall and... well, that just looks a little funny at the Pediatric Orthopedist is all I'm saying. I can tell she feels a bit awkward about the contrast, so, as a good father, I decide to needle her about it.

In front of us at the desk is a mother with a tiny two-year-old girl. The clerk says, "Would you like a sticker?" The girl would indeed like one, apparently, so she picks out a panda sticker.

When it's our turn, I ask Robyn, "Would you like a sticker, Robyn?"

"No," she says, smiling in that embarrassed way. She starts fiddling with the stickers, rearranging them and straightening them in their little rack.

"Are you sure you don't want the turtle one?" I ask her. "It's cute."

She picks it up and looks at it. "Oh," she says, "it is a turtle. I thought it was something else."

"It's very definitely a turtle," I respond, furrowing my brow and wondering how should could think otherwise.

"You're very definitely a turtle," she quips.

She has a point.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - On the way back to the car she remembers that Jason Mraz looked like a turtle on Saturday Night Live last Saturday. He sang from the side of his mouth and craned his neck crookedly, tilting his head as he crooned into the microphone. Just like a turtle does. She has a point. Thanks for stopping by.

A Post, Like Others Before It

The world always makes more sense in the morning. By evening I'm usually wondering, "What the hell was all of that about?" In the morning, though, everything is good. The sun pours through the window and paints the top half of my computer screen as I type. In the bright illumination the dust on the screen is unmistakable. The bottom of the screen, shaded by the window sill, looks much cleaner. It's a lie in the dark, though. It's just as dirty as the top. I can see this because it's morning time. By tonight things won't be so clear. By tonight everything will unravel. It's okay, though. Nighttime is not for the sensible. Nighttime is for the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” Do you know who said that last part? Do you know Jack?

I wanted to become a fan of humanity on Facebook, but humanity is not an organization, business or brand. Even if it were, I'm not an official representative of humanity. So, a page cannot be created and fandom cannot be declared. Not on Facebook anyway. Here at Caveat Emptor, though, you can be a fan of whatever you want. Here I'm a fan of humanity. And also of coffee. And also of you. I'm a fan of you. But not on Facebook. Everywhere else, but not Facebook.

When I was writing about morning and evening in the first paragraph (see above) I was reminded of Douglas Adams's thoughts about Sunday afternoon in the book Life, the Universe and Everything. He called it "the long dark tea-time of the soul," a play on "La noche oscura del alma" or "The Long Dark Night of the Soul", a theological treatise by the 16th-century Carmelite mystic, Saint John of the Cross. According to Adams, Wowbagger, the Infinitely Prolonged, was an immortal who hated immortality. To keep himself busy he set out on a project across space and time to insult everyone in the universe - in alphabetical order. Adams says of Wowbagger, "In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the baths that you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark tea-time of the soul." It's a funny thought, I think. It's like describing a sigh. Quite masterful, really.

At least it seems so this morning.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Regarding the Local Saber-toothed Cat Issue

Texas is overrun with saber-toothed cats, giant ones with fangs an average of twelve inches long. (Some say the black ones have longer ones, but I think that's a myth.) These cats have come back from the Stone Age to haunt the fertile pastures of Texas because time is all messed up everywhere. The Law of Time has been broken and now anything can come back from the past, even disco or variety shows. Everyone in Texas has been killed by the cats so far, including me. Twice. What are we going to do about it? We're going to be content with our lot in life. Time was we didn't have to worry about such things, but time is no more. As for me, I'm hoping to get a song and dance routine onto the Gong Show. Beatniks from out of history smoke hand-rolled cigarettes outside, sipping espresso, digging all the cats and daddies. Rain falls this morning, into the freezing air. Time was such sights would thrill me in arcane ways. Time will be again.

I had a conversation with love while putting away dishes. My back was sore from standing too long, stooping to lift and such. Kitchen timers screamed orders at my full hands, asking me for more and more. Love told me that hard water requires biannual replacement of rubber stoppers in toilet tanks. I made note of it and washed my hands to retrieve hot dinner from the oven, burning my knuckles in distraction as usual. Love told me to buy a new coffee maker. When I hit the sheets at night, I can hardly stay awake long enough to put the television on sleep for an hour. Sometimes I wake with the remote still in my hands. In the morning I stubbed my toe on love, sitting where I left it by the bookshelf instead of stowed behind the door in the closet, where love belongs.

I lied about the cats in the first paragraph. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "No, it's not a lie. It's a metaphor." Sometimes, however, a cat is just a cat is just a lie.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Snippets from Among Everything in the World

Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón sit in a dim bar in a small town in Mexico, smoking cigarettes and drinking dark Spanish port. That's where they are in my mind, anyway, when I picture them. Some part of me rejects the notion of Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón sitting at a McDonalds in the international terminal at Chicago O'Hare airport, eating an Egg McMuffin and a Sausage, Egg and Cheese McBiscuit and drinking small fountain drinks. I also could not picture them at Luby's cafeteria. Nor could I picture them at Buffalo Wild Wings watching college football. To me they are in Mexico, in a small town, partaking in ancient vices, spinning complex yarns. I can't help it. I'm just silly like that.

One of the regulars at the coffee shop this morning, the impossibly tall and impossibly thin girl who always stands by the window to wait for her order, is crying. She's trying to look like she isn't crying, but she is crying. You wouldn't know it unless you looked at her face, but it's unmistakable. She's crying and sniffing, trying to hide it. I wonder what is making her so sad. It's something I would never do, to go and ask her what's wrong, to try and make her feel better. I assume she would not welcome my becoming more than an anonymous face she sees each morning, that she would rather deal with the people in her own life, her own people, about such things. Still, there she is. She's crying. I hope she finds some way to feel better. I hope she's not crying tomorrow.

I'm getting close to understanding the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. When you understand this, segues become unnecessary. There are no non sequiturs. You can see how everything flows from everything else. We are all together, you, me, Alfonso, Guillermo, the tall and thin crying girl. We all flow from one another, follow one another, necessitate one another. Without all of us, there wouldn't be any of us. I'm starting to understand it, though I don't know if I could ever explain it to the rest of us.

Hello, friends. How are we today?

Later. Love.

Misplaced for a Time

When I saw the grand piano in the middle of the gigantic, well-appointed hotel lobby yesterday I wished what I always wish in such situations. "I wish I could remember enough Spanish and played piano well enough to sit and belt out an ironic rendition of the Eagles song Desperado in a melodramatic Spanish baritone." Why? Who knows.

I've spent the week in tourist luxury, where everything is palatial and abundant. Everything is lovely and elegant. It's really starting to get on my nerves. I'm having the exact feelings of rebellious disdain that, while attending a week-long conference in San Diego a couple of years ago, inspired me to write this:

Gods once walked these halls of stone, long ago, and men and women of great renown shed blood to water the fledgling seeds of their legacy. And here am I, coming such a long time after, following the whims of small concerns. The echo of those old footsteps still drowns my patter, and the vaulted stone around me shouts my insignificance at me like an accusation, as though my presence offends. If I could, I'd rise up like a titan and rend these old bones, casting their dismay into the dark, boiling sea. I am here and I am now. Whatever boasts these ghosts have etched into these walls, they cannot claim this feat of mine. I am here and I am now. No one has written my story. I am free.

If you're hiding in the shadows, come out and walk with me. We'll cast off these old bones and burn down this old world. We'll let the flames light these low places, chasing all shadows far away. We'll tell our own tales to the world, rooting them in truth but embellishing them with lies. We'll clothe ourselves in greatness and cast our echoes out into the ages ahead, for others to tear down.

There's just something in my nature that can't abide such materialistic gaudiness for long. It grates on me. One day I'll crack and start tearing the fine wood trim from the walls of an opulent hotel meeting room called "Ravenwell Salon" or some other ridiculous name. I'll kick off my shoes and start to pile the broken wood in the middle of the room.

"Sir," the presenter will say nervously into his lapel mic, "what are you doing?"

"Let's build a fire," I'll respond, tearing off my shirt. "Let's build a fire and dance around it!"

People will start to close their laptops, grab their packets of conference information and move slowly to the door. Soon security will show up to take me, but I won't go quietly. I'll brandish the broken leg of a Queen Anne console table at them and growl.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Caveat Emptor Blog Entry #652

What would you write if you knew no one would read it? And I'm not talking about the PostSecret sort of honesty. PostSecret posts, even when anonymous and not followed by a stream of "Look what I just posted on PostSecret" emails or blog posts, are still meant to be read by someone. They're aimed at the world and shaped by that aim. I'm talking about real secrecy. What would you write if you knew no one would ever read it? Please write it in the comments. (Just kidding, of course.)

To me Obama is a kind of tragedy playing out in front of us. It makes me sad to think of him. I'm not one who believes much in the "is/ought" idea. "Right or wrong, there IS a certain personality type that can succeed in politics today and therefore that is the type of person, right or wrong, who OUGHT to run for office." I believe in change, but I think it's hell for those who have to go through it sometimes, when the stakes are high and the players are powerful. I believe, and some of you will surely disagree, that Obama has many qualities that would make him a much better political leader than any we've seen in a long time. I believe, and some of you will surely disagree, that he is sincere in those qualities. I do not believe, however, that the current political system is friendly to those qualities. I see a system trying, and succeeding to some degree, to tear him down. It's a tragedy. To me, anyway, it's a very sad thing. But then, that's me. I'm like that.

And now, here's what I would write if I knew no one would read it: I have pig thumbs for Freibesh Plubacity.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

It's Friday

They should make a reality show called Ultimate Crusade and in it teams of adherents of different religions should compete in physical challenges and trivia competitions to see whose religion reigns supreme. Each week one member of the losing team could be "Burned at the Stake" (a light-hearted ceremony in which someone is kicked off the show.) They could have a "Second Coming" show at the end of the season where everyone comes back and jokes about what happened during the season. It could be hosted by someone really irreverent, like David Spade. Whenever someone gets kicked off the show, he could smarm, "Where's your God now? Bu-bye."

The Thursday FOOD FIGHT® went pretty well. Crullers were maligned, but only slightly, and their honor was later defended. The TFF® has been such a successful money-maker for Caveat Emptor® through the years that I've been thinking about starting a new Friday feature called T?IF: Thank ? It's Friday®. It would be an in depth and depressing agnostic-themed religious debate, with no holds barred. After thinking about it for a few months, however, and after doing a couple dozen extensive market studies, I've decided it's probably not a good idea. It's a terrible idea, in fact. So, instead, I'm just going to blather at you on Fridays. You're welcome.

Here's a question about which I was wondering yesterday: Have you ever "known" someone on the Internet for years and then discovered that they are actually the opposite sex than you thought? It's the kind of thing that can only happen for that long on the Internet. In real life you usually discover that sort of thing before one night is over. This is always very awkward, and you have to think back and wonder, "Did I ever say anything to let on that I thought he/she was really a woman/man?" Has that ever happened to you? Maybe it's just me. When you call yourself something like "Cavort" or "Boingo" and you never talk about your love life and never post pictures of your self, how are we supposed to know? Maybe it doesn't matter on the Internet.

Hello, friends. What sex are you today? (I'm a dude.)

Love.

Randumb

"Oh, really? What sort of stuff do you write?" Do people ask you that? Do you ever know what to say? I don't. "Mostly pretentious crap," I want to say, but then they feel obligated to be polite or complimentary. "I don't know," I usually say. "Just stuff."

Is it just me, or are you sort of vaguely tired of things being the same? I like a lot of things in my life, but I long for some sort of change. Is it just me? I like my job. I love my family. I'm really not sure what I would even want to see changed. It's like this disconnected sense that I'd like the whole world to change, but I don't want to lose anything, and I've got no room, I think, to take on anything more. I'm reminded of a thought that occurred to me while reading Walker Percy's The Last Gentleman. People used to know who they were and what they wanted. Now, people don't know who they are and people don't know what they want. Percy seemed to feel that this is a bad development in society, but I have this notion that back then, back when people knew who they were and knew what they wanted, there was something rotten at the core of things. I don't know. I'm exactly the kind of person that Percy was lamenting, I think. "...he became overly subtle and had trouble ruling out the possible." That's me.

Van Morrison's Into the Mystic just started. Damn! I love this song in ways that probably betray something shallow or provincial about me. This song really stokes the embers of something smoldering somewhere in me. I think I must have some appreciation for the gypsy soul, though I'm really such a tamed person. All roads are open to me, I suppose, though I walk down none of them very far.

I'm going to close this post now. Thanks for reading it.

Hello, friends. Won't you tell me something?

Love.

Caution and Risk

A cool breeze blew up from the lake as I leaned against a huge hunk of limestone, fifteen feet tall, twice that wide and at least as deep. I was catching my breath and resting my screaming legs after the two miles of twisting trail that ran generally downhill to the lake shore and undulated through the pressing vines and trees before turning back uphill again to the rock climbing area here in the state park. The trail was a scatter of rectangular chunks of broken limestone and snaking tree roots that all served as steps and guides and stumbling blocks for unwary ankles and knees. It kept you on your toes and reminded you constantly that you were away from roads and floors and places made flat for your benefit. This was a surface you traversed on its terms, not yours.

As I rested from the hike, children clambered over the mammoth broken remains of some ancient, limestone shelf collapse and through the cave-like gaps and crevices that wove between them, wide in places and so narrow in others as to send shudders down my claustrophobic spine. There was a time when I'd have been with them, scrambling over (though not between) the massive slabs, but these days I was held firmly by an acute sense of self and caution, much to lose, little to gain. Children, of course, bear the same burden unaware. The loss of a child can shatter a family, but that's not their fault. They throw caution to the wind and leave no stone untrodden, no cave unexplored.

It occurred to me then, as I reclined, to consider them differently, my son and daughter, her young friend and my nephew, clambering away. They were just as cautious as I am, but they labored under the pressures of a different economy. "We could rest and relax here, trusting that we will have another chance to visit this place, trusting that more opportunities for climbing and spelunking litter our future, but what if we're wrong? What if we never come to such a place again? What if this is our only chance?" And so, in their own conservatism, they decide they cannot afford the opportunity risk. "Better to be cautious," they think. "Better to take advantage of these pleasures while they're here. You never know what might happen tomorrow." It's juvenile pragmatism and it's rampant. A few daring young souls recline in the shade, tempting fate, but most are not so bold.

After a while I decided we should head back to the car. To my horror, they begged me to take the trail back instead of walking along the nice level road just a bit father above us over the top of the cliff. "I don't know about you guys," I said, "but I'm fat and old. Are you sure you don't want to take the road?" They were sure. They just couldn't risk it. Risk-averse in their way, every one of them. It's a few days later now, and I can still feel the soreness of those last few hundred yards up the hill and over the tripping rocks to the saving grace of the car. Perhaps I'm not so cautious as I imagine.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Lest Ye Be Judged

He's the kind of person who see's nothing wrong with taking the entire stack of free local newspapers from the rack to use to pack up his office. "What? They're free." he says. He's the kind of guy who's always looking for a way to walk right to the front of the line, pretending not to notice the people waiting. If you point it out to him, even politely, he'll get pissed and walk out without buying anything. He's the kind of guy who parks straddling the line between two parking places so that no one will park too close to his Camaro. He's the kind of guy who throws food wrappers out the window when he's finished eating. He steals towels and robes and coffee mugs from hotel rooms. He cuts people off in traffic. He carries too much luggage onto airplanes and bitches if they try to stop him. He sits in the seat he wants and not the seat assigned to him. When the actual ticket holder shows up, he tells them that they can have his seat. He won't move without causing a scene. When he walks into a restaurant with a waiting list, he walks to the restroom to wash his hands and then sits at a table and yells for the waitress, "Can I get some service in here?" He is insufferable and inexcusable and he should be ashamed of himself.

You may wonder how I can tell all of this even though I've never met the guy. Some things, however, you can tell after sitting beside a guy in the coffee shop for five minutes and listening to him blather loudly into his BlueTooth earpiece. Oh yeah, I've got his number.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Snake in the Grass

For those of you out there who are Jewish and/or Zoroastrian, I'd like to wish you a merry April Fools' Day! As-Salamu `Alaykum!

There are just so many things wrong with that last statement. I disavow it. I reject and repudiate and denounce. April Fools' Day is not really, as far as I know, a religious holiday. Were it one, however, I would consider converting.

The feet belong to Rayn, my twelve-year-old daughter. The snake is George, according to Rayn. He's a Common Garter Snake, though he's an uncommonly cool one. We found him near our garage door. We released him in the World War I Memorial Park. That's the World War I Memorial in the background. I've always hated it because the back leg of the soldier is bent at an impossible angle, unless it's meant to be a statue of a guy breaking his leg. The Earth was, as far as I can remember, straight on its axis when I took this picture. I think the picture is skewed because it made me nervous to stick my hand and my phone down in front of a snake, even if the snake was George, the harmless Common Garter Snake. He was not, in truth, altogether harmless, because he crapped on my shirt when I first picked him up. Who can blame him? I'd probably do the same thing if someone picked me up and tried to shove me into an empty milk jug from the recycling bin.

This is not an April Fools' Day joke. It really happened. I swear. It really did. Seriously. It's just a case of bad timing posting this today. I swear to you, this is totally true. Look at the picture, for Pete's sake.

Hello, friends. I wonder how you're doing. Won't you tell me?

Love.

Jyburysh

The following is gibberish: Science has proven that we all actually know and remember the same things. Psychologists and experts are convinced that we have all experienced the same things. Mathematicians and statisticians have come to the conclusion that we are all the same person. Thought leaders are sleeping in our bed, wearing your clothes, being intimate with your lover. Everything is the one thing we have in common. Some people accept this conclusion and some people don't.

For my birthday Susan bought the family tickets, at my request, to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the Bass Hall. She got a private box at stage level, the closest box to the stage. We went last night. The seats were amazing. I really enjoyed the music, and Susan and the kids were all good sports about it, though I suspect they were mostly bored. It was a lovely evening.

	Bass Hall is an amazing theatre.
See the bottom box near the stage over there? We were sitting in an identical box across from it.
	Here's a terrible camera-phone picture of the group.

I rarely listen to experts in non-technical fields. I'm not sure you can be an expert in humanities or the social sciences. Where humanity is concerned, both the object is too subjective and the subject has questionable objectives. We lack the proper instruments to measure and the proper metrics to express the findings. Interpretation of the data is impossible. The preceding was gibberish.

Hello, friends. I have nothing to say today. I hope you are well. Are you?

Love.

Everyone's Favorite Thing: An Itemized List of What I Dislike

I do not like many of the things that most people seem to like. I find so many things distasteful that it often causes friction or awkwardness. I spend a lot of time wondering why. People often feel as though I'm judging them when I proclaim my dislike for something they enjoy. I suppose I am, at least indirectly. I suppose I'm questioning their taste or their values. It would be nicer, I suppose, to say nothing. My dislike is so strong and visceral, however, that I almost feel I have to offer an explanation for my discomfort. "It's not you making me cringe and retch, it's just that I really can't stand [INSERT ALMOST ANYTHING HERE.]" It's a no-win situation, I guess. I'm doomed to be me, making others cringe and retch.

Having thought a little about it, I have isolated a small number of root causes. I'm not proud of them, but I've felt strongly for several years now that I need to try to be honest with myself about myself. (I usually just lie to the rest of you, but I'll tell you the truth today.)

• Having grown up poor, unstylish, smoke-scented and chubby, I have an unfair natural distrust of people who are overtly beautiful, affluent or stylish. It's preemptive rejection, I'm sure. It's a defense mechanism against the rejection to which I assume these people would subject me given the chance. I take no pride in this trait, but it's fundamental to my personality and realizing this doesn't seem to mitigate the problem much. This eliminates, for me, a giant chunk of everything in popular media.
• Having been a sincere adherent of a fundamentalistic style of religion for many years, I have a strong distaste for proofery (a word I made up), simplistic syllogisms or rationalisms, and oversimplifications of complex issues. This eliminates, for me, most "news" programs, talk shows and even a lot of documentaries.
• I'm not sure where this comes from, but I really dislike being "pitched" or "sold to". I always think everyone trying to sell something is lying. This eliminates, for me, politics, commercials, news, almost everything else.
• I've always felt like an outsider. Don't get me wrong: I'm very happy and I like who I am. Nevertheless, it's still true that I've always felt like an outsider. For this reason, I think, I dislike close-knit groups, groups with clear boundaries. The simple assumption about an outsider is that they dislike groups because they are not accepted as members. While this might be true for some people, and while this may have been true for me at some point in my life, and while some history with this may even explain my current disdain for such groups, today I have no desire to belong to groups. The idea make me cringe, in fact. Instead, I have a strong desire for belonging and membership to cease to be an issue. I want the boundaries of these groups to dissolve. This is why, I think, I don't enjoy ensemble shows with their close-knit groups of young, attractive hipsters and their typical "What's up with this weirdo?" plotlines.

I suppose, to balance karma, I should list things I like. I like people, unless they're mean. I like hanging out and talking with family and friends. I like to read good writing. I have fun composing and posting this crap every day. I enjoy cooking real food from scratch. I like drawing pictures. I enjoy telling jokes. I like writing software. I enjoy football games as long as I don't care who wins. You know, stuff like that.

Luckily for everyone else, none of this makes much difference in the world. I talk about it here because this is my place. I'm important in this place. You can go almost anywhere else in the world if you don't want to read about me.

Hello, friends. Won't you tell me how you are?

Love.