Norwegian Goat Cheese Fire.

So remember how, for all these years, I have been trying to warn people about the dangers of goat cheese? Well no one EVER LISTENED and now see what has happened?

Norwegian Goat Cheese Fire

Maybe next time y'all will listen to me.

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Poetry is Hard!

Ah, the life of a crappy poet is filled with so many artistic choices, all of which are both fundamentally and inevitably inconsequential. For instance, here are two versions of the same poem. I could not decide which of them was better/funnier/more delightful/funny at all/in less bad taste. Since I could not make a definite artistic decision, I have posted them both. Once you have read them both and decided which one you like best, just get some White Out and use it to white out the other one on your computer screen.

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As Your Legal Counsel (v. 1)

As Your Legal Counsel

(Version 1)

by james bezerra

Speaking as your lawyer,

I advise you to commit less murder.

So far we have been lucky,

but surely someone is going notice

how very very very bloody

you have left this Boy Scouts office.

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As Your Legal Counsel (v. 2)

As Your Legal Counsel

(Version 2)

by james bezerra

Speaking as your lawyer,

I advise you to commit less murder.

So far we have been lucky,

but surely someone is going report

how very very very bloody

you have left this pillow fort.

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Drink Some Water Already.

Drink Some Water Already

by james bezerra

You don’t drink enough water.

I can tell by your pallor.

Your skin is basically gray.

It is not supposed to look that way.

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The Public Domain

I saw the smartest note on a website the other day. It said, “We do not own these images. All images are assumed to be in the public domain and will be removed upon request of the owner.”

How smart is that?!

The editors here at Standardkink would like to say: We do not own these images. All images are assumed to be in the public domain and will be removed upon request of the owner.

(Tangentially: Hey remember that time that Metallica sued Napster over copyright infringement or something and that Lars Ulrich son of a bitch showed up to court with boxes and boxes of paperwork identifying all of the people – his fans – who had been downloading his music? Yeah, that guy is a dick.)

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Malfunctioning Voodoo Doll.

Malfunctioning Voodoo Doll

by james bezerra

I have a bone to pick with you!

Your mother sold me this doll for voodoo

and it has not done what I asked it to do!

I stick it with long pointy pins,

but nothing happens!

I’ve tossed it into a camp fire

but it hasn’t caused the burns I desire!

Meanwhile my archrival is still out there!

He still has all his hair!

He hasn’t been mauled by a bear!

Does your mother even care?!

We’re talking about my life here!

How hard can it be

to properly make a magical dolly

which causes massive tragedy

 to any and all who annoy me?

So tell your lying mother

that I’m gonna report her

to that one TV reporter

as a defective-voodoo-doll-maker!

And then that TV reporter

will come knocking on your door

and he is going to ask her

why she is defrauding me, the consumer!

And to think that I tried to support a local business

by coming here to get this!

When I could have just gone to the mall

and gotten a much cheaper voodoo doll!

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Just Not That Into You.

Just Not That Into You

by james bezerra

You brought me flowers

to which I was allergic.

You took me for Thai food

which made me pukingly sick.

You helped me hang new wallpaper

however somehow it didn’t stick.

I like you okay enough

but we just don’t seem to click.

Please don’t take it personal.

I’m just looking for someone who’s irresistible.

And while you’re quite polite and civil

I just don’t have any more time to kill.

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A Republican Poem.

A Republican Poem

by james bezerra

Gun control?!

Bah humbug I say to any control governmental!

 It is not their business what I do with my arsenal!

What we really need around here

is some fun control!

Look over there!

At that woman who thinks it’s not my business

what she does with her uterus!

Unlike with guns, there’s a moral imperative

to regulate all issues reproductive.

And don’t even get me started on them gays.

How should we handle them? I can think of lots of ways.

Like making them get a special tattoo or stamp

and then reeducating them in some kinda camp.

See how good my ideas are!

I hate gun control, but love gay control and uterus control.

But don’t call my beliefs hypocritical

or I might just go postal.

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Party Recipe.

Party Recipe

by james bezerra

It is true that I may not be

a Black Eyed Pea

but I know a thing or three

about getting people to party.

Like always have a designated place to pee.

Nothing ruins a party

faster than the lack of such a facility.

And then secondly, encourage the revelry

by inviting a celebrity.

Preferably one who can be mocked openly.

By recreating this special recipe,

you can all but guarantee

that yours will be the party

at which everyone will want to be.

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Turtle Secret.

Turtle Secret

by james bezerra

If you were a Ninja Turtle

who, say, secretly likes to wear a girdle,

that might present a kind of hurdle

to your acceptance into the circle.

For while the Ninja Turtles accept

vigilante hockey players and a talking rat

and even a villain with a very sharp hat

it is doubtful they’ll include into their ranks

a crime fighter who also wears Spanx.

You may need to ask the ACLU

to go to bat and fight for you

because, while it is your right to cross-dress,

it will likely cause the other turtles some distress.

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Just Garbage.

There are many ways in which I know that I need a new job. One of the most striking is that fact that I have recently found myself romanticizing the life of a garbage truck driver. They drive around all day, arm lazily perched out the window of the cab. They get to travel around, see interesting places, perform a quick task using some state of the art hydraulics and then they are off! Back out there into the world.

It should be noted here that I don’t really even like driving and I certainly have no love of garbage, yet I still find myself thinking that driving a garbage truck would be cool. Plus, just think of all of the fun and interesting stuff you will encounter! I imagine that a garbage truck driver is constantly looking at some complete dining room set left by a dumpster and scratching his head and asking no one, “Why would they want to throw this out?” I would like to live in a world where garbage truck drivers are universally known for having really well appointed homes, on account of all the great stuff they find during the day.

Anyway, I clearly need a new job, because fantasizes like these tend to weird out even me.

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Golly Mali.

Golly Mali

by james bezerra

Oh geez, gosh golly!

I’ve no idea

why the French are bombing Mali!

(If you’ve been lagging on your Africa news lately HERE  is a pretty quick and easy article about what’s the haps.)

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Bad Babysitter.

Bad Babysitter

by james bezerra

Much to my health-conscious chagrin

I discovered the babysitter had fed the children

nothing but Peeps and margarine!

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My Lance Armstrong Blog.

Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

I don’t know why, but I just don’t really care about Lance Armstrong at all.

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Probably a Good Thing ...

White House answers Death Star petition: No.

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Lazy.

Dude, whoever invented the whole “salad in a bag” thing is a genius! The fact I can buy everything in one bag for three bucks is probably the only reason I ever eat a salad. See, it isn’t about being healthy, it is about being lazy.

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Fuck My Life!

So I just discovered that I have been taking the Day Time cold medicine at night and the Night Time cold medicine during the day! This may go a long way toward explaining why I have felt so out of it lately.

Let me ask you: If you were the people in charge of color-coding the Day Time and the Night Time pils, wouldn’t you make the Day Time pills a totally normal color and make the Night Time pills a nice, calm, peaceful light green? Yeah, me the fuck too! Thanks for noth’en generic CVS Sinus Congestion & Pain pills!

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Not a Winner.

Flannery O’Connor said something once that struck deeply but which I can never quite remember. It was something along the lines of, “ I sit down at my typewriter everyday not because I am inspired everyday, but because I want to be ready in case inspiration comes.”

I’m sure she said it better, but you get the idea. Well I have been trying to remind myself of that lately and so here I sit at my little white desk with my little black laptop … waiting. Well, I have to be honest with you folks, I do not think that tonight is going to be a winner. I’m tired and still a touch sick, though I did go running tonight. It was very, very cold and it wasn’t my best run, or my longest run or my fastest run, but it was a run. So I’m proud of myself in the tiniest sort of way. And I’m looking forward to a good, deep sleep tonight; my body is tired in a good way and that always makes for a good sleep.

Since I am all tuckered out tonight and can’t exactly remember that Flannery O’Connor quote, here is one from the inimitable John Hodgeman:

Stories hold power because they convey the illusion that life has purpose and direction. Where God is absent from the lives of all but the most blessed, the writer, of all people, replaces that ordering principle. Stories make sense when so much around us is senseless, and perhaps what makes them most comforting is that, while life goes on and pain goes on, stories do us the favor of ending.

That’s deep, right? Well, keep in mind that he is one of the most brilliant living absurdists and also said, “A stopped clock is correct twice a day, but a sundial can be used to stab someone, even at nighttime.”

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Cookie.

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Cutting The Tags.

So I’m just here cutting the tags off of my new running belt. I haven’t been running since I got back from my Christmas trip. I got sick in pretty short order and am still fighting it off, though I think the worst of it is over. So – I think – out of a sense of guilt and a feeling of flab, I went and bought a new belt last night. It wasn’t wastefull though, I did need one.

To be clear, a running belt is just that: a belt one wears when running. It usually holds some kind of water bottle and has a pocket or two for your iPod or some energy gels or a small crack pipe (assuming you run to get your crack, and who doesn’t?). This new one holds two little water bottles and has a pocket big enough to hold my phone. So I am basically all set. I just need to feel a little better. Hopefully tomorrow I will be able to go out there in the world for a bit.

I’ll be honest and admit that over the past year and a half or so (or since I started doing things outside other than walking to and from my car) I have experienced a deep but quiet joy over owning very specific stuff. I HAVE A RUNNING BELT! I also have TWO different kinds of lightweight camping stoves! And FOUR sleeping bags! Although one of those was given to me, but STILL! I just like having these things that are activity-specific. Owning them makes me want to go out and USE them. That is a pretty new experience for me. I have been writing my whole life, bt there really isn’t any gear for that. The giant dork in me wants to wear my running belt all the time. When I’m not running I’ll loosen it so that it hangs at a big angle like Han Solo’s holster. And then people will come up to me and be all like, “Oh, is that a Nathan Trail Mix 2 Energy Belt?” to which I won’t even say anything. I will just nod slowly, somberly. A calm and no-nonsense acknowledgement. And the person asking me about it will nod quietly too. That nod will mean, “Respect.”

Though for any of that to happen I need to run more than I have been and need to log more miles than I do. There was a time last year when I was logging a lot of miles during the week, but it was also the summer time and the sun was up forever. Lately it is dark before I even leave the office. But hey! I own not one but TWO backpacking headlamps! I should totally be a night runner by now, but alas, I am not. But I will get there.

I have been reading Runner’s World magazine recently. It is stupid expense but I can’t yet bring myself to subscribe to it. I feel like they would somehow KNOW that I don’t measure up to their standards. Anyway, I have been reading it and reading interviews with real runners and reading all of these stats and all of these training plans and all of these special diets and all of the other nearly narcissistic stuff that gets published in such a sycophantic magazine and it all makes me realize how very little I know about this stuff. Basically I put on my shoes (and my belt!) and go run. I have to hope that for a guy like me who just looks like a normal person (albeit an awesome one) maybe that is good enough for now. Although, as I flip through the glossy magazine pages I’m besieged by photos of the long, lean, slender bodies of all of these runners. I’m honestly quite envious. So envious really that it takes me out of my head and I have to step back and go, “Whoa there buddy, why SO envious?”  

I guess I have just always been short and bald (rocking male pattern baldness since 1998-ish!) and while I am fine with that and make it look pretty good, there is a part of me that would like to not be so soft around the middle. So I’m working at it and will continue to. My philosophy though is basically the same as Kevin Spacey’s in “American Beauty” when he goes jogging. He’s asked what part of his body he wants to work on and replies, “I just want to look good naked.”

So yeah, maybe one of these days I will try that protein shake that Runner;s World told me about, but really I would just rather be able to NOT do that. I would like to just be able to go running and find some quiet meditative grace in it (grace or some sort of graceful form is still a distant goal of mine. When I run I basically look like three-legged beagle trying to flee a pack of wolves across a river of cake batter.)

So yeah, I would like to look better and I would like to run better. It seems to me that the only way to accomplish those goals is by actually going out there and running. I guess that is often the answer to these things, isn’t it? That’s the whole idea about “Just Do It” right? I never really knew.

Oh! And also, I would like to be able to wear my running belt out in public and have people mistake me for Han Solo. That’s not too much to ask, right?

And speaking of Han Solo, here is a picture of a bunch of women dressed like Princess Leia. You’re welcome.

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The Call.

The Call

By james bezerra

I hear the quiet call

of that thing I miss most of all.

Or, I think I do.

I guess I never knew

how much I would miss

that thing I miss most of all.

But I would be remiss

if I showed such gall

as to pretend that what I hear

is really a real call.

As I sit alone here

what I really hear

isn’t anything at all.

No, it’s just the sound of me missing

that which I miss most of all.

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Enigma.

I’ve been watching a lot of Hulu lately and I have frequently been watching this show called “Secrets of War” and it is mostly about World War II, imagine that. I’m not a war buff or a WWII buff or anything, I just find history interesting. I have already watched all of the “Pure History” episodes (those are generally great, BTW).

So I have been watching this SECRETS OF WAR! Show (If the title was less bombastic I might not feel like such a nerd right now) and many, many, many times they have explained how the Nazi code machine Enigma worked. If you have a passing knowledge of World War II espionage you know that the Enigma machine was supposed to be unbreakable but that the British (with help from the Polish) figured it out early in the war and so the Allies were reading the Nazi’s mail the whole time. Well I get a little upset because every episode that has to address the Enigma machine itself uses THE SAME little explanatory footage and history. It is verbatim from one episode to another. Basically the makers of this show made the explanation one time and used it over and over and over again. Like the poor, put-upon editors of this series get to the enigma part in the script and sigh and shrug and ask each other, “Where is that Enigma thing we made, I have to drop the damn thing in here again.”

I don’t know why this annoys me so much. 

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RIP Huell Howser.

Dude, I am going to miss the hell out of you.

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The Time I Met Joe Black and He Thought I Was Gay.

Recently I was on a couple of planes. On my way back from Christmas with my family I flew from JFK to Burbank, which is a decently long flight. I picked up a couple of magazines at the airport because buying magazines at the airport is one of my guilty pleasures. Well I guess I was feeling like feeling sophisticated because I picked up a copies of The New Yorker and Vogue. I do stuff like that sometimes because I’m very fancy.

On the plane I ended up seated in between two relatively young women. The one at the window seat was an attractive but not very friendly looking Armenian girl with black jeans tucked into tan leather boots, which I guess is okay. If you have to, I guess. The woman on the aisle was very polite and made a little bit of small talk before takeoff. She had black black hair that I thought was interesting because it didn’t seem to be dyed or cut or really even thought about or anything. Like if this woman mugged you and later the cop asked what she looked like, all you would think to say was, “She had black hair.”

Anyway, after takeoff I sat there reading my Vogue and listening to whatever the hell was on the TV (I was on Jet Blue which I LOVE because you get your own little TV with basic cable on it). The movie “Meet Joe Black” was on and I figured that was a good movie to watch on a long flight because it is very long and kinda boring, but also beautifully shot and – I think – an interesting enough movie. And it has Claire Folani in it and I had the biggest crush on her back around the time that she was in movies.

So I’m reading along about “Style Across America” in the Special Edition 2012 “Best Dressed” issue and I look up at the TV and there is young and blonde Bratt Pitt sucking peanut butter off a spoon and I realized suddenly that I am kinda well-dressed just then (as per usual, what?) and watching a Brad Pitt movie and reading a copy of Vogue that cost me ten bucks and – well obviously – these two attractive young women both think that I am gay. Gay like Will, not gay like Jack, but still very gay.

Now, obviously, I have no problem with anyone being gay. I’m an advocate. I give money. I have not one, but TWO pro-gay rights, anti-hate buttons on my backpack. And I’m fine with the fact that I own more scarves than most straight men. And I actually enjoy clothes shopping with women and I, you know, buy Vogue (and sometimes Cosmo), but at just that moment I was not terribly okay with these two women quietly thinking that I was gay. And so I got a little fidgety in my little airplane seat, but there was nowhere for me to go, so I didn’t go anywhere.

 I wasn’t bothered by people thinking I was gay. People have made that mistake before and I have generally taken it as a compliment. I was bothered by the fact that these two attractive women with whom I was spending six long hours in very close quarters clearly did not feel any sexual tension with me whatsoever. Nothing. They were BOTH – by the way – watching “Meet Joe Black” by that point too, because Brad Pit is so dreamy and there weren’t any DUDES around to make fun of them. Nope, just that short gay guy with the Elvis Costello glasses.

I wished and wished just then that I had also bought a Playboy and a copy of Penthouse Letter (they still sell Penthouse Letters at airports and I think that is weird because you never really see it anywhere else). At the very least I should have had a Maxim to read or something. But alas, no. It was just me and these women and Vogue and Brad Pitt (whose performance in that movie – I now realize – was designed to mock me. That was really forward thinking on his part considering that “Meet Joe Black” came out in 1998).

So I did what I thought was best; I gave up completely and dinged the flight attendant to bring me a stiff drink and some free cookies (You get free cookies and chips on Jet Blue. It is pretty fucking cool. And yeah, I am bragging a little.)

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Sartorial.

One of the things I enjoy about reading magazines I don’t often read is that the writing tends to seem new and interesting. And also, sometimes, annoying.

While I was reading that Vogue on the plane I came across the word “sartorial” which means “of or relating to a tailor or his craft.” I only know that because Barney explained it once on “How I Met Your Mother” and it stuck to the sticky part of my brain.

So I came across this word – all high faluten and fancy pants – on page 22 while charting the “sartorial evolution” of the actress Allison Williams who is on “Girls” and is – turns out – also the daughter of Brian Williams.

I shrugged a little. It is a fashion magazine after all and so the word is in their wheelhouse, so why not rock it? I drop the word “semiotic” whenever the fuck I can because I have a very expensive English degree. So live and let live.

BUT THEN! There was the word again! Right there on page 59 introducing a spread on the best dressed actresses of 2012 and describing “Kristen Stewart’s disregard for sartorial convention” and so now I know that I am being punked, in what is surely the world’s weirdest and most specific punk ever. Firstly, Kristen Steward does not has a disregard for sartorial convention, she just dresses poorly and makes odd choices (for instance, the choice to become an actress even though she lacks the ability to emote with her face.) And secondly, I have no problem with somebody dropping a nice ten dollar word occasionally, but twice and so close together? That’s a bit much and it makes me think that the writes over there all had a slumber party and watched “How I Met Your Mother “ on DVD and all listened to Barney say the word and all of them simultaneously and joyously jotted it down in their pink dream journals. But whatever. No big deal. Nobody cares but me anyway. So I read on.

AND THEN! SIX PAGES LATER! THERE IT WAS AGAIN! On page 65 describing Emma Stone’s “sartorial powers” and keep in mind that this was a photo spread, so the only text on the intervening six pages was in caption form. Well this just did not make me happy at all. I quickly composed a letter of complaint in my head:   

Dear The Sartorial Writing Staff at Vogue Magazine,

Sartorial.

Sartorially,

The Editors at Standardkink

And I would have sent it too, except I was on a plane and also I am too lazy to ever actually send any of my letters of complaint, of which I have drafted very, very many.

I suppose it could be worse. I suppose that the word could just never be used and it could be allowed so slowly wither and die like so many good words (“civility” is a good word that has died this way, both as a word and as a value too). However, something about the way it was used THREE TIMES so quickly in a magazine that should know lots and lots of fashion-related words, just made its use seem somehow cheap. To me at least, and I have obviously spent a lot of time ruminating on this.

Fear not though. I also read a copy of The New Yorker on that flight and, say what you will about the puffed up elitists over there at The New Yorker, they know how to use words. And they use them dizzying well. They can build sentences like Rube Goldberg machine. On page 44 of the December 24 & 31, 2012 issue, while describing damaged art that is not worth repairing, they wrote:

Such works – those for which the cost of conservation and the subsequent loss in market value are greater than the amount for which the works are insured – will enter into a strange netherworld.

That ladies and gentlemen, is a motherfucking sentence.

I’m not saying it is the best one ever, but it certainly is bold and almost taunting. (The best sentence, some say, is from the Bible and it is this: Jesus wept. One of my favorite sentences is from a book called “My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist” by Mark Leyner, but I will tell you about that some other time.)

However, later in that same issue - and kind of sorta lamely - on page 132 in a review of the movie “This is 40” a writer is talking about the bourgeois family in the movie saying, “Here is all the plentitude and warmth and the triviality and sadness of Los Angeles life.” Although, what would one expect from a magazine that considers itself the reliable and worthy maker of taste for New York City. To prove that NYC can’t help itself from LA-basing, the review – which is a review of a sweet and completely harmless comedy mind you – also waxes rhapsodic by bemoaning, “In Los Angeles, time has a particular poignancy, since the body can never be young enough to satisfy an unsustainable ideal.” You know, that is probably even true, but I have spent a lot of time in New York and I have seen some pretty bad plastic surgery there too. Just saying.

Now that I have written this admittedly complainy and pretentious blog post, I will try to redeem my humanity in your eyes by posting the below pictures of Emma Stone (because it is tangentially related and because EVERYONE has a crush on Emma Stone) and a heart meltingly cute kitten.

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True Facts about Sloths.

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Cookies.

I’m legitimately sick today and not very happy about it. So I have spent the day sleeping and eating cookies. Because cookies are known for their healing properties.

You know what’s weird? I really want to be not sick because one of my favorite things to do on the weekends is to wake up and make some coffee and sit outside and read the news on my phone and I probably won’t be up for that tomorrow if I am sick. So I better eat some more of these magical medicinal cookies and get some rest.

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Poetic Justice.

Did you see the news today about how Mitt Romney got 47% of the popular vote?

That’s funny, right?

And I’m not even making it up! The Atlantic Wire said so. 

Also, it really takes that long to figure out the popular vote?

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Competitive Walrusing.

Competitive Walrusing

by james bezerra

Don’t get me wrong, you have a very nice walrus.

However, I think it is rather obvious

that my beautiful prize-winning walrus

is far superior, and that yours is a clear novice.

You see, it is not each and every walrus

which has the talent and temperament and focus

to ride a unicycle.

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It Has a Signature!

It Has a Signature!

by james bezerra

What do you mean that this bank

will not cash a check

which is written on the side of a cow?

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Pot Full of Salad.

For dinner tonight I ate a pot full of salad and a cup of soup.

I like to mix the salad together in the pot and then it always seems silly to remove the salad from the pot and put it into a bowl, thereby dirtying up yet another container. So I just eat it out of the pot.

I do this with chips and things at parties too. I just don’t see the point in owning special party bowls for chips and whatnot when I already I already have these pots and things.

I got soup at the store because I’m getting kind of sick, but I got the wrong sort, I think. I got a nice thick and creamy potato soup when I probably should have gotten a good broth-y soup. Obviously I am bad at life. But you already knew that, because you have read this post.

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Huge Pile.

Huge Pile 

by james bezerra

You should all stand in awe-struck awe of me,

for I have finally laundered all of my laundry.

You may think this only a small victory,

but that pile was taller than my now-dead Christmas tree.

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All The Same New/Old Stuff.

So hello all and a happy new year to you.

I am going to try to ease back into this whole blogging thing. I have been absent from it for awhile now. There are a lot of reasons for that, but mostly we will just put it down to discombobulation.

First, there has just been too much work lately. Too much. Just too much. God, so much work! Even when I wasn’t working 10 and 11 hour days, I was still coming back to my little apartment and collapsing into an exhausted little puddle November and December were especially bad and busy at work. It is amazing how much a stressful day can just sap all of the juice out of you. It used to be that sitting down here with my little computer was the haven when I hid from the stresses of life, but at some point this year that simply ceased being true.

Also – and this probably isn’t going to make much sense to most people – I think I have forgotten how to write. Not in the most literal sense. Not like some railroad spike went through my brain and I miraculously survived except that I can no longer compose sentences. More like I just haven’t been able to get into the place where one needs to be in order to compose poems about unicorn smuggling rings or to actually write a short story. One has got to be in the right head space to do that sort of thing and I just have not been able to locate it. For now, let’s just put it down to stress (stressing myself out is my one real superpower).

It would also be true that life has been strange for me personally for a little while now. I know that the life I have right now really is not the one that I want; it isn’t fulfilling and I can’t remember the last time that I woke up feeling even a little bit zesty. There just hasn’t been any verve in me lately. If I believed all of the commercials on television, I would probably have to assume that I need one of those testosterone pills or something. Sadly for both me and the companies out that which sell testosterone pills, I do not think that this funk can be pharmacologically cured. Though I was recently – sort of – offered cocaine. Though I’m not sure if the guy offering actually had any cocaine. He might have just been drunk. Let me tell you, I did not hang out in that bathroom long enough to find out!

Speaking of bathrooms, I recently made a trip back east for Christmas. Yes, I spent several days in snowy Connecticut, with some little bit of time spent in New York City. Among other things, I had a Norman Rockwell night with (most) of my family. Building a snowman out of freshly fallen snow and breaking my tailbone sledding with my brothers. I was all very American Gothic of us.

While I was out there I also found a little bit of time to run. It was a new experience for me running in real biting Winter cold, with snow falling lightly and little white flakes melting in my warm puffs on breath. There was an interesting thing that happened in my brain as cars shot by on the little country roads, the people inside of them would look out at me quizzically as if wondering, “What in the holy fuck is wrong with that guy?” Anyway, it made me smile. I like being a runner, even though I am still quite bad at it. If the measure of being something is doing something, then I was most certainly a runner. At least right then.

Also, I try not to talk about my family much open here – because I am the one who has chosen to air all of his problems on the internet, not them, and I try to remember that – but I was struck, once again, by how lucky I am to have such a great family. In the lottery of life, I totally scored big with my family Even the ones who I didn’t see for Christmas I saw upon returning to the West coast. Without gushing too much, I just want it to be known that I have a loving and supportive family and when the book is closed on me and talented therapists finaly figure out what the hell is wrong with me, I can assure you that it is not going to be unresolved childhood issues.

Let’s see … what else?

Even though I have not done any actual writing, I have been thinking quite a lot about writing and I recently figured out a big piece of something which had stumped me for quite some time in the novel I am perpetually working on. It is nice when a problem can be solved. So now that I have solved this gaping hole in the plot I should really sit down and – you know – write it.

All in good time though. I have refused to make any actual NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS, because that seems to me like the best way to guarantee failing at them. However I have quietly made some plans for myself. Some small and delicate promises. They are exactly what you would expect: I want to write more, but not just that. I want to DO SOMETHING with that writing. I haven’t had anything published in quite awhile and that is 100% due to the fact that I simply haven’t sent anything out in awhile. So it isn’t just about the writing, it is also about putting myself out there.

Also, I am simply at the point where I need to find a new job. I’m tired of the hours and the stress and the not-so-great-money-considering-the-hours-and-the-stress. At this point I feel as though my work ethic is being somewhat taken advantage of. Almost as if they go, “Hey who should we give this last-minute and impossible problem to?” and then it invariably lands on my desk about 6pm and they say, “It is suddenly your job to have this fixed by tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, we are all going home. TTFN!” I have been in the position several times recently where I had to INVENT ways to fix things. Not simple FIND ways, but literally invent them. It just seems to me like that shouldn’t be required of me. Sure, if I worked for the CIA or NASA or something then I would understand, but I don’t work for those places. I work in a totally normal office and all of these problems could be avoided through some better management. But alas, I have said too much. I don’t like to complain specifically since I use my real name on this here blog.

Finally, I am going to make a very real effort to become more fit, physically and emotionally and intellectually. I didn’t read enough last year, I didn’t write enough, I didn’t run enough or do enough pushups and I certainly wasn’t GOOD enough. I have had some passing moments in the last few months when I have felt like a man, not just an erstwhile thirty-something who is a grown-up because he has a job and pays his taxes. No, there were a few moments sprinkled into all the chaos when I felt like a man; like somebody who had it together. I would like to feel more of those moments. Most of them came with moments of clarity. I have offered a few real apologies to people who I really owed them to. I came clean about some things and it felt good. I have tried to be more honest, with myself and with others, and that felt good. Don’t worry, I haven’t given up on the hyper-ironic mockery of everything, but I also haven’t given up on hope and on joy and on the idea life is always a work in progress.

So there is all of that. I’m sure none of this means anything to you, but it is good for me to sit here and say all of this. I hope that your year is going well so far. I hope that you are healthy and happy and pure of heart and I hope you are looking forward to good things in the days and weeks and months ahead. If nothing else,  I hope that you are as thankful as I am that that whole Mayan Apocalypse thing didn’t pan out.

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Theoretical Love.

I read this the other day and it stuck with me. It is just a little snippet from a poem called “Theoretical Love” by a poet named Bob Hicok:

I’ll join the Community Theater or establish/the Community Theater if the Community Theater/doesn’t exist to join.

We should all be more like that.

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