No Place Like Home

Boulevard Wheat: Unfiltered. Probably the best wheat beer I've tasted. Doesn't seem like you can get it in Colorado. I ain't making it up

Cabela's

Cabela's. I have never been more out of place. There's a sign at the entrance that reads, "For your safety, please check your firearms at the guest counter." Are you serious?! Send help. I'm surrounded by Larrys. I ain't making it up.

The Commercialism I Mean Christmas Season

You tell yourself that this year you'll get all of your Christmas shopping done early. That you won't stand in line with all the rude, crazy nutjobs. But you won't, and you will. You wake on Christmas eve, and there you are. On your way to the mecca of Christmas, the mall. You arrive at the icon of commercialism, the mall. List in hand, and cursing your extraordinary ability to procrastinate. I ain't making it up.

Just Checking In

264 miles later, we're at Fat Dog's getting substandard food and fizzy, yellow beer.

Still Driving

Serene in a boring sort of way. But happy that the roads are not ice packed.

On Our Way

So we decided to try the roads this morning and head home. As you can see Colorado does a good job recovering from snowfall.

Sunshine And Mountains

Let the clean up begin. At least the sun is shining again. It's rare to go days without sunshine in Colorado.

Aftermath

I freed my car from 2 feet of snow a little while ago. I'm less than excited.

Snow's Slowing

It's almost 1pm and the snow seems to be slowing. Let the digging out begin. The good thing about all this is no one lost power. At least, not that I've heard about. The harsh part is temperatures are suppose to remain in the low 30s for the next 5-7 days. So we're not going to get the typical fast melt off.

Blizzard Update

 Blizzards are monotonous. An absurd amount of snow for an absurd amount of time. Days of snow and wind. We have accumulations exceeding two feet. Of course, it could be worse. I could be stranded at Denver International Airport with thousands of others. A little lay over turns into setting up residence in the main concourse. I ain't making it up.

Denver International Airport

DIA is closed, people are stranded and pissed. They just interviewed someone from Miami, FL. on his way to SD, CA. He's wearing flip-flops, a t-shirt and jeans.

Colorado Snow Totals

Some snow totals.

A Surreal Christmas

We're now at 11 inches of snow, with insane wind. De Chirico in Colorado. I ain't making it up.

Blizzard Update

Ok. They are now closing entire cities. I'm watching the news and phrases like, "City of Broomfield-Closed" are running. So far 11" has fallen in the Denver Metro area. We're supposed to get another foot and a half between now and noon tomorrow. I ain't making it up.

Blizzard Trek

So we're a little short on some provisions, id est, we need stuff to make chili and we're out of beer. So I dug myself out of a Long's Peak sized drift and I'm haulin' ass to the store. If you call 10 mph haulin ass. Check the pic. We have 9" of snow so far. I ain't makin' it up.

Colorado Blizzard

Anal glaucoma. I can't see my ass going outside in this weather. This is the thing. Colorado is beautiful and some of the best weather in the country. But every few years, we get dumped on. We're supposed to get anywhere from 12-20 inches. And 3-4 feet in the mountains. The timing couldn't be worse. Friday we're supposed to drive 600 miles home for Christmas. Yea, the roads should be clear by the time we head back, but they won't be. An annoying little fact about Colorado. When it comes to clearing the roads after a blizzard, they lack that certain frenetic energy. So waiting until Saturday, early morning, to make the pilgrimage seems like a better idea. Of course, Samantha doesn't find traveling on inhospitable roads as unsettling. Well, she might, but potential carnage be damned. We're going home on the scheduled date. I'm not an ardent supporter of slavishly adhering to a schedule. Oh well. I'll be working from home today. So maybe I'll write some more later. I ain't making it up.

The Cliche That Is DC-10

Doomed. Philosophical excursions into determinism versus free will are unwarranted. The walls are painted mental asylum gray. Cluttered with television monitors playing self-absorbed reminders of the cliche you're standing in. Mocking your desperation to be viewed as you sip your over priced adult beverage. But never mind that. The VIP section is a booth located fifteen feet from the entrance. And roped off with the velvet rope most commonly seen at an AMC theatre. Yeahhh. Oh and the booths are the same mental asylum gray as the walls. Monochromatism gone fucking retarded. Of course, it's possible that the owners created a living satire of the cliche that is clubs. Yeah, and perhaps Elvis and Tupac opened a 7-11 in Ecuador, too. Seriously. DC-10 is the size of a Denali and lit brighter than a pharmacy.This picture notwithstanding. I ain't making it up.

Funny and Magnificent

Life is both funny and magnificent. I guess you're going to want an explanation. Fair enough.

Last night two of our friends,a couple, welcomed their first child into the world. So we drove to the hospital to offer our congratulations and welcome their bundle of joy. On our way we drove past this restaurant. Context is everything. To reach this particular hospital, from our house, you've gotta drive through downtown Denver. The hood. Ho Mei Chinese Food Restaurant. Get it? Sam almost wrecked my car. I almost spit beer all over the dash. Hilarious.

Not long after that we stood before a beautiful baby girl and two proud parents. One boasting she's ready to go home. The other making a valiant attempt at stifling a showing of pride. Magnificent. I ain't making it up.

Thanksgiving

It happens without warning. Sitting there throwing back a shot here. Another there. Once interesting bar names, now irrelevant. Spill. Mynt. Monarck. Blue Ice. Who gives a fuck, really? Seriously. You're more smashed now than you ever thought possible, and you're not done. Not even close.

In your infinite wisdom, you order Johnnie Walker black--on ice. A sign of brilliance. You eye the bartender while she pours the smoky intoxicating liquor. Gotta make sure she doesn't short ya. Because you need all of it. Of course you do. Your constitution and tolerance know no bounds. Of course they don't. You're Superman. Ten feet tall and made of steel. Of course you are.

It happens without warning. You wake on Thanksgiving morning with a hangover that would fell King Kong. Your wife looking at you as if to say, "You're brilliant." Instead she says, "You've got the turkey, you know." And laughs. I ain't making it up.

The Now

It doesn't happen often. Coming across a bumper sticker that rises above the vapid and peurile. But this one managed. It deals with the only important aspect of our existence. The now. I ain't making it up.

By the way, the sticker reads, "I believe in life BEFORE death."

Comedy

Today is weigh-in and measuring day. So while sane people slept I weighed myself and measured my bodyfat and waist. It's funny to me. I didn't pay much attention to what I ate, other than avoiding the usual suspects, but I lost seven pounds. But don't get me wrong. This is no declaration of victory. I'm not saying it's all over. Just that it's an auspicious beginning.

Weight:216
Bodyfat percentage: 10.5 (Accu-measure)
Waist: 34.5

I know it's the first week. So some of the weight lost is water and other "stuff." But I think it's hilarious that I did nothing more than choose healthier foods and make it to the gym 6 times this week. No magic potions. No secrets. Just good ol' fashioned uncommon common sense. I ain't making it up.

Diet

Antipathetic. That's the only way to describe my feelings about diets. By diets I mean abstaining from foods I enjoy. By diet I mean deprivation and conjuring up Draconian measures,like not eating an entire segment of macro-nutrients (i.e. carbohydrates). But perhaps the way we think of the word "diet" is the problem.

It's rare that we use the word "diet" in any way other than to warn those around us that we may fly into a fit of stabbing and slashing at any second. And for no other reason than we're starving. Nothing personal. Just a little starving. Just a little starving because I can't have this. Oh, I can't have that. Oh, I'm on the Atkins. Oh, I'm on the South Beach. Oh, all that can go to hell.

Listen: when we think of the word "diet" we shouldn't think of a caloric intake that would emaciate a hummingbird. Instead, we should think of changing what we eat day after day. No more drive-thru trans fat trips. Instead, we eat foods from a healthier selection. And eat lots of those foods. But don't get me wrong. If turning yourself into a parody by way of starvation sounds like fun, I'll laugh.

Special Moments

Pain, or the threat of it, has this way of bringing focus. Something you notice when holding 250 pounds above your chest. Incline presses are definitely mind clearing. Not too concerned about yesterday, tomorrow, what song's playing on my iPod, or any other of life's travails. None of that. I've heard the breaking of a bone sounds like a tree branch snapping, and my only concern was not experimenting with my own clavicle. It's that sort of concern you confront upon realizing you've overestimated yourself. The holy shit moment.

This is not the holy shit moment that normally accompanies the witnessing of something unexpected.The two are discrete. Yeah, this is the holy shit moment that comes only when you realize you're not John Wayne.That Superman is a comic book character. This is the holy shit moment that comes when you realize you're faced with imminent injury,and you did it all by yourself. Go. Me.

Nostratrevus

"How the hell do you do it," I asked somewhere in the neighborhood of my fourth beer.

"What're you talking about," Trev said. Feigned ignorance.

"Oh, is this your coy act? How in the hell did you pick Louisville to beat West Virginia one week; and, then, the very next week you pick Rutgers to beat Louisville," I asked.

He laughed a bit,drained his beer and shrugged. "I just have it like that."

"You have it like this," I said and shot him the finger. Fuck I hate picking up the tab. I ain't making it up.

Fitness Magazines

I don't do deprivation. I don't care if it's emotional, spiritual, physical, or intellectual. Deprivation is for someone else. Oh, I know there were some religious sects that believed deprivation, self-flagellation and abnegation were the keys to their spiritual salvation. I don't subscribe to any of those theories. No, in general, I subscribe to a philosophy marked by debauchery and hedonism. The way I see things, I'm only going around once. No deprivation for me, thanks.

Nonetheless, I'm curious as to whether I can get a set of six-pack abs. You know the kind that are seen on the covers of magazines. But without the aid of Photoshop, or pharmaceuticals of a dubious nature (i.e. steroids).

So with that in mind, today I weighed myself, bought an Accumeasure and a measuring tape. So, here's the good, bad, and the ugly.

I weighed 223 pounds with a bodyfat measurement of 12 percent.My waist is 35.5." Oh, and I'm 6'2." I guess I should be losing somewhere between 1-2 pounds a week. In case that somehow matters to you.

Anyway, here's the goal. I want a body fat percentage of 4.9. If you're the inquisitive type, you might wonder how I settled on that number. Simple. I have never been that lean. I have approached it at 7.2, but never been below 5. Also, because intuition tells me that in order to have a serious set of abs, it's necessary to have a body fat measurement below five percent. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.

So here's the deal, I'm going to diet and workout consistently until March 21, 2007. Then, we'll see where I am. That date sounds as though it's a long way off, but it's not. Not when you're trying to call bullshit on the fitness mag industry.

Well, I guess it's not so much trying to call bullshit, as it is challenging myself. But anyone that knows me, knows I would love to be able to say, "I did it without the aid of deprivation."

Oh and by the way, this isn't going to turn into a fitness blog. I'll mention my little experiment and all that pedestrian bullshit, but in the end you'll be subjected to my dramatizations of drunken nights, mental meanderings and just bullshit in general. So, I guess, nothing has really changed. I ain't making it up.

Computer Provided Beauty

The glitzy, polished mags with absurdly fit models taunting you from the covers. You've seen them, if you've ever found yourself standing in line at the grocery store. Wasp waisted women wearing bikinis and smug countenances. Men with "six pack" abs and similar expressions. "Look like this in just 8 weeks" the caption screams.My ass. They probably don't look like that either. I ain't making it up. Peep this.

Nonetheless, I haven't been in the gym for about a month. I need to get in there and get it right, buddy. Winter/Fall time is a good time to get ripped for the Spring/Summer season. Right? See if I can have an eau naturale six pack. Rock and roll, baby. Lock and load, baby.

Tragedies to Comedies

What's the worst thing that's happened to you? If answering that question is an arduous task, it's probably not that bad, or you've had an absurdly fucked up life. If it's the latter, you have stories to tell. But you really shouldn't. People wouldn't believe them. But you have my condolences. In any event, I saw some people last night that could probably relate.

Lying there flipping through hundreds of banal channels. A nun trying to sell--whatever. Are you serious? Click. A blonde madman seizing over a piece of bullshit exercise equipment. Click. An octogenarian and a rotisserie machine that simultaneously cooks multiple chickens. Like chicken, do ya gramps? Go easy on the Grecian Formula, homey. Click. An ab roller. The credulity of the general public has no limits. Click. A man with eyes abjectly devoid of emotion staring at me. His face heavily tattooed with what I learned are gang tattoos. Hold on a second. I put the remote down.

A documentary about prison gangs in Africa. New inmates were arriving. The interviewer asked the formidable gang member, "What's going to happen to them?"

"Some will be raped, some will be stabbed," he said with all the aplomb of acknowledging today is Friday. He went on to discuss life inside prison. He chillingly recounted raping his first man at the age of 10. That's right, 10. Other gang members held a rival member down and let a 10-year-old rape him. He smiled wistfully, chuckled and said, "Can you imagine?"

The interviewer asked, "Are you serious?"

A baleful stare, "Do you doubt that it happens?"

A stammering, "No. I don't."

"Then don't ask such questions. You're not as safe as you might think," wryly smiling.

Suddenly my life tragedies seem like comedies. Imagine the lives of the new inmates. An unrelenting psychopath stalking your manhood and life. If you're lucky enough not to have a late night visitor, imagine lying in your cell and listening to the dissonant, horrific sounds filling the air.

And earlier in the day I was off the deep end pissed because the dry cleaners shrunk a pair of my linen pants. That's hilarious in an embarrassing, pathetic sort of way. I ain't making it up.

Sorta Funny

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things. Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life. You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation. You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon. Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall. You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others. At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults. Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion. A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperment Are You?

Still Screwing Around

Your Observation Skills Get An A

Hardly anything gets by you... You have a great memory and eagle eyes

How Observant Are You?

Screwing Around

If only the bar exam was a test of logic.

You Are Incredibly Logical

Move over Spock - you're the new master of logic You think rationally, clearly, and quickly. A seasoned problem solver, your mind is like a computer!

How Logical Are You?

Irony

Two outlandishly conventional people standing in line at Starbuck's, waiting to buy a $4 cup of coffee. Whiling away the time by assailing consumerism. These same two amorphous suburbanites discussing the malevolence of materialism as they slide behind the wheel of their Subarus. Irony is everywhere, you just have to pay attention.

This past weekend, I came across the definition of catholic. It means universal and all-embracing. I re-read the definition a few times. Stifled a laugh, and wallowed in the irony. I ain't making it up.

Insanity

Listen, and I ain't making it up, either. It's 5am and I can't find my sanity. Pounding away on a treadmill for 45 minutes just seems to fall a bit outside the province of sane. Yet, there I was running and running and running in place. Staring at a digital read out that says I'm at mile 3.26, with 27'20" elapsed, and I've burned 550 calories. My iPod pumping out music that I tuned out long ago. I am one with my pain. I am one with my insanity. I can't seem to remember where I was the last time I saw my mind. If you find it, I want it back.

Food For The Game

The game of submission and dominance is ambient. I ain't making it up. Look around. The amount of time someone takes before answering a question. Asking someone to clarify a remark. Expansive gestures with the arms and hands when speaking. Eye contact when speaking to someone. And we oscillate between the two roles, depending on the social context.

Sometimes, the role we play depends on our job.You know like waiters, waitresses,and cooks are in submissive roles to the patron. They cook food according to your oft ill-conceived preference and bring it to you. And the waiter, or waitress, will ask you if there is anything else you need. And with a smugness that's out of place at an IHOP, you'll say "No, I think I have everything I need for now. Thanks." At the grocery store, the cashier checks out your groceries, bags your groceries, gives you a receipt and then asks if you need help out to your car.

And you need a vicious ass kicking if you're rude to these people. They don't owe you shit. They're doing their job. Just because your husband gave you a dose of the clap, doesn't mean you're entitled to get all cunty with your waiter. Just because your wife snorts a gram before lunch and washes it down with a liter of vodka as a warmup to giving the pool boy the reverse cowgirl, doesn't mean you can be an asshole to someone who only wants to know if you want paper or plastic. But some just don't get it.

She smelled like Wal-mart. You know that smell. She looked to be somewhere around 20. She was in the neighborhood of 5'4" with fat rolls spilling over the top of her too tight pants. You know the ones that have ties at the bottom of the pant leg. She had a pair of black flip flops that looked two summers old. A white t-shirt designed to show off a moderately impressive chest,but I wonder if she intended to let the world know she was wearing a yellow bra. Her face is hard to describe, but if you can picture a Cabbage Patch doll aged 20 years, then you got her. Oh, and she had that skunk hairdo thing you see people wearing now. You know, black and blonde. She topped this hot, steaming mess off with a diva attitude.

"Did you find everything you need," the cashier asked.

"Not really, but that's just the deal here."

"Is there something that I can help with?"

"Doubtful. Just hurry, please." She looked at me and rolled her eyes. My disgust was stirring.

When the cashier finished ringing up her groceries, she began bagging them.

"Be sure to double bags those. You guys don't do it if I don't tell you." The cashier, her name tag read "Maggie," didn't respond, but double bagged the groceries. When she finished, she printed the receipt and handed it to Helmsley.

"Would you like some help out," the cashier managed to smile, even.

"Yes, actually," Helmsley said. She had two bags. One had some feminine items in it, you know what I'm talking about. And the other had about four packages of Ramen Noodles.. The cashier motioned to someone bagging in another line and tells him that, "This lady needs some help out." The guy paused, looked Helmsley up and down, smiled in a way that seemed to say, "You can't be serious," shrugged, and hefted her bags out to her car. I ain't making it up.

Treos

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. I pictured myself getting up from the table and walking to the front of the restaurant. Passing the hostess I cast her the thin-lipped smile and offer a barely audible, "How're you doing?" Like I give a shit. Opening the door, bending down to pick up one of the loose cobblestones I noticed as we entered the restaurant. Turning around, going through the same vacuous exchange with the same hostess. Continuing on to the soon-to-be-in-ICU-bastard's table, offering him the same "How're you doing" right before I drive the brick into the fucker's face.


As part of our anniversary celebration, Sam and I decided to eat at the Boulder Chophouse.It's a nice steakhouse with great service, fantastic atmosphere and amazing steaks. Seriously, the steaks melt in your mouth like butter.

But anyway, our server comes to the table to takes our drink order and gives us some time to peruse the menu. We decided to order an appetizer to enjoy while we sipped our drinks. Both arrived a short time later. Our server returned and took our dinner order. By the way, I'm making this part of the story intentionally vague. Sam and I discussed things that only lovers do, and it's not really anyone's business what we talked about. Thanks.

So anyway, towards the end of our amazing dinner, I hear a noise that seemed as out of place as a polar bear in Barbados. The noise rudely interrupted the elegant atmosphere. I couldn't place the noise at first. Then, it hit me.

It's a fucking cellphone. A cellphone--here. The fact that the phone rang was maddening enough. But this Dick and Mild smoking bastard answers the phone at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah!"

Sam and I exchange glances. The distance to him was about 6 feet.

"Okay, tell me what's going on,"he bellowed in a stentorian voice that caught me off guard. His wife excuses herself and goes to the restroom. I'm annoyed. Despite Sam's protests, I begin to stare. He looks to be in his mid 40's. He has a tonsure that only nature can grant. His clean shaven skin is over tan. He's dressed in a faded pink polo. A holdover from the 80's. Pink just came back into fashion favor. Not long enough to fade a shirt to this degree. His shorts were blue, and a bit too short. His shoes were hideous walking shoes. But I found his skin as repugnant as his behavior. It looked like it belonged on someone much larger. When he spoke, the skin on his neck shook. The skin on his face seemed to hang off. His arms shook as he gestured about like some ancient Roman senator.

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. Then, I noticed the phone. Really noticed. A Treo 600, 650, 700, whatever--I couldn't tell. But you've seen these phones. Usually, they're attached to a belt. The belt is typically worn by someone with an exaggerated sense of self-importance.

"I have to stay connected. I have to stay informed about what is going on in my company because I'm so important." You can almost hear the incessant repeating if you listen. You can almost see the rehearsing, if you look. It's funny, though, who you never see with these phones. The people that are actually integral to their company. The owners. The CEO's. Presidents. If you're truly important, you don't have one of these phones. You're the person other people worry about. People worry about staying connected to you. People worry about missing your call. People worry about having answers to the questions you ask. More importantly, people don't call you, you call them on their Treo...whatever. You hand out the Treos to the minions. You hand out the electronic bitch leash to the minions.

I snapped out of my homicidal fantasy and realized that this guy was someone's bitch. I smiled, chuckled and drained my drink. Cellphones as status symbols. And his phone symbolized his status as someone's bitch. Look around and see for yourself. I ain't making it up.

Vanity

The only reason that comes to mind is vanity. I'm unabashedly vain. Sure, maybe I'm staying healthy for my kids. Except I don't have kids, and none on the horizon. Or perhaps I just want to stay healthy and live a long life. That can't be it; I'm still young enough to think I'm invincible. I guess that leaves vanity.I can't think of any other reason to be driving to the gym before God is awake. Not only am I driving to the gym, I'm also looking forward to an hour of the self-inflicted flagellation we call working out.

Don't look at me like that. Vanity isn't a character flaw if I tell you I'm vain. It's similar to Kurt Vonnegut telling you "All the truths I'm about to tell you are shameless lies." Or, if I tell you it's a rip-off, it's not a rip-off. I'm admitting it. Unlike people who say they don't watch TV, or didn't vote for Bush, I'm not lying to you. Not that I lie awake at night worrying about what you think of me.

Of course, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have something of an ego. Not only do I have a blog, which is one of the more narcissistic venues available, but I also told you as much in my profile. Oooppps, didn't mean to ruin your fun.

Poor Goth Wookie

Because the urge didn't strike. That's all. I didn't post yesterday because I didn't feel like it. Seriously, sometimes I read other blogs. Occasionally you come across one where the author hasn't posted for a bit, or they missed the previous day. The opening paragraph is invariably an apology for missing an entry or two. I always get a laugh out of the misplaced contrition. The way I see things, volition is a perquisite of adulthood. Generally, you don't have to do things when you don't feel like it. Really, you're not going to get grounded, or sent to bed without dinner, if you don't write in your blog each day.

That's what I was chuckling to myself about when I heard Sam say, " You have to turn the card around." We were walking to the grocery store when she decided that she wanted to buy a tanning package. So, naturally, I had to accompany her. I think she planned it. I think the look on people's faces when an African-American man walks into a tanning place amuses her. I let her have her fun.

Anyway, I snapped out of my reverie in time to see Sam hand over a credit card to a Goth wookie. The wookie swiped the card and said, "Your card's been declined." Given that Sam is obsessive about paying off credit cards each month, I knew there was some sort of mistake. Seriously, she's obsessive.

A look of amusement passed over Sam's face before she said, "You have to turn the card the other way."

"No, I said the card's declined," said the wookie. I took a couple steps back. This was not going to work out well for the wookie, and she didn't see it yet. I find amusement in other people's stupidity.

"Oh, I heard you. Did you hear me?" Sam said in a tone that belied the impending verbal ass kicking.

"Look, ma'am," wookie started. Sam snatched the card from the wookie, turned it the correct way and ran it through the scanner. And lo and behold, it worked.

"Oh, I guess it's working now," wookie stammered sheepishly. I shook my head in wonderment. It's hard to convincingly pretend to be that stupid. Yet, here was the wookie. Maybe she wasn't pretending. I wondered if her parents had any children that lived.

"Is the owner here," Sam asked. Don't look now, wookie. But here comes your long overdue ass kicking.

"Oh, she doesn't work until tomorrow, but we're all good here now," said the wookie.

"Oh, we're a long way from all good. Cancel the transaction," Sam ordered.

"Wh, what?" The wookie stammered.

"You heard me."

"I can give you a discount. It's okay."

"I'm going to decide what's okay. Cancel it."

"What's wrong with the discount?"

"I'm coming back tomorrow, and I bet your boss gives me a much larger discount. I'm also willing to bet she's going to lighten the payroll just a bit, too." And the wookie is down and out for the count!

The wookie cancelled the transaction. I thought for a second the wookie was going to cry. I silently begged her not to cry. If she cried, I didn't think I could contain my laughter. I wasn't sure I wanted to contain it.

Sam returned the card to her purse, turned to me, rolled her eyes and said, "Did this just happen?" I burst into laughter as we walked out.

Pleasantly Hungover

Practicing zazen is a difficult task, with the remnants of the night before roaming through your body. So after about 20 minutes, I gave up and headed to the shower. Slightly amused, I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Red rivers running capriciously through the whites of my eyes? Check. Dehydrated lips? Check. A tongue resembling mohair? Check. "I'm the withered victim of my appetites," I chuckled to myself. Sam entered the bathroom. Looked at me quizzically and asked, "What're you smirking about?" I shrugged, laughed and said, "I just crack myself up sometimes." After shaking her toussled hair and sitting down to relieve herself, "They have drugs for that, you know." As I began running a shower I said, "May cause anal leakage and erectile dysfunction." I moved my stale, dirty body underneath the warm shower stream. "Take this, smartass," Sam laughed as she flushed the toilet. I'm pretty sure I need a skin graft.

I Shouldn't But....

Time for a refill or 14. What's a wedding without a hangover. I'm just trying to do my part.

Made It

Seven bladder filling hours later.

My Eyeballs Are Floating

Six beers later. Golly gee,I wonder how I ended up here?

You Are Nowhere

I was so thirsty I could've spit dust, and the tank was half full. So we stopped for beer and gas.

Enthusiasm Curbed

Today I have the profound pleasure of driving 540 miles. And to what do I owe this pleasure? Another of Sam's cousins is promising to love another for all eternity. It should be a gala occasion.

Corporate Sodomy

Keening about gas prices teeters on the unreasonably ridiculous. The sky's blue, grass is green, and the oil companies are cornholing you at the pump. It's axiomatic, really. Why bitch? Because it's unrelenting bullshit that renews its unwelcome stench with each refill. An oil exec gloating, winking and nodding knowingly at the automotive industry. Yeah, it's a bit trite to kvetch about something axiomatic. But Valero just raped me with a pachydermesque dick, and I'm a little pissed. Twenty-seven dollars for 9 gallons of gas, fuck.

Another Day

She was pretty in that common beauty pageant, TV anchor sort of banal way. Consumed by her own materialism. Her too blonde hair, too red lipstick, and too matte makeup. Her myopic rendition of beauty. In one hand a breakfast sandwich of some sort from McDonald's. In the other, a vat of coffee from Starbuck's. As I stared at her I found myself wondering how she would negotiate the impending turn without wrapping her car around a light pole. As if in response to my curiosity, she shoved the remainder of her sandwich in her mouth. Her cheeks straining against the load. It reminded me of a scene in Aliens, where the alien is tearing free of its host's chest. I chuckled a bit to myself. Then, full on laughter as a tube of impossibly red lipstick suddenly appeared in her hand. That's what you need, more lipstick. As she began applying it, the light turned green. She mouthed, "Shit" to herself. I thought I would hang back some. I didn't want to be in the way if she wrecked. Impressively, she managed the turn sans carnage.

I turned my attention to the radio station, Shade 45. Rick Ross is hustling everyday, if you let him tell it. And he will tell it--over and over and over. As I pull into Vavoline, I wonder what ever happened to talent. What happened to the rule that says, "You must possess some talent to be an entertainer." The radio just plays these canned, commercial, homogeneous songs anymore. One "artist" barely discernible from the next. Sad, really.

It was right about here that one of the attendants raises the garage door and, standing there in that dingy blue uniform, starts guiding me over the oil change station. Funny, suddenly I feel like an airline pilot.

I exit my car and,exchanging vacant pleasantries with an attendant, make my way to the waiting room. Here I peruse the magazine selection and realize that I must be a mutant. Apparently, everyone who gets their oil changed is obsessive about cars. That must be the case, because all of the magazines seemed to cover the automotive industry with pathological enthusiasm. I don't share their enthusiasm for cars or the industry.

"Hey, Simon. How ya' doin?" It's the attendant that I exchanged pleasantries with. I find it almost hilarious that he's speaking to me as though he's a friend that I've had for years. Glancing at his name tag, I decide to play his game, "Not too bad. Terry. Yourself?"

"Looks like you're a little overdue here by a couple hundred miles," he says. I look at him impassively. There's a pause. I realize he's expecting me to offer some sort of excuse. I cross my arms and yawn.
"Well, do you want to go with the same oil as last time?"

I nodded in the affirmative. I'm pulling out of their driveway about 10 minutes later. As I'm driving out, I wonder why we offer excuses, or lies, to perfect strangers. You could tell from Terry's Pavlovian behavior that he expected me to offer up some sort of excuse. "Well, Terry, because thinking about doing mundane tasks, like getting my oil changed, makes my balls itch." Or, maybe, "Yeah, I always like to wait a little longer than your recommended date because I like to see you stand there in that slack-jawed way asking me stupid fucking questions. It's part of the $28 for me." It's a curious cultural idiom--making up excuses. It probably stems from a sense of guilt. Guilt is overrated.

Conversation

"I just sat there wondering what exactly life encompasses. Getting a job so that I'm able to meet an array of financial responsibilities. Hoping I will have enough disposable income to keep pace with the Joneses. It's amusing, sorta. Exchanging hours of your life for money. Permitting someone else to tell you what an hour, or a year, of your life is worth. Then each morning, fighting fatigue and traffic, you drag your ass into the office trying to prove that your life is worth more. And, maybe during your one hour lunch break, you sit there wondering if this is what your life is supposed to be. Your life as a corporate acolyte. Your life defined by your job, vehicle, address, Pottery Barn and Banana Republic," I said.

"I began questioning what matters and what doesn't. 'Be ye lamps unto yourselves.' Those are supposed to be the Buddha's last words to his followers. You know, question authority? But then you find that you're questioning everything, including whether there is a such thing as authority. Or, if there is, should we reject it as a concept. It can all get pretty confusing. So, anyway, I started reading different books on philosophy, religion and spirituality. Although stated in differing ways, most stated the same empty, dull, apochryphal platitudes concerning existence," I continued. I began to wonder if I was boring Samantha to tears, but she asked why I began meditating. Plus she still looked interested in my random, meandering answer.

"I picked up Alan Watts' 'The Way Of Zen' and he explains that Zen is a way of liberation, not a religion or a philosophy. It's a way of finding the truth of our existence. It's funny, the hardest thing to do is to sit there and not think about anything at all. To completely quiet your mind. You never realize how much it races until you try to make it stop. It's crazy."

"I guess like when you can't fall asleep? You just can't turn it off," she asked.

"Exactly like that until you get better at it. So that's why I started. I want to know the truth of my existence. I know it can't be the sum of what I consume or own. That's too bleak and boring an existence for a human being."

"There's always the possibility that you will find the truth and not like it. Then it will be too late to turn and run. I mean, once you know something it's hard to deny, from that point forward, that it doesn't exist. Like 2+2=4, the sky's blue, etc.You can't deny those truths any longer," she said. I nodded and admitted that the thought does give me pause. What will I find? I have no idea, maybe that conforming blindly to society is antithetical to our true existence. We'll see.

Gas

So, after I spent fifty dollars for 16 gallons of gas, I had to pee. This award almost made me pee down my leg. Seriously, how do you win this award?

On A Mission

He's bloated with bullshit, but that's not what made him especially annoying. He spoke with the cadence of a used car salesman, but I could forgive that. He's standing there in a Misfits t-shirt, khakis, and boat shoes. An irony that possibly, under different circumstances, might effect visceral functions. But, at this moment, I had a purpose that didn't involve the ridiculously retarded. But that's the rule for the ridiculously retarded. They have a knack for accosting your attention, throwing it into a headlock. Charly was not the exception. I guess if you're going to read the rest of this, you're gonna want to know what I'm talking about.

I'd just finished my workout. Naturally, a beer or 6-12, was calling. So, after changing into dry clothes, I hop in my car and make a bee line for the nearest liquor store door. I pull into the parking lot without much ado,score rockstar parking, and as I'm reaching for the car door handle I notice Charly.

Not in that "notice" kinda way, but in the way that you notice someone muttering incoherently to themselves. Acknowledge that he's there, and ignore them in earnest.Charly, however, doesn't think this is the place for such grace.

I'm purposefully walking to the door and averting my eyes. Despite all of my attempts at congeniality and avoidance, Charly interrupts the mission.

"Hi,sir," he started. "Can I have a moment of your time to discuss an opportunity that will forever change your life, and the life of your loved ones?" His hands anxiously offering a flyer. I cast a baleful look in his direction and say, "Maybe, if you can tell me one song The Misfits sing."

Blank expression. "What?"

"That's about what I thought. You shouldn't wear t-shirts of bands you don't listen to. It's just annoying." And with that I pushed through the doors and resumed the mission.

In An Inane Mode

You Are a Dragon

You are very charismatic and incredibly popular. People are drawn to your energy, but you are a very difficult person to get to know. You are very active - you are usually hard at work or play. You enjoy drama, and you enjoy anything unusual or eccentric.

What Mythological Creature Are You?

The Truth--More Or Less

The Internet is gravid with vapid diversions. Well known fact. Nonetheless,I answered the questions contained in a link a friend sent me. Interesting, kinda. What's more interesting is Samantha's reaction to the answers.

"Once."

"Bullshit more or less.Transparent and predictable are the last two adjectives I would choose. Trust me on that one." Eye roll ensues.

"Yeah, you're defintitely creative," she says with a wink and a smile.

"For sure."

"Yeah."

"You like what you like. What you don't--knows it."

"Definitely."

"What? When did that start?"

Well, there you have it. The Internet assessment of my spirit. And the assessment of someone who knows me. You be the judge.

Amusing

You Are a Newborn Soul

You are tolerant, accepting, and willing to give anyone a chance. On the flip side, you're easy to read and easily influenced by others. You have a fresh perspective on life, and you can be very creative. Noconformist and nontraditional, you've never met anyone who's like you. Inventive and artistic, you like to be a trendsetter. You have an upbeat spirit and you like almost everything. You make friends easily and often have long standing friendships. Implusive and trusting, you fall in love a little too easily. Souls you are most compatible with: Bright Star Soul and Dreaming Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

Dillon

We're going to Dillon today. It's supposed to be beautiful. I don't know if the weather is going to cooperate, but we'll see.

Troll

"Have you ever punched someone in the face? Or been punched in the face?" I was answering Eddie, who'd just asked what I was thinking about. Vague, ambiguous stares rested on Eddie, Kevin and Trevor. I knocked back my shot of Bushmills, took a sip of beer, set the glass down and waited for an answer.

"Where's this going?" Asks Eddie.

"I'm trying to answer your question." He looked around the table at the others. Eddie's never been in a fight and I knew it. Lucky him.

"The first time you hit someone in the face, it's a little traumatic. Shocking, kinda. Not like on TV." I started. Kevin nodded in agreement. I knew he'd been in his share of fist fights and I obliquely wondered why he hadn't spoken up. "The bone of your knuckles slamming into the bone and cartilage of someone's face; their nose maybe. Maybe an eye socket." I got the bartender's attention and motioned for another round of drinks. "Sometimes, when you're by yourself, you think about it. At least the first time," I said. "You don't want to admit to your friends, or yourself for that matter, that hurting someone somehow bothered you. But it did, and there's no two ways about it. Unless you're some sort of psychopath."

"Is this going somewhere?" Trev asked.

"Oh, I imagine so. I'm just taking the tourist route."

"We've lived here for about 7 years now." I took the point. I occasionally come down with logorrhea when I've been drinking.

"Well, we're told from the time we're able to throw a decent looking punch not to hit women. And,being the good little boys we are, we mind our parents. So we don't hit girls for no other reason than our parents told us not to." The bartender came, set down our drinks and asked if there was anything else. His shift was over. I shook my head. But we took the hint and we each gave him some cash.

"But the first time you jaw jack someone, there becomes a reason for not hitting women that's a bit more tangible than your parents' voice clanging about in your head," I continued. "The sudden violence of it. The barbarism of hitting someone. The carnage that used to be a face, if you find yourself so enraged that you can't stop." Trev raised his shot glass, we all tapped glasses, and threw the liquor to the back of our throats.

I gazed around the table and I could tell that not only was I dominating the conversation, but it was either annoying the hell out them, or confusing the hell out of everyone. I couldn't decide. But I delivered the point.

"I talked to my friend Tony in Seattle earlier today," I said. This was met by nods of recognition. Trev and Kevin have met him. "You remember his ex-fiance?"

"You mean the one that ran out and took all of his shit? That troll?" Trev asked.

"One and the same." I said. I shook my head in disbelief. I still couldn't believe the story he told me today.

"Well, apparently she's knocked up by some Larry that she met on MySpace."

"You're shitting me, "laughed Kevin.

"I bullshit you not. Anyway, Larry and her drop by Tony's aunt and uncle's house every once and a while."

"Hold the fuck up, " Eddie says. "They drop by TONY'S aunt and uncle's house?! Fucking for what? Your visiting privileges were revoked when we broke up, troll."

"No shit," Trev said. I could tell he was getting a bit drunk, and there was going to be some vitriolic language in the near future.

"Oh, but that's not all. On their latest visit, she,with Larry sittting there, asked if they could move in--with Tony's aunt and uncle." I paused. Took a deep drink of my beer, and let that settle in. Incredulous laughter. Shaking of the heads. Complete disbelief.

"Is this fucking bitch's late night snack paint chips? Seriously, what's her fucking problem," Trev started. "Okay, just to recap," he takes a sip of brew while holding up his hand asking for a second. "You and I are going to get married. Then, because lately you been demonstrating some troll tendencies, I decide that we need to just put this off for a few months. You know, until I determine whether or not you're a fucking stray masquerading as a decent human being. Then, mustering up all of the morality that exists in your fiber, you move out while I'm at work and steal all of my shit. Then, because I'm a nice guy--and Tony is too fucking nice if you ask me--I just let it go. Chalk it up to the cost of doing business with tramps." We're getting a good laugh out of this. He takes a swig of beer. His leg bouncing in obvious agitation.

"Then, you keep calling my aunt and uncle. Announce to them that you're knocked up by some guy you met while trolling on Myspace. Then, because you have some misplaced idea of what's acceptable and what isn't, you ask them if you and Larry can move in. Are you fucking shitting me?"

I took a drink of beer. Nodded. Pretty good synopsis. Funny, when you hear it summed up like that, it's hard to believe this shit is really going on. The absurdity of it all is breathtaking.

"How long has this shit been going on," asked Eddie.

"A little over a year now," I answered. A year. Wow, I just realized that'd it been a year.

"A year?! A fucking year?! That bitch is like herpes. She just won't go away," yelled Trev.

"Seriously, there are some fucking rules, bitch. Like, when one of your friends breaks up with a girl, you can't date her. That's just fucking wrong," says Kevin. "And when you break up with that girl, or she breaks up with you--however it goes--you don't visit each other's families. You don't talk to them, you don't send them fucking Christmas cards. Nothing. All of that shit is over."

"It's just waaaay too awkward," says Eddie. "She has no fucking sense." We sat in silence for a bit. Drinking our beer and shaking our heads. Imagining what type of necrosis has to set in to devolve into something so vile. Honestly, if I got something like this troll stuck to my shoe, I'd just buy a new pair of shoes.

"She's cuntastically fucked up," says Trevor. "But now I think I get where you were going earlier."

"Me too, "says Kev.

"Would you punch her in the face," Eddie says. We silently sat there each of us contemplating it for themselves.

"Would you, Simon. Would you drop her ass," Kevin asked.

"I'm not your moral compass, " I answered. "Would you?"

"I hate to say it, but I think I would shoot her one," said Kevin. He looked around the table to gauge the reactions of everyone. The expressions were impassive. I think everyone wanting to say unequivocally that they would just leave it be. That they would just let it go. But, and maybe it was the booze, no one could say that and it was all over their faces.

Trev leaned in and said, "Okay come clean, Simon Would you play her some chin music?"

"I'm not Chris Rock. But I wouldn't do it, but if Tony did, I would understand." Chuckles all around. "But Larry is a different story. I'd drop kick his ass into the Puget Sound. Just for being such a loser as to stand in my aunt and uncle's living room while trolleriffic asks to move in."

"No doubt," Trev said as he motioned for another beer.

Uniforms

It's hilarious actually. Fashion, I'm talking about. We like to think that how we dress is an expression of our individuality, of our creativity. That through our own volition we have developed an amazing sense of personal style. Funny where you find entertainment.

We wear uniforms. Not the polyester brown McDonald's uniform, or the obnoxious blue and yellow uniforms of Blockbuster. But we wear uniforms, nonetheless. This morning, while sitting at a stop light listening to Shade 45, a group of five people crossed the street. Cargo shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops. You know you've seen that uniform. You probably own it. I do. I'll admit it. And this wasn't the only uniform that I saw today.

I took a walk in our neighborhood today. As I came up on Peaberry's Coffee house, I saw a table of three women. Capris, sleeveless shirts and obnoxiously large sunglasses. You know someone who has this uniform. You've seen it. But we say it's stylish. We don't call it a uniform. But that's what it is.

So here's your homework assignment. The next time you have to go to the store for some incidentals, or otherwise find yourself out and about, take note of the uniforms. I have a couple more in mind, but I want to see what others notice. Drop me a line. Let me know what uniforms you see in our cult of conformity. I'll revisit this later. I just sort of noticed it, and thought I would drop a hurried post.

I'm So Sick Of Celebrities

It makes no difference to me whether or not you believe what I'm about to tell you. Seriously, I don't. Because that's the funny thing about the truth. It is what it is. Truth just sits there waiting on you to take a look and discover it for yourself. If you somehow find the truth uncomfortable or inconvenient, truth doesn't give a damn. It is what it is. And the truth is pretty simple when it comes to that social phenomenon we call celebrity.

Celebrities are a matter of public opinion. We give these celebrities their money and their lifestyles. We give them their deified status. And with the help of mass media, a cult of personality is born. With the help of mass media, we care when one of them acts a complete ass after a night of solid drinking. Two of them get married, and it's fodder at the water cooler. A rumored divorce will divide a country quicker than a presidential election. And what have any of these people done to deserve such unflapping interest and praise? Nothing. Nada. Not a damn thing.

Listen: These self-absorbed pricks have no intrinsic value. You and I impute value upon them. Don't believe me? What talent does Paris Hilton bring to the table? If you say, "She's hot," someone should slap you to the ground. No, she's not. Pompous and self-obsessed, definitely, but not hot. Oh, but I don't mean to pick on Paris. I find that most of these celebrities have no real importance aside from that which we lay at their feet.

Next time you're at the check out line in the grocery store, check out some of the airbrushed smiles beaming at you from the magazine covers. I dare you to find one talented person. Sure, a popular person. A person that we bestow unquestioned adulation upon. Maybe a good looking person. But hitting the genetic powerball doesn't euqate to talent. It just means that corporations will use these vessles of nothingness to sell you a bunch of mass produced, poorly made stuff that you don't need.

Don't get me wrong. It's not the celebrities fault. Hell, it's good work if you can get it. Sit around let people worship you and directly, or indirectly, provide you with an income that allows you to purchase private islands, yachts and Bentlys. How do you beat that? You can't. But why do we act so surprised and shocked if one of them misbehaves?

Just take a look. It all over news. Mel Gibson got drunk, drove, and then, when he was pulled over, let loose with some "vitriolic language." Lindsay Lohan got called on the carpet because she parties too much and misses work. These stories made national news. Are you serious?! It made national news and everyone shook their heads in despair and disappointment and tsk-tsk'd. Astonished that they could behave in such a way. Hey, news flash. They aren't gods. They are humans and, therefore, flawed. Gibson sounds to be so more than others, mind you. But, nontheless, they are flawed and bound to screw up. And when they do, it shouldn't be a matter of national concern. Honestly, Lohan is, what, 19? You tell me how you would act at 19 with all that money. I don't think professionalism is the first thing that jumps to mind when you think of 19-year-old millionaires. Either way, I don't care. It shouldn't be national news.

So anyway, there it is. Again, you may not like it, but the truth doesn't care. Celebrities are just people that we overvalue and overconcern oursleves with. They are just people that we have made out to be royalty because...well, for whatever reason. They only exist because we say they do.

Any Excuse To Make It Stop

If you want to know the truth, I think it's funny how a good workout can make you call bullshit. Yeah, it's funny the impact a little pain and suffering can have on your peaceful, compassionate, aware mind. If you're running, and you're in decent shape, it'll happen around mile 3. If you're in worse shape, a little earlier. Better shape, a little later. But it happens. It always happens.

"It" is Mount St. Helen's erupting in your legs. "It" is the lava forming in your chest. "It" is that morbidly self-inflicted torture that you put yourself through, for whatever reason. Announcing to the world your penchant for masochism. "It" makes you think, and say, absurd shit like, "No pain, no gain." Bullshit.

What's even worse is that we, as human beings, always seem to seek out pain and suffering. Like we're some abused wife who doesn't feel like her husband really, truly loves her until he's bouncing her ass around the house like his own little private tether ball. So she sets about doing the shit that really pisses him off. Seeking a world-class ass kicking. But this shit isn't new.

As I have mentioned before, I practice Zen meditation most days. Well, as one might expect, I've done some reading about Buddhism. You know, figure out what it was and all that. Well, while reading one book, I came across a discussion about a sect of Buddhists called Jains. They believed that they had all kinds of magical powers, which ranged from being able to fly to understanding all languages to giving sight to the blind. Guess what they attributed their other worldly gifts to? Asceticism. They tortured themselves. They went without food. They went without sex. And they thought this is what gave them their gifts. Pain, suffering and hardship is the key to all. Before you laugh, because I did, they weren't alone.

The Jewish Essenes also believed they had special powers derived from a life of asceticism. They trained themselves through self-torture, embracing and enduring illness, and self-deprivation. Why? Because they believed that they were immortal souls who were baited to come down from heaven to engage in the overindulgence of the material world. And once they had done this, they would lose their special abilities. Amazing, huh?

Well, it was right about here, somewhere around mile three, when the pain and suffering really started to set in. When I really started contemplating the Jains, Essenes and this six mile run that I'd undertaken. It was right about here that I decided I don't have any special powers, and I don't want any. It was right about here that I thought how full of shit it is to seek out pain and suffering. It was right about here that I stopped, turned around and walked to the liquor store to grab some Stoli raspberry. Yeah, I had vastly underestimated what a four-week layoff can do to your running routine. Six miles was just too fucking far. It was right about here that I realized that I'm as capable of bullshit as anyone else.

Now What?

Then suddenly you wake up one morning and you don't have shit to do. You studied for weeks-- months. Then, you go to an awesome hotel resort and forget it all. And, then, there you are. 5:30AM and you're wondering what to do with the day. Now what? Then suddenly you wake up and realize you need a job. That's what's "now what." I've decided that "now what"s suck.

It seems that I'm forever thinking, or saying, "If I could just get this (whatever "it" is), then everything will be cool." Then, I get it and find out that it sucks. Not sucks like cancer or anything else terminal. But just sucks like a summer cold.

So here I sit, sipping coffee and pouring through the job postings on Careerbuilder.com and Monster. Once again thinking, "If I could just get a job to hold me over until I get my bar results, everything will be cool." But it won't. I'll get some job and it will suck in some "itch in the back of your throat" kinda way. Then, I'll sit there at that job, wallowing in all of it's sucking glory and wonder, "Now what?" Maybe the key to happiness and continued satisfaction is to appreciate right here and right now. Or just accept that some things are supposed to suck. They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do, and I should just accept it--and leave it. Who knows?

Maybe I should just end this twaddle right here.

Broadmoor Samadhi

Zen. It's something that I practice daily and live my life by. I think the Broadmoor Hotel Resort in Colorado Springs is the rich man's Zen. I left there with a renewed appreciation for the things that matter in life, or, more importantly, recognized what doesn't matter.

Over an exam. I was stressed like an air traffic controller on 9/11 over an exam. What a fool. Shit like an exam doesn't matter. I will pass, either this time or next. And it won't matter then, either.

Social conventions and institutions don't matter. In the least. All of our preening and posturing for the Jones'. Unimaginably silly. All our concerns about what people think of us. Profoundly retarded.

Funny, though, among all of that tranquility and understanding waiting to be understood, materialism and stupidity abounded. I loved it anyway.

Garden Of The Gods

Samantha and I thought we should get out and about--off campus. If something could humble me, this is what "it" would look like. And it would have a name like "Garden Of The Gods."

I have more pics, but blogger is having an aneurysm.

View From Our Balcony

You gotta love breakfast with a view. Colorado Springs has some amazing views.