Hoo boy, it’s Christmas. This means 1) high-tech gifts from Didi’s family, and 2) some kind of trip for the wife and me. This has combined, this time around, in my listening to my shiny green iPod on a shiny airplane, headed mainly for Spain.

[I pause in my narrative to comment on this, the latest techno-curiosity to fall into our hands. I realize that I’m, at best, getting this iPod thing mid-stream, if not behind the curve, but it’s very new to me, so forgive my ignorance if you don’t share it. I had a number of questions with this contraption going in: 1) Why is it so heavy? 2) Why does it cost $300, when we all know that MP3 players go for $45? 3) Why does everyone act like it’s an innovation? 4) What about this ISN’T a Walkman? Here are my answers: 1) I can’t explain this, but it’s unnecessary heft (why metal, for that matter?) just flat-out makes it seem more luxurious, more permanent, more…(this is embarrassing to admit) prestigious. I have a feeling that some serious focus group research went into the weight issue. And I gotta say- it works for me. 2) Same reason a Mercedes costs twice what a Toyota does. Functionally, it accomplishes exactly the same thing, and does it no better. Aesthetically, it’s simply a different machine: there’s an alarm clock in there; I can see how long each song is, and see their names on-screen (why is THAT so satisfying? Why do I care that this piece of hardware knows the names of my playlists? There’s something extremely bizarre there); I get to name the thing (once again, Mac runs far ahead of the pack on the simple premise that people like controlling their contraptions far beyond the basic function of the thing); it will shuffle the songs for me; I can hold appointments and contacts in there; I can play games with it; and I have multiple ways of accessing my songs (by album, by artist, by playlist, by song). 3) For all those reasons, plus the just-ahead-of-the-curve positioning Apple has carved out for itself, they have made themselves the Mercedes of the burgeoning digital music scene. Having said alllllllll that, Didi is presently in bliss, enjoying Stevie Wonder right now on the aforementioned passé $45 MP3 player. It’s not an innovation; it’s an improvement. As I observe, the plaudits go not to the innovators, but to those who make innovations mainstream. 4) Nothing.]

I have an extremely strained relationship with technology. As a male, there’s something about development and innovation that’s fascinating to me (why is THAT, do you think? That’s another piece for another day), but I also find it all so tiring. I brought along a copy of Wired magazine for my ride across the ocean in a multi-ton flying tube (THAT kind of advancement is truly stunning to me), and the mind boggles at what’s promised, suggested, and even rolled out these days (ocular implants? TV over internet protocol? Ads on cabs specific to the part of town the cab’s in? Facial recognition in cell phones and credit card scanners? Bandages made out of our own skin? Games that evolve as you play them?). I enjoy the perks of technology, but working to stay atop that never-stopping hamster wheel is as pointless and chasing fashions in clothing.

Here’s a standard example of how it works for me: 3 years ago, Didi’s family gave us one of those new-fangled DVD players, where you can see videos on your home teevee screen, but it’s so much clearer! Lasts so much longer! This innovation, exciting as it was in theory, sat dormant in my basement for 9 months before we carted it out to watch The Making of the Matrix, or some such nonsense. That player worked sporadically and undependably, perhaps due to the moisture it acquired in the nether regions of our home. Not six months later, we were given a castoff player from friends. It stored 5 DVDs, had a whiz-bang remote, and they’d upgraded (to what? I don’t know). This is how it goes with us. Technology rolls, and we sort of dawdle along behind it.

My former roomie Bao and I didn’t have a teevee in Dallas, and that no-tech system worked great. We were oblivious to the shows that people and People ranted about and, six months later, it didn’t matter. But we gave ourselves to developing, and I really think we made some headway in those years. I think we were better for having been unplugged. We got our Thoreau on, in a tiny way. I liked it.

But there’s still that old draw in me, and yes I am a little thrilled at my Wired magazine and my iPod. In thinking through this, I’ve produced one of my patented over-dramatic poems. Enjoy. Then, feel free to criticize. It’s not like I go on-line and read blogs every day.


Clicking and clacking and sparking and snapping
Arachnid hobgoblins are filling the streets
Pulsating and teeming and line-undulating
They’re searching for victims; they’re hunting down meats
--------------

My best friend Yamomo will figure them out
He’s programmed himself to decode their campaigns
He says that the best way to know where they’re going
Is insect-like thinking, so, tireless, he trains

He’s built him a suit of black armor-like skins
He’s working with mandibles! Stunning, all that
But one thing he’s doing that’s got my head scratching:
He’s down on all fours, like some gangly wombat

In seeking to track them, he’s mimicked their habits
But how can he hope that he’ll out-spider them?
They’ve got four more legs, man! And they’ve got a hist’ry
Of being themselves- they’ll way outpace him.

---------------

I’m not like Yamomo- I’m not so astute
I work hard enough being honestly me!
I’ve sworn off all uniforms (none of them fit)
In hopes that you’ll, one day, just get what you see

I’m s’posing those creatures will march on, as always
They’ve got that pack-mind thing Crichton talks about
And I guess I could join in in tracking their progress
But my chronicling? It’d be useless, no doubt

I am just so inept at aping the leaders
And they’ll just advance and innovate ways
To confound researchers and stymie kibbutzers
So I’ll just unplug and come out of that haze

-------------
When studying trends, for prey or for profit
It gets hard to know who is most in control
That thing which you give all your heart and your mind to
Will end up, as always, possessing your soul.

Just a heads up, everybody- I was subjected, beyond my control or desire, to listen to the latest Duran Duran album recently. Conclusion: IT'S VERY DARN GOOD. Better song-for-song than the Hit and Miss Miss Miss quality of How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, which JDav has renamed How to Resemble An Other Band. Just a tip, pop music fans.

As many of us are aware, bored boys do amazingly stupid things, one of which has been the advent of the soul patch. William Shakespeare made it artsy. Dizzy Gillespe made it jazzy. Maynard J. Krebs made it mainstream. Phil Jackson strung it out (actually, Frank Zappa did that, but Phil represented the drugged-upness of the NBA, which is far more mainstream than Frank Zappa). Apolo Ohno made it irrelevant (actually, Fred Durst did that, but I don't like him. Sting made it smug (actually, who are we kidding? It's always been, but this was an excuse to show the Stinger with this ridiculous look). It's the Jazz Dab, the Flavor Saver, the Cookie Duster. And, come on, it's stupid. It's a farcically small amount of hair a man lets grow (while he tends to it, shaping and encouraging it), to make some kind of statement like "I TOTALLY have enough masculinity to grow a beard. And I'll show you! I just... don't want to right now."

Why do I feel the freedom to poke at this goofiness? Because I, for the time being, own one myself.

Now, there are all sorts of things you need to know about my soulpatch (and you will... you will), so let's start with my heritage. I'm a mixed bag of cultures. I might not be a Mick Kraut like Tom the Consigliere, but I'm at least an American Indian/German/Spaniard/Irish/Scottish guy, and that's good enough for me. But here's the thing, the American Indian part makes the growing of facial hair difficult for me (you'd think the Spaniard part would even it out, but this is what my father's always said. He's also Folliclely Disabled). Not only is there not a lot of it, but about half of what's actually there is unseemly light in color, producing an immature/effeminate effect. Because of said problems, I've tried all sorts of things, from the JDav trim-and-go (which is supposed to add heft and density) to the dying of parts of my face (which was to have the same effect as that black paint they used to sell on teevee that you could spray over your bald spot and amaze people with your seemingly full, sexy, thick hair. They'd probably say things like "Hey, Bill- why is the bald spot that's been there for 10 years now covered with black paint?"). But I've sunk to new lows today, as I applied mascara to my soulpatch. Mascara is an embarrasing enough invention as it is- it's made to phonily darken and thicken women's eyelashes, which often aren't dark and thick. But the narrow strictures of modern beauty say that they should be, so women are sentenced to this stupid custom of coloring themselves to match the way people say that SHOULD be naturally colored. Do I kinda like it when Didi wears mascara? Well, yes, but that's not the issue here. Point is- I TOO feel the same pressure from our image-conscious society, and as of today, my facial hair is falsely colored. Oh sure, everyone who greets me stares with wonder at my soulpatch, and I've made a lot more friends today because of it, but deep inside I know it's not real.

Here's another thing: my face has never, ever been even slightly symmetrical. If you connected the dots between
1) the center of my forehead
2) the tip of my nose
3) that weird dimple right under your nose, just before your face turns into your lip
4) the middle of my teeth, and
5) the dimple of my chin,
you'd have a slightly curving line that veers rather dramatically left to right, as you look at me. Many people have been horrified as I've pointed this out to them in conversation, and this startling asymmetry is the reason I have the Amy Grant/Lyle Lovett "sideways mouth" when I sing. You get the idea. The point is, my soulpatch is perfectly placed, directly under the center of my bottom lip, but it's not even perfectly placed under my TOP lip, let alone my nose. Seriously- it's amazing. In any case, what I'm getting at is the fact that the presence of specific facial hair like the soulpatch only underlines something that I'd rather obscure. Couple this with the necessity for mascara, and you should be asking me rather stringently: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELF?

I don't know. It's blog fodder, if nothing else.

Now, let's get on to the real point of today's post. I'm Excited. And there's a very good, culinary reason for this. It's because the McRib IS BACK. I've received a good (and understandable) amount of flack for enjoying this sauce-slathered amalgam of pork lips and hooves, but don't rain on my deliciousness parade! We're marching to the Golden Arches, and we'll not be stopped! Anyhow, I wanted to announce this to both people who look at this page, becuase many of my loved ones are wise enough to avoid McDonalds like a Las Vegas call girl, but when the McRib comes out to play, all bets are off. Bring on the lard.

Oh, my- I've started to drool. And my mascara is running.

And now, a delightful tale from the files of Didi.

She gets on the airplane, having been bumped up to first class, and sits by a large black man. A man walks down the aisle of the plane and speaks to him. "Hey Oscar..."

Later, after a couple other people had done the same, her colleague walked by, punched the black man, and pointed to Dora: "Watch out for this one," he said, "she's trouble."

Didi turned to the man and said, "Do you know Jim?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you work for Campbell's?"
"No."
"Do you know any of those other people who spoke to you?"
"No."
"Well, what do you do?"
"I'm in private business."

She's totally flummoxed.

"Why are these people all speaking to you?"
"I used to play basketball."
"Oh. What's your last name?"
"Robertson."

Didi searches her memory files and comes up with a University of Cincinnati basketball game she attended, when someone told her to "meet me out front, by the Oscar Robertson statue."

"Hey, did you play for U.C.?"
"Yes."
"Did you play anywhere else?"
"Yes, I played for Milwaukee for a while."
"Milwaukee has a basketball team?"
"Yes."

By this time, Dora suspects she might be sitting by someone Sorta Famous, and realizes she wouldn't be bothering this person otherwise. So she goes to sleep, eager to ask me if I've ever heard of this man. When she came home, our conversation went like this:

"Steven, I think I sat by someone famous on the way in."
"Was it an athlete?"
"Yes."
"Basketball?"
"Yes."
"Oscar Robertson?"

I couldn't imagine any other great ball player flying to Cincinnati on a Tuesday afternoon.

So that was Dora's run-in with greatness. Oscar is the only man to have ever averaged a triple-double over the course of a season (30+ points, 12+ rebounds, 11+ assists), was two-time champion in high school, took UC (where he averaged 33.8 points a game) to the Final Four twice and, with Lew Alcindor, won the NBA championship in Milwaukee. He was also the first black player ever for the University of Cincinnati (where he posted games of 56 and 62 points in the same tournament his sophomore year), He was an All-American, College Player of the Year, Olympic Gold Medal Team Captain, NBA Rookie of the Year, season MVP, 12-time All-Star, and The Associated Sports Writers Association voted him as their Player of the Century. He averaged 25.7 points over his career, and is the sixth leading scorer of all time. He sued the NBA, and won, to establish free agency (though he was barred from the league for two years), and in his retirement, built affordable housing in his hometown of Indianapolis. He remains an active civil rights advocate. Didi and I are now in the thick of his autobiography, published last year: The Big O.

I was made to think of Rosie the Riveter today, and came up with this dirty poem for her. I can't help it- *I* didn't put those words in her mouth!



Rosie the Riveter: I'd like to give it 'er!
Yeah, little bit tough, but- oo ee!
She works like a man and her skin is all tan
But beneath all that sweat, she's a She!
She little bit frightens me- more, though, deLIGHTens me
I like the chicks who post up
That Rosie's a cutie who's doing her duty
This heart in my chest may erupt!
Th' 'traction is strong; she strings me along
Takes hold of my heart and runs through it
She throws out a line that runs up my spine...
She calls out to me: We Can Do It!

Today I voted for the candidate that I hope will ultimately kill the fewest people.

I had a birthday yesterday. It was the one where you are well and truly into your 30s, and there's no turning back. No more "just out of my 20s" thoughts; no more waffling on the point of whether I can still justify avoiding adulthood. I am an adult, no debating it. The celebrations of the day were an important turning point for me and the Dee: she said that, in the past, she'd always put together something that she'd have liked: a big gathering of friends, a cute little cake from the fancy bakery she likes, and a fancy dinner out. This year, she asked herself what *I*'d really like: and she nailed it. A picnic in the park eating deli sandwiches, reading the biography of George Mueller to each other, pronouncing Biblical blessings over each other, walking through the park looking at the Japanese garden, spotting a chipmunk, frisbee, and finishing with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Hello! I was also given a circular saw.



The day was made even greater when we went to see Ray at the cinema, and when I announced my birthday to the theater manager, he gave us free movie passes on the spot. Wow- little acts of grace like that sure make the world a fun place. Then, on the way out of the movie, when I was all thoughtful and quiet, I saw an elderly black couple who'd stopped off at the arcade after the movie. The wife was playing the toy grabber Claw game, and her husband had situated himself behind a Tomb of the Dead-type shooting game. My goodness, that was one of the most enjoyable things I've seen in a good long while.

Shouldn't we cultivate the curiosity and wonder necessary to enjoy the thousand whimsical and mirthful things that surround us every day? I submit to you that, if we did, we'd more readily see the tokens of Love scattered along our path from Daddy, and feel His pleasure in us. So un-callous-ify yourselves, people! Be made alive by the Spirit, for the sake of sensitivity and joy! Keep your eyes open.

People are always saying "the early bird catches the worm." I don't know about you, but catching a worm doesn't exactly seem like the greatest goal in the world to me. Anyhow, there's a similar saying that really sums up my symptoms right now. "The curly turds, retches, and burns." I've decided to not just sit around, waiting for winter's flu-like symptoms to come to me in their own sweet time: I've decided to go out and GET them. What can I say? I'm an eager fellow. Anyhow, I've been given various advices for this problem, the most common of which is to take a lot of Ecinacea. I originally confused this with euthenasia, but I guess both things artificially keep people alive. Doesn't it suck that people used to die of influenza all the time? Can we all agree that living, say, in the Middle Ages would've bit the giant cosmic Big One? For one, they probably didn't understand the healing efffects of ecinacea. Neither did they have a basement full of Campbell's (tm) Chicken Soup for their convalescence. They just drew blood from each other and died at age 23. Ripperzoid.

Boy, life sure is funny huh?

I'm very very very happy to announce that Didi and I were invited to an All Hallows Eve par-tay. I like these things, for some reason. Everyone being so silly that coolness is just out the window, and we can all just drink Stewart's and laugh. Anyhow, the problem is what in tarnation you wear at these things. If Didi had her way, we'd follow some superhero motif, and I'd end up looking like this sad, sad man:

Fortunately, this can not possibly happen as long as grass grows from God's soil. My body isn't ready for spandex, nor is the world to view it so adorned. I remember going as PeeWee Herman back in the day. Good times. I always thought that the kids who went as Sta-Puft the Marshmallow Man were really showing off.

It a windmill, daddy.

Yeah, I was also in California recently- helping to dedicate Kirk Douglass Ave. in Palm Springs- and saw the Awesome Windmills of I-10.

DSCN0770.JPG

I wish there was a way to upload MP3 files onto my blog. Anybody know how to do this?

People have been shaving their heads for religious purposes as far back as at least the priests of Osiris back in Egypt, and the fact that I'm referring to Egypt with any historical significance lets you know I'm talking about a long, LONG time ago. But what about the coloring part? You probably don't know this, because you don't have the inclination to go wandering about howstuffworks.com like me, but would-be heroes of ancient Greece would use really hard soaps (what does that mean, you think? STONES?) and bleaches to lighten and redden their hair to the color that was identified with honor and courage. First-century Romans, on the other hand, preferred dark hair, which was made so by a dye concocted from boiled walnuts and leeks. Isn't that fascinating?

Now you know where musicians come from. I guess even way back in the Bronze era, or whatever that was back then, they had goofballs dissatisfied with the way God put them together. So riddle me this: is hair coloring and teeth whitening and skin- tanning okay, but tummy tucks are wrong? Are piercings wrong wholesale, or only on non-ears? Are boob jobs bad, but spending 2 years in the gym okay to achieve similar results? I say none of this because these are unsettled issues for me (I really don't care what anybody's rules are on such issues), but because there seems to be a lot of this rule-making in the air. It curiousifies me.

I myself have a newly futzed-with look. I realize it's deviant. I don't THINK I do this sort of thing for the attention, but obviously I'm not averse to it (just like the neon shirts I wore in 10th grade. It'd be hard to argue I've dressed to be overlooked, historically). Those deviants like myself who're so bent on freedom of expression that they disregard the fact that there IS a social norm, that there ARE mores to be respected- these people cause head-scratching for me (then again, so does my new look! AHA!)

What are we doing here- talking? I'm wasting my time TYPING, for Pete's sake? I've got to get OUT THERE, where people can observe me in all my Difference and Poignancy! Layta, suckaz.

This, from guest Mashman Jeff Davenport:

Snakes rise up in the murky water
Toothless and smelly
Their odor is their venom
Drowning.
Drowning.
Flush.


And this, my autumn observation: with that chin of theirs, the doe eyes, and the fit fit bodies, there can be no mistaking that Ricky Martin and Jessica Simpson are the same person. I have never seen them at the same place.

Today's devotional is called The Science of the Albino, and is prompted by a squirrel I saw on my morning drive:

For all mammals, the most important enzyme in the production of melanin is tyrosinase. The "classic" type of albinism is known as OCA1 -- OculoCutaneous Albinism, type 1. OCA1 involves a mutation in the gene which produces tyrosinase. Mutations in many different regions of the tyrosinase gene can cause OCA1. And I think we all know what that means.

It's the same with you and me: we might have a mutation in our "insultory gene" causing us to lash out at others, or maybe we have a wonky "wantory gene", and we end up being jealous of other folks' stuff and character qualities. Whatever your personal flaws, though, you can sure that there's a genetic reason for it. So don't go looking for healing or repentance or deliverance from demons (satanicus helperius). After all- you were born with that penchant to steal! (A mutation of the "fingerum stickym" gene.)

Today's prayer: God, why did you make me so screwed up? Oh well- as long as I'm not responsible! Have a nice day!

----

Not that I'm in touch with such things, but... we're officially done with that fad where people wear shoes with no laces, right? The Moc Trend has passed... am I right?

sleep has been running away from me. must be my respectable employment or something. anyhow, here's a couple o them poems on the matter. by the way, everyone go out and play Peasant Quest on homestar.


Hear the waves roll in on whitewash?
Smell that sweetly souring milk?
See the fading grid of hopscotch?
Feel the breeze o'er windowsill?

Well, It’s not there for nothing;
T’was no accidental scene
T’was a finely rigged construction
It’s a chilling, dark machine

Meant to send you into dreamland
S’posed to rock your soul right down
Gonna mail you out for business
'fore half-six rolls round

Hear the pop kids playing humdrum?
Smell the perfumed air of wealth?
See that fading dream of merit?
Feel the cooling air of death?

Well, It’s not there for nothing
It’s no accidental state
It’s a finely scripted plotline
To soothe and slake and sate

Help. They’re promising to fill me
With just as much as I can take
And I’m swinging against the lie-down urge
Trying, trying to stay awake
----------------

and now a happier one.

----------------

It slowly slows your thinking
Till thoughts like pinwheels spin
Then eyes long shut start blinking
And time funnels you in
And soft, in sleep, you’re sinking, all
Dividing lines grow thin
When chains just start unlinking
Who can say who you have been?

Reality the second, now
It’s lifetime number two:
You might be half Chihuahua
You might live in Peru
You might sing with the aardvarks
Or play with melted sands
Or write with clouds and daffodils
Or heal men with your hands

It’s not yet been determined
You can go there if you will
Where future’s all unwritten
And the past is dumb and still
It can be a smidgeon frightening
For the dream can set you free:
When eyelids droop from waking
You can’t know yet who you’ll be

Now that we know a female named L is watching, let's move on to... concert reviews.

I saw Annie Lennox (who is Scottish.  I was perplexed at her strange accent all night, thinking her to be English, though she sounded either Jamaican or South African), who opened up for Ze Stinger.  Gordon now looks exactly like Richard Harris in Unforgiven:  he has uncomfortably long, wispy hairs full of pomade and bushy, gray sideburns.  He looks like a Victorian undertaker, in his silky collared shirt with French cuffs.  The nubile, sinewy, cargo pants-and t-shirt-wearing Sting was nowhere to be found.  This dude looked elderly.  And wan.

Having said all that, it was the best Schting show I ever seen.  His production gang has significantly upped the ante with 3 honking 16'x8' LED walls (which feature some very cool-looking stuff, even though it's not exactly original.  One song off the wandering Sacred Love album featured -get this!- belly dancers, which U2 did about 12 years ago) and some sweet MAC 2000 light rigs that zip up and down trusses throughout the show.  The music was also very, very good, as the material is always rich and the players are always prodigies from around the world.  He, of course, is always eager to show us he's "still got it" (how many times has he played that exact same solo for "Fragile"?  And how many times has he had a look on his face like, "boy, I hope I can pull this off!  Can you see how difficult this is?"), eager to hitch his wagon to the ever-burgeoning interest in all things spiritual (the iconography was a non-stop deluge of every possible combination of symbolism suggesting spirituality, the afterlife, clairvoyance, ESP, telepathy, astral projecting, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.), and eager to ingratiate himself to the younger slice of his audience (his dancy version of Send Your Love Into the Future was incongruous at best, jokey at worst).  Favorite moments for me included a very cute duet with Annie on "We'll Be Together Tonight", and every time he slipped an old Police bassline into a lifeless new song.  But how much longer does Mr. Sumner have to still be a contributor?

In other news, Ricky Williams, the gazillionaire running back for the Miami Dolphins who once posed in drag with Mike Ditka, retired from professional football at age 27.  This is a guy who apparantly does NOT want to be in the spotlight (I suggest checking his birth certificate to ensure that he is, in fact, American), and does NOT want to be in the business of big-league agents and the marketers of the physically elite (his good-hearted agent Leigh Steinberg held out hope that this might not really be the end of Williams' money-making days).  Ricky said, over the phone from Hawaii, "you can't imagine how free I feel."

I, for one, am very excited for this guy, and very pleased about his courage to walk away from everyone else's dreams for him.  He's going to travel the world for a few months (normal yearnings for a 27 year-old), then do whatever he wants to do.  I like that "I will not give my life to a corporation" attitude, and hope that Sting exits HIS field of excellence before he's completely bereft of meaningful creativity.   

     I pushed on the heavy metal door, made gummy by a thousand hands, and strode onto the linoleum of the laboratory.  The smell of sanitizer mixed with that of something more organic, more acrid in the air around me, yet I was hit with something that wasn't familiar, wasn't expected.  From within the recesses of the echoey chamber, I heard the sounds, not of scattershot tinkling or of chemical expulsion, but of... muffled sobs.  I'd experienced pain and exhaustion here before, even feelings of victory and exultation, but never had my time here drawn tears from my eyes (from others', yes).  I tentatively knocked, knowing that the weeper would never expect a visitor, and probably couldn't understand my humanitarian motives (or morbid curiosity). 
     "Yeah?" came the voice. 
     "It's a child!  That voice can't belong to a boy older than 17 or 18," I thought.
     Sure enough, it was a 16-year-old, confronting some ugly truths about himself.  But what was he doing here?  This was no place for a child!  Had he come here as a stowaway or as a rebel, to prove himself or to retreat?  I had to know.
     The hours began to unravel, as I began a long, unrefined, dense and sometimes dirty conversation with young Darren Weinstein.  Eventually, I unpacked my lunch and sat down there, on the cold hard floor, puddled by overuse.  I knew this was more important than germs or stained trousers.  As Darren was growing older, he was finding out who he really was.  It wasn't all pleasant (not much about that time or place really was).  Darren had realized that, whenever he came to the "moment of truth" in a big Project, he retreated, fearful of the unknown.  Time and again, he'd stand on the precipice of true freedom, of real relief, then backed off from the glory of accomplishment.  Simply put, he was seeing himself as a coward, and couldn't fathom how he could become who he was destined to be if he kept holding it in.
     I've been a coward more than once in my own life, I can tell you, and I had some choice words for Darren.  Words won by agony.  Words of experience.
     "You have to see something through, Darren, once you've started.  You don't sit down to do something, then stand up without laying down everything you've got.  Whatever energy needs to be expelled, whatever needs to come from within you to Finish, has to be done.  Until your nostrils fill with the smell of success, you're not through.  Imagine squeezing out a long loaf of chocolate cookie dough.  You don't want to stop short- you want that entire loaf to come oozing out of its casing- the real enjoyment starts there.  Sure, nobody knows whether you'll produce something grand or half-baked, whether it'll be straight as an arrow, or curved like a snake's spine.  It might come out of you all at once, or have many parts to it.  But you're there to DO YOUR BUSINESS, Darren, and I can't let you out of here until you get there.  Your brow may furrow, your teeth may clench, your temples may sweat, but if you have to grunt and strain to make it through, so be it.  Part of growing up is knowing that, when all you have is dirt and water, you make mudpies.  That's what you need to do Darren:  make mudpies!  And once you've made mudpies, you can wipe away all the doubt, wipe away all the confusion, wipe away all that dirtiness that's left behind.  You did your duty."
     I tried to slowly and purposefully set forth my message of courage, like sausage pushing out of a meat grinder, or cheese whiz inching out of its container.  But for Darren, this same message was powerful, like torpedos shot from a submarine's stern.  Even before I left, I could hear different sounds coming from behind that door.  Sounds of fearless determination.  Sounds of internal power and raw grit.  I never saw what Darren ultimately produced, nor do I want to.  I'm satisfied in knowing that, on this day, a boy became a man, and a wisher became a doer.

Have you seen this woman?  You may recognize her (or remember one of her friends) from the tv or news ads for Herbal Essences Shampoo brand hair care products.  What makes her notable is the fact that, whenever she (or her friends) uses HE products in the shower, she (presumably) has orgasms.  Hmm.  In my world, this makes her a Mutant Freak To Touch Only With Gloved Hands But Avoid When Possible, but in the world of All World Products and Selling Things For Money, this makes her Money In The Bank.
 
Well, she's going to have to have all that intoxicating pleasure without me, I'm afraid.  Not only because I'm happily living with a bottle of Pert, but because I'm moving on from AWPSTFM.  Yep, that old highway's a-callin'.  I'm finally going to start that Lik-M-Aid Fun Dip factory in my basement and sell delicious confections door-to-door.  They say it can't work:  "You're too old to start a new career!"  "You don't have any experience in either the manufacturing or sales industries!"  "It's already someone else's product!", etc. etc., but Walt Disney built an empire of wonder and imagination out of nothing.  Snoopy Dogg did it too.  So can I.

Yesterday, I saw not one, but TWO people who were significantly taller than I am. And fellas, I'm 6'4" (I think). When I see these big guys who're 6'9"+, I am IMMEDIATELY filled with sympathy. I about want to cry for them. Because I INSTANTLY know that a) they're either really not very good at basketball AT ALL or they were never in a place to capitalize on that, and b) most of their lives are spent in physical discomfort. These poor pituatary mutants are crowded into automobiles, under desks and dinner tables, and don't get me started about airplanes. God bless these men. AND GOD BLESS OUR TROOPS, who're out there shooting at people, and watching stuff, and sexually harrassing prisoners, and..
have a nice day everybody.

Riddle me this: if Shaquille goes and plays basketball in Miami, Florida (where it's hot), and Kobe stays in Los Angeles (where it's DIRTY), which of these players will I choose in my fantasy league draft, seeing as how I have the first pick? I would like some opinions on this (and if anybody out there can get the Drunkard to come visit this site, I would especially cherish his views).

Well, kids, it's smack-dab in the middle of summer, and what does that mean? That means it's Movie Time. Movie Time happens when large amounts of Americans, motivated to be entertained in air conditioning while physically inert, head to the film house by the millions. And it's here! Now!

--Scoop! It will make him positively squeamish for me to say so, but I've read Jif's new screenplay (co-written with Tim Stitzel, Fantasy League. It's hilarious and fun.

--I got my hands on the current issue of Filmmaker Magazine, which features a generous interview with Shane Carruth. While happy for him, I'm always saddened by the fact that I read for one of the leads for that thing, then Shane told me later that he would've been happy for me to do it, but he didn't think I was all that interested. Sheesh.

--I've heard Spiderman2 is a big turdball.

--Harry Potter and Azkaban IS a big turdball (Didi likes this series. Leave me alone).

--Didi says The Notebook is absolutely wonderful. I'll take her word for it.

--Napolean Dynomite's Cincinnati sneak preview is coming in two days!

--Seinfeld's Comedian is on the DVDs now. Everybody seen this? It's both nice and good.

What are YOUR Movie Time HSOs, Sports Fans?