Parental Advice: A True Story

A long time ago, when my ten-year-old daughter was about two or so, she, my wife and I were shopping at Sears. She-who-must-not-be-named was trying on clothes in the fitting room and I was sitting in those chairs outside the dressing room (you know the chairs--where husbands sit when their wives have been shopping just way to long?) next to a young woman of about my age.

My daughter was entertaining herself by prancing around in circles, her long blonde hair and pale calico dress flying and flowing with each bouncy step.

"Wow," said the woman next to me, bemused. "She reminds me of my son."

Picturing a boy in my daughter's place, I said the first thing that popped into my head.

"You should cut his hair and stop putting dresses on him."

Luckily, she thought it was funny...

100% Me

Robin pointed me to this wonderful post at BlackRobot.

Excerpt:

I found someone with everything. She's not close, she's it. Fucking it. It's terrifying just thinking about it, and the only way I'm level-headed at all about it is hearing her talk about how scared she is being in this type of situation. We've gone out once, sat around her place talking twice, and talked on the phone once, and I think we're already closer to one another than anyone else we've ever met. It really started out with her sense of humor, (laughing at WW II documentaries), naming her cat Chairman Mao (many years before others came up with said name), not only catching very obscure music references but being able to rattle off her own without skipping a beat, I secretly watch her lying in bed and can see her turning things over in her head, rather than just sitting there thinking about clothes or how cute a certain type of animal is...anyway, it started off being about all of that, but I'm actually comfortable around her in a way I've never been with other girls. Being yourself at 100% instead of 75% is fucking huge. I could go on indefinitely.

This makes me so happy for her, yet somewhat sad for me. I'm glad I found someone and that I'm married. I know it's hell being single. But I've seen hell in marriage. Recently.

This post reminds me of what I've never forgotten: that I married too young. That I hadn't "been around enough to know that [she was] the one I wanted to go through time with"*. I've never been 100% me in my marriage. I can't be. There are very few people who "get" me. I can count on one hand the number of people who I feel "get" who I am. (And only one of my brothers is on the list. My wife is not.)

Don't get me wrong, there's potential for great joy in my marriage, and I think very recently it has begun to rear it's beautiful head. I'm hopeful. But I don't know if things will work out. I don't know if this round of counseling will permanently stave off divorce. I have my doubts.

And the doubts arise from the percent of me I can be with her--how much she does or doesn't get me. It's been fifteen years since we met. She still doesn't know all of me. She doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to know how to debate without emotion or verbally spar in flirtation or even have make-up sex. (I've never experienced make-up sex, but I know I'd be up for it.) And that's just a whiff of what she doesn't get.

I can't isolate myself from the world so I meet new people. Many of them I inadvertently keep at arm's length with my personality. But there are a very few that I don't. Or rather they don't feel a need to keep away me. With them, there is a synchronicity that unlocks the inner-most doors to my soul (the "catching very obscure music references" from BlackRobot, above). And it can be overwhelming when the shared thoughts come so rapidly that we talk without ceasing for hours, knowing what the other will say after only an hour of conversation. (I know what my wife will say next. But it's taken years. And she still surprises me.)

When the synchronicity happens to the wrong people at the wrong time (or is that the right people at the wrong time?), it is not only overwhelming, but devastating in its sheer futility.

But the idiosyncratic commonality with that one who 'gets' me is a porch-light to my moth. Terrifically dangerous, yet too beautiful to fly away from. In the morning I see that I've burnt myself on that light bulb, but somehow I can't wait till the next nightfall when it's switched on again.

If you were a porch-light in my life, you know it. Thanks. Those burns will heal, but your light will be with me always.

^*from "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce for those of you born after Star Wars left the theater.

Angst-Free Day

Jen and Hoopty are declaring an "angst-free" day. I'm game. I'll post nothing about mea culpa or my body or anything else I might be upset about.

Plus Jen sent me a random thank-you. And that was very nice. And helped alleviate my angst today. Thanks, Jen!

Snow!

After getting virtually no snow all winter, my little dale of Columbia City got seven inches yesterday! They even sent us home from work early.

I inherited (literally) a snowblower from my Grandfather last year and I finally got chance to use it. What a blast! God, I hate to shovel, and this is just the ticket!

Bitchen!

*sigh*

Dammit. I'm in fecking mea culpa mode again. In all likelihood over an offense I didn't actually commit. But somehow it's not the certainty that I offended that puts me into this mode, it's the mere possibility that I could have offended someone that does it.

Since I started this journal--actually in the last month of writing and talking privately with some of you--I've really begun to see how much of a product of my parents I am. My father taught me how to overreact to my children's mistakes, and my mother educated me in the proper ways of tactlessness.

Sometimes I wonder if mom is as haunted by remorse as I am. On the other hand, I wonder if I have remorse because she showed so little over some of her offenses.

My parents, I guess, are the ultimate tag team of subtle verbal warfare. I am a soldier in that war, trained commando-sharp by years of example. My tongue can be a tremendous weapon. Often accidentally, a samurai sword left lying about.

The difference is that I have so often been cut by a honed edge that I truly empathize with those I slice.

If I didn't carry the sword, my soul would be a lot less weary of carrying around so many bandages.

Mea non culpa

She-who:[in mock anger] Hey! You're drinking out my E.T. glass!

Me:I didn't know; I'm sorry. [pause] Wait! I'm not sorry! I didn't know it was your glass. I'm not the least bit sorry. In fact, I'm glad I did it!

She-who:[smiles]

Well, it's a start...

Now Listen

At the left is a link to "Family Portrait" by Pink. If you haven't heard it, it's a real tear-jerker--especially if you have kids and are having a bad go at it.

Trust me.

(Mary T: This is the one I wanted you to hear.)

Random Childhood Memory #1

When I was in elementary school at Sunnymede in Fort Wayne, Indiana, I had a physical education teacher named Mr. Coffman. One day--probably in the 3rd or 4th grade--I passed him in the hallway on the way to our Christmas party in the cafeteria, waved and said "Hi, Coff!"

I thought he was going to kill me.

He grabbed me fiercely by the upper arm, brought his face down to mine and growled at me.

"Show some respect, young man. The name is 'Mr. Coffman.' That's what you'll call me!"

I believe I was shaking for the rest of the day. Mea culpa from very early on...

Bitchen! Version 6.0

Well I got Allen's new art up. I'm sure he'd like to read any comments you might have. Compliments, suggestions for improvement, etc.

The HTML and words on the layout are mine. The art is his. He reads the comments...

Mea Culpa. Rinse. Repeat.

She-who-must-not-be-named informed me last night that I'd offended yet another friend of hers (a long time ago) by saying the first one-liner that popped in my head. (see #14 on my 100 things list). Then she asked me to "not say anything to him about it."

This is a typical conversation between her and me. She tells me how I offend everyone she knows and belittles me and then tells me to not mention it to them.

Well, if you recall from this article, I simply can't do that. If I've offended someone, a) I want to know and b) I want to make amends.

She gives me a) but disallows b). So my self-esteem just sinks lower. If she doesn't tell me and I find out, then I'm upset that she knew I offended somone and didn't tell me.

Well, after this exact battle last night, we worked out a plan. I told her (and she agreed) that when she finds out a friend was offended by me to tell them:

My husband really hates to offend people. He knows that acccidentally he does sometimes. If I tell him, he'd really want to make amends. Do you want me to mention it?

And at that point the friend will either say yes or will say something like "I'm over it."

As far as I'm concerned that's a much better solution all the way around.

But I'd like to know what you think.

Lewd Barbie Flick Banned by Mattel
from The Guardian

Barbie's been getting frisky, and parent company Mattel Corp aren't too happy about it. An Argentinian movie, Barbie Gets Sad Too, shows the curvacious plastic doll having sex with her Latino maid. Mattel has received a court order to ban the movie, which was due to be shown for the first time at Mexico City's Urban-Fest film festival.

Oh my.

Las Vegas Mercury: Goldberg: Dear Diary...

Be careful what you blog...

Thanks to Hidden City for the link.

The Door and the Giant

It was the summer of 1974, and I was seven. I'd had a really hard summer day playing with my neighbor, Jeff, aged six. We were playing in the yard with my new Hot-Wheels-scale plastic car wash and filling station that my mommy had bought me at the SuperRx drug store, next to the Kroger where she worked until I was ten or twelve. It was soon lunch time. Then nap time.

I heard her call me for supper, I think, upstairs in my bunk bed. But I slept. The hot summer sun and concentration of pushing my Red Baron Hot Wheels and my scale-size El Camino under and past the foam "washing" cylinders in the car wash part of the toy filling station must have tuckered me out.

Eventually I woke up in what seemed to me to be the middle of the night. Mom was still up, so it must have been before midnight, but it was dark and my brothers were asleep.

I awoke hungry, of course, and headed downstairs to see if Mommy would make me something to eat. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I encountered something strange--a closed door. The farmhouse I grew up in had long since settled to the point where the jamb was far from square and the door wouldn't latch, but you could force it shut if you needed to.

We never did. Usually. Unless Mom and Dad were fighting and we were asleep, then they would shut it as not to wake us.

Flash forward about four years to the night when I was eleven and stayed up past nine o'clock to see who won the "Gumball Rally" on the movie's Network Television Premier. I was supposed to be in bed, but kept coming down to watch the last hour, hidden in the darkness of the dining room. Long story, short: Dad found me and threatened me with the "spanking stick" (a hand-carved 5/8" switch). He cornered me at the back door and rapped "the stick" hard on the door to drive his point about "bedtime" home. A poorly-aimed rap broke a hole in the Plexiglass window that remained till I moved out nine years later. That's the way my dad was about bedtime.

Back to closed stair door.

I sat down on the second-to-bottom step. It was wooden, painted a long-ago-glossy brown, and cold. The heat didn't feed upstairs with the door closed, which is why we seldom closed it. I remember listening at the door for the sound of a fight. I remember the musty smell of dust and 110-yr-old wood and pink texture paint that had been applied in the stairwell before my parents moved in ten years before and remained for the next twenty*. I inhaled and held the air in my tiny lungs and, with a tiny hand, rapped lightly on the door.

Somehow I felt that if I knocked quietly, maybe only Mommy would hear. I didn't want to make Dad mad again. (I assumed a fight had just ended. In retrospect, maybe not.) I waited without a response.

I tapped my white knuckles against the door again, making sure it was still only Mommy-hearing level.

Nothing.

A little louder rap, this time I was aware the it might awaken the sleeping giant (though I could hear him talking to Mommy). This time I heard my dad stop talking and walk toward the door that separated us.

"I think I heard a knock," he informed her as he pulled open the door.

He looked surprised, yet delighted to see me. "Ricky!"

"You don't have to knock," he said jovially.

"I'm hungry," I said to both of them. They sat me at the table.

After asking me what I wanted, Mommy made me some cinnamon toast. We read the paper, me sitting on her lap, as I ate the toast. I still hear the sugar granules as the fell from my toast and lit on the paper.

Once I my belly stopped complaining, my heart took up the chorus.

"Mommy! I left my car wash outside!"

"Where, honey?"

"In Jeff's yard."

She took me out into the night with a flashlight and we found the Car Wash in the dewy grass next door, and ran back to the house.

My dad was a boy scout leader for my older brothers and working with camping gear when we came back in. He'd just put a new handle on an axe (perhaps the door was closed to block out the pounding that it requires to do such a task) and was admiring his handiwork.

He called me over and carefully handed me the axe at the base of it shiny, red head. I had no idea how heavy an axe was and nearly dropped it before he took it back from me. I must have looked surprised, because he laughed at my reaction and I smiled back at him.

That's where the memory ends. I don't know how I got to bed or anything after the axe. I inherited my memory for trivia from my dad so maybe he does. But I do know a few more things about the occasion.

I know it was one of the fondest memories of my father. I learned that when my dad's not under a lot of stress, he really can be a nice guy. And today I know that gentle giant still exists within my father every time he sees my middle daughter--his granddaughter--and brightens up in exactly the same way he looked at me sitting on the stairs that night, and delightedly exclaims "Ricki!" as she clambers onto his ever-waiting lap.

---

* Jeff's brother owns the house now. He has completely restored it and I have faith that he finally painted over every last remaining square inch of the pink texture paint that had been applied in the early sixties and my parents had never painted over by the time they moved out in 1994.

More Interesting Than Mine Right Now

Feral Living is very intelligent, well-written and arid with dry humor.

...and it's more interesting than my site right now.

Lavender Kitchen

Lavender Kitchen is a diary with a delightfully cynical edge.

Added it to my read list.

Ernst & Young

By the way, I had a ton of visits from somebody(s) at Ernst & Young last week. I wonder why . . .

If you know why, drop me a private comment below. It will email me but never be published.

Just curious.

Honesty and Scarcity.

Sorry about the lack of posts. I'm reprioritizing in an effort to save my marriage. I have many stories to tell, but they'll wait. They'll wait for lunch hours and times when there's nobody more important than this blog in the same building as me.

Avoiding the epithet "pitiful and pathetic," for a while at least. I hope you understand. I don't think I'll be away, just scarce for a while.

A point of clarification: the blog is not the thing destroying my home life, but avoiding it while I'm at home will certainly help to save it, if it is indeed savable.

Oh, and . . .

. . . go visit becklyn. She keeps talking about me.

Eat It!

Do yourself a favor and go get an Arby's Roast Chicken Ceaser Market Fresh sandwich. It's heaven on earth.

But don't do what I did: I told the cashier who was opening and stacking large fry containers by sticking her fingers way inside of them instead of handling them by the outside edges: "Yes, I'd like anything that doesn't come in a container that you've had your fingers in."

And she was old enough to know better.

She wasn't happy.

For Publishers and Writers Only

You know what really toasts my biscuits? There's no freaking em-dash in HTML!

Cripes!

Sometimes You Just Have to Say It

I got an email response from the friend I mentioned in Passion Master (three articles down). He wrote:

I'm really touched, I didn't know I had any impact.

Now, here's a guy (God, I sound like John Madden!) that I've known for eighteen years. We talk all the time and we share many secrets. And I've always enjoyed listening to him tell me about the lastest toy. (Hell, a few months back, the local paper wrote an article that interviewed him because he had one of the first Palm-based celluar phones in the city.)

But I never told him what I wrote yesterday. It's hard (more so for men, I think) to say this kind of stuff to friends. But he needed to know. All of our friends need to know.

How many of us have a friend who's made a big difference in our lives that would say, "I didn't know I had any impact?"

Think about it. Do something about it.

Still Relevant

sweat not blood in your garden
your fate is not a cup to be taken
but a grail to be sought
you have glimpsed it
you know it exists
it has to

For Public Record

This has been the worst mea culpa day since I started blogging.*

*I don't want sympathy. And don't ask about it; I won't tell you. Don't speculate, even if you know. It wasn't my imagination this time. I really was an asshole. I just wanted this here to mark this day in my journal, and to let you know that I probably won't write today because I can't write about the only thing on my mind, and I can't seem to push that aside to write about anything interesting. Ignore this.

Passion Master

Let me take my own advice from the last post and thank the one person who has instilled more passion for more different things than anyone else in my life. He's been a close friend since 1984 when we worked at a computer store together. He lived with me for a while, and forgave me when I lay down and bent up his Honda Ascot the one and only time I've driven a motorcycle.

When he gets interested in a new technology or art form or whatever, he exudes passion for that thing until the next rolls around. It's a comfort to be near that flame sometimes when life turns cold through depression. Here's a short list of passions he's passed on since 1984:

• Amiga
• Deluxe Paint III
• Digital Image Capture
• Trick Photography
• MIDI Sequencing
• Dance Mixing
• Compaq Concerto [pen-based laptop. very cool]
• Animation Compression
• Ray-Tracing [circa 1985]
• Virtual Memory at the PC level [circa 1985]
• Kraftwerk
• X10
• Songwriting
• Contact Juggling [a la Michael Moschen]
• Desktop Publishing
• Korg M1

That's only what I could think of in three minutes.

He's around. We've never lost touch. He lurks here and comments under a pseudonym. A link to his current passion resides in my exits list.

He knows who I'm talking about.

Thanks.

Passion Slave

Let's think about a couple of TOP 40 music statistics:

• In 1986, "Twist and Shout" by the Beatles soared back on to the charts.
• In 1992, "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen performed a similar feat.

In both cases, twenty-year-old songs suddenly became popular again. Why? Did they suddenly become better? Did they spontaneously get more interesting? I'll tell you why.

• In 1986, Matthew Broderick lip-synched "Twist and Shout" to a real-time crowd of thousands and a theatre-going crowd of millions in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
• In 1992, Mike Myers and friends rocked out to "Bohemian Rhapsody" in an AMC Pacer in Wayne's World.

So the answer is mass market you say. Nope. Plenty of songs were resurrected for use in movies. Why didn't "Chain of Fools" re-hit the charts when Michael came out? Why didn't we see a resurgence of popularity for a score of other 20-yr-old pop tunes when featured in popular Vietnam War films?

Why? Passion.

Myers and Broderick showed a passion for the songs they rocked to in those movies. They were on fire over what a great old tune this was. You knew their characters (and likely the actors) loved these songs. So, consequently, did we.

Passion is like a fire. We (the record-buying public) saw characters in those movies exuding a fire for these songs. The flame licked off the screen and caught many of us on fire. We started requesting them from radio stations and looking for copies of the singles. The fire of Wayne and Ferris caught us on fire for a couple of tunes that were good, but had been off the charts for decades.

In my hundred things list at #98 was "I love Chess, the 1984 concept album for the musical that spawned the hit 'One Night in Bangkok'. It is my favorite." Why is it my favorite? One of my best friends sat me down with it and said "this is great, here's why, listen to it." And I did, because he felt so strongly about the quality of the album that his face would show an ecstasy like one who had just eaten the best devil's food cake he'd ever had when he talked about Chess. I caught the fire and still love the album.

I've found that I can request the passion from the passionate. Let's say I know someone, whose opinion I respect, who is passionate about Picasso and I don't understand why everyone raves about Picasso. If I ask my friend to tell me why he likes Picasso's work, I may well find myself infected with a newfound respect (and possibly love) for Picasso.

This brings me--finally--to my story.

I didn't understand highly symbolic or non-narrative poetry. I was an Odgen Nash fan through-and-through. Give me rhyme and meter with a narrative voice and I'm in heaven. T.S. Elliot? Fuggedaboudit. I noticed a journal that posted many symbolic [what I now call "right-brained"] poems. I glazed over when I read it. I wrote the owner of the site and told her that I "glazed" when I read some of the poetry she posted and would she please impart her passion to me. I asked to her to explain how to read right-brained poetry. To give me the key.

She did. And gave me a new world. She gave me the world of half the poetry that I'd never understood. Not only that, but she awakend the long-dormant left-brained, technical rhyme-and-meter poet (for instance) in me. With the passion she imparted my re-awakend brain not only wrote better technical poetry, but I also could write some semblance of symbolic, free-verse poetry.

I can't thank her enough. I rank her with my favorite schoolteachers, the ones who imparted their passion for physics or fiction or technical writing. And I am grateful for the magic she bestowed via both her poetry and other's poetry to my life.

You know what? Find someone who gave thier passion to you and thank them.

Right now.

Sue me

I know this isn't what you expect to see here probably, and it's not my regular tone. I might not even spell check it till tomorrow.

Sue me.

I have a great big problem. I look for hurt I caused in others. Even when I didn't. I look at every nuance, every tone, every word, every gesture for any possible variance that I could attribute to pissed-off-ness. If I detect it, not only is it true, but it's my fault until proven otherwise.

I'm am so fecking hell-bent on everyone in the damned world liking me that not only do I punish myself when they don't, I look (and invent) signs that someone who normally likes me suddenly doesn't. And, God in heaven, if this misread of nuance isn't quadrupled over email. Or chat. Or even the phone. When I can't see the face, the posture, the gesture I fill them in. Generally in the worst possible way.

Once I'm convinced (which is usually) that I'm the culprit, I'll lose sleep till I can make amends or apologize. Why can't I just not care how some people feel about me? Why do I think that my slightest misstep will permanently alienate someone. Why does that terrify me?

Why is my life one giant fucking mea culpa?

One more question: Did I piss my friend off again tonight?

If I can even get to sleep, I hope to God I don't wake up as depressed as I am right now.

[Editor's Note--we woke up much better this morning. - 3/12/02]

Ten Things That Make Me Lovable
Courtesy Jen

1. Most dogs love me.
2. I have a large store of involuntary empathy.
3. I have a quick wit.
4. I'm a respectable Trivial Pursuit partner or Phone-A-Friend.
5. I'm a musician.
6. I can understand and debate other's viewpoints calmly and with good humor.
7. I can fix things.
8. I'm a compulsive limerent, so I can relate to your tales of love and woe.
9. I give really good neck rubs.
10. I'm not Regis Philbin.

Lessons from Hollandaise Sauce

Ever made Hollandaise sauce? It's the only thing that I've ever cooked that you have to care about. Truly nurture it into being. I'm not talking about making food "with love." I'm talking about total commitment to making the sauce work. It involves slow, steady heating and constant stirring without interruption.

In a double-boiler, mix egg yolks and lemon juice heat it up and add butter. Sounds easy.

There's a catch.

It starts out runny and yellow--like one would expect egg yolks and lemon juice to look. As it's heated, the egg yolks start to stiffen. The sauce begins to thicken. The goal is to make a fairly thick sauce when it's done. So when it starts to thicken with the gentle, careful stirring, an excitement builds. As it heats, as it's stirred, it progressively gets thicker. Sweeter. Starts smelling like Hollandaise! For a cook who's a rookie at this, the temptation to carefully stir and heat it into an ever-thicker sauce is overwhelming. Thicker! Magic! Then...

It happens.

The yolk coagulates. The lemon juice and the egg yolks separate. Instead of a thick, creamy sauce, it's a disgusting lumpy, runny mess. It has turned bad. Very, very bad. The only option is to crack some more eggs and start from scratch.

Relationships are like Hollandaise sauce sometimes. We nurture and care an egg-and-lemon mixture of two people. We slowly and lovingly stir things up. Heat them up. The feeling of success is overwhelming. The thought that we could make it even better by applying more heat and more care is often irresistible.

But sometimes we try too hard. Care too much. Stir too fast. And the relationship turns bad. Separation--mentally, emotionally, physically. It's devastating. We've worked so hard. We've cared so much. But the only option we have is to start over. And hope.

I stirred too much yesterday.

I hope I have more eggs.

New Layout

New layout. Leave problems with viewing it in comments. Thanks!
(The top is supposed to be right-justified. If you are in Netscape, it probably isn't.)

My Friday Five

1. What makes you homesick? Large lawns. Lots of grass. Treehouses.
2. Where is "home" for you? New Haven, Indiana.
3. What makes it home for you? People? Things? Landscape, smell, vegitation, road quality.
4. Where is the furthest you've been from home, miles-wise> Los Angeles or Freeport, Bahamas. I think LA is farther. 2000 miles or so.
5. What are your plans for this weekend? Band Gig. Laundry. Phone calls to far away friends.

Courtesy smattering.org.

WWBRD?

I was just reading this and something ocurred to me:

If I'm in an elevator alone singing, and someone comes into the elevator, I don't stop singing. That's just the kind of guy I am.

Now, some aspirin. Seriously.

Happiness is a warm puppy

I've been down. Mary T told me to make a list of things that make me happy. I'll try...

1. The overwhelming, permiating pinkness that comes about twice a year for 5 minutes at sunset in Indiana. I've never seen St. Elmo's Fire, but I'd imagine it's a similar experience.
2. A woman honestly smiling due to some action of mine.
3. A pointed, small wind just above the bridge of my nose. Try it sometime. (Hint: turkey baster)
4. When the phone call is actually for me, and it's a friend.
5. Walking past skyscrapers.
6. Finding hard-to-find information or rare items for others.
7. Mr. Kevin Spacey in any movie.
8. Learning all about a new topic I had no clue about before.
9. Cheerleaders washing cars. [Sue me.]
10. Accomplishing/completing a task. ("A Job Well Done")
11. A. A. Milne's writing style in the Pooh stories.
12. Listening to Mr. Frank Muller read anything.
13. A dog licking my face.
14. Kissing.

Saved the best for last. (No wonder I'm down.)

Alas.

And another thing...

Just one more quote from last night:

Me: How do you feel about counseling?
She: Sounds expensive.

Oy.

To kiss, or not to be. That is my life.

Remember what I said about not being kissed? I talked to She-who-must-not-be-named last night about it. She said, "you don't realize how phobic I am about getting sick. I don't even let the girls [our daughters -ed] kiss me when they're sick. I make people at work use different pens than me. I get artifical nails so I won't bite them and catch disease that way."

My answer was: "I don't think you understand how core kissing is to my being. My being a husband, my being a couple, my very existence in general."

But my head was screaming [and how did I manage to not say it out loud?]: "YOU WEREN'T TOO FRIGGING WORRIED ABOUT GETTING SICK ON NEW YEAR'S EVE WHEN YOU WERE KISSING TWO TOTAL STRANGERS!"

I'm done whining. And still haven't been kissed.

The tarot reader noticed.

Mystic Traveller Tip #47

If you ever find yourself in Columbia City, Indiana in the middle of a weeknight, always remember that the girl who works at the Citgo station on highway 30 reads tarot.

File that back. (She's also a nutcase*, but sweet. And sincere.)

She has a brand-new deck of Bicycle playing cards now. That was my fee.

[*Editor's Note: Before you start flaming me, I did not say all tarot readers are nutcases. Just this one in particular.]

Rude Awakening, But Nice
A rather dated story

There was this girl.

Her name was Karen. She was a dancer at the community theater where I volunteered for a few years. She was older than me. (She was twenty, I was only seventeen.)

We used to sit in the green room and talk about the people that we were attracted to in the different casts that we dealt with. I'd hear about her guy escapades, and she would commiserate with me on my lack of dates. When we talked about who we were attracted to, I always left her off the list.

Intentionally.

How could I say it? She was so much older than me and wanted to date guys older than her. I didn't even allow myself to crush on her. I viewed her as a friend and relationship mentor despite my attraction.

The major thing she taught me was physical-contact and close-range flirting. She was an amazing footsie player and would demonstrate her techniques and we'd talk about it. She'd coach me. She used to do this thing where she'd drag her fingernails up and down the front and back of my hand, sending odd chills down my spine. And, boy, could she every verbally spar. Wow.

When we stopped the theatre thing, we discovered that we both prepared for class on the same floor in the same building in our local college. (She was a junior; I was a freshman) We continued the tutelage and the "mock" flirtation for another semester or so.

When she went to New York to find her Dancing Fortune, I was dismayed, but happy for her. She was a good dancer and a capable choreographer. I wished her well on the last day of school.

I'd often thought I'd call her parents over the years. Get her address, phone, catch up. But I never did.

Flash forward. Thirteen years. My five and six year old daughters sign up for "Karen's School of Dance" in a tiny, rural poe-dunk near my small town. For months their mom took them to class and I didn't think twice about the name.

Then, recital time.

I couldn't be there, so a videotape was made. Of course, the moment I watched the tape and saw the instructor, I knew it was her. A decade has added 20 lbs but only five years of aging. She looked good. (She was too skinny before). My heart skips. I grill my wife for information to confirm it's her. It is.

But classes are over for the year. She's married (new name) and I feel I have no legitimate reason to call her. So I wait till next dance class comes around.

I tell my wife to ask her if she knows me. She reports that Karen told her that the only person she knows by my name is gay.

Huh?

Next class, I take the girls. I confront her after class (whilst paying the fees) and she knows me instantly. She just smiles coyly.

"I'm not gay." I say.

"I know." She smiles, this time teasingly.

That's it. It's all that was ever said. Her lack of interest bruised my ego, but I packed the girls in the car and headed home.

On the ride home it hits me: She liked me. All those years ago. She wasn't teaching me to flirt. She was flirting. The eyes she made at me were for me. The way she chose to rationalize why I didn't take the bait [based on our theater background] was that I was gay.

Dammit.

it happened
unexpected yet expected
well, she said

familiar artist
unfamilar medium
each stroke peculiar to the artist
with new paint

always sardonic she
brings new dimension
enhanced mock derision
upon different canvas

thrilling joy of new
familiar joy of old
comfort of talent
independent of form

painting beauty

Darkend the background and eliminated the iframe to make it faster, more Mac compatible and workplace friendly.

Everything I do, I do it for you.*

*Bryan Adams

100 More Things You May Not Know about 'Bitchen' Ric

I lieu of actual interesting content, I'm posting this list of things that occurred to me while reading other's 100 lists.
Thanks again to Mary T.

101. I started programming at 14, so 3/5ths (21 years) of my life I've been a programmer.
102. I masquerade as a female advice columnist on a Web site.
103. My parents never owned a new car when I was growing up.
104. I have never owned a new car.
105. I do all my own car repair except transmissions.
106. I can tell at a glance if a TV show is shot on film or video.
107. As a kid, I wanted to work in movie special effects.
108. I kinda still do.
109. I developed a minor cat allergy at puberty.
110. I lost my voice for 6 months during high school as a result of the aftermath of chicken pox that coincidentally occurred with my voice changing.
111. When I lost my voice, the saddest thing for me was that I couldn't do my Mr. Rogers impression. (Very big in the early 80's).
112. I was outcast in high school, but immediately popular in college with those who didn't know me in high school
113. I remember when we thought AIDS was peculiar to Haitians.
114. I remember when no one knew about AIDS.
115. I listened to Neil Armstrong step on the moon in the car on the way home from The Lake.
116. It is one of my earliest memories.
117. The other is one of riding my trike through clotheslined sheets in the fall.
118. I can quote tons of Monty Python.
119. I was proud of that till I met Mary T.
120. I can grow a full beard in a week.
121. My only grey hairs are in my beard.
122. I'm a big Elvis fan, and I don't know why.
123. I wonder whatever happened to Robin Leach.
124. I loved "SportsNight" and "Nowhere Man" and both were cancelled very early.
125. There is nothing sexier than a woman who can verbally spar.
126. I'm driven by the need to be liked.
127. I love Dennis Miller's obscure humor.
128. I love to get throw-away humor that no one else in the room gets.
129. It took me 20 years to get every joke on Robin Williams first comedy album. The man was brilliant early on.
130. I've never found Madonna sexy.
131. I'm terrible at sports.
132. I have a slightly twisted ankle from a birth defect that you'd never notice, but that affects my running and cycling.
133. My 5th grade teacher called me "duckwaddles" because I ran funny.
134. I had the same teacher for 5th and 6th grade.
135. He called me "duckwaddles" in the 6th grade too.
136. I'm a sporadic collector of movie posters.
137. I have a 6'3" x 3'6" Raiders of the Lost Ark 3-sheet poster in my office. It's breathtaking.
138. I sing "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" as Elvis for karaoke.
139. I claim Elvis is still alive and I saw him sing it in Atlantic City two months ago.
140. I think shoes are just a pain in the ass.
141. I tried to talk to a cow once. She slowly turned her head to look at me with a "are you talking to me?" stare.
142. All dogs like me (except #180). Everybody's dog immediately wants to be petted by me even if I've never seen the dog before.
143. I think Frank Zappa was brilliant at times, but just weird the rest of the time.
144. I'm often caught off-guard by Gene Simmons' intelligence. But never by his arrogance.
145. It took me eight years to finish college. (Some part time).
146. I'll never commit suicide, but if I did it'd be with a gun, because I've always wanted to know what it was like to be shot.
147. Someone once called American Beauty the "Biography of Ric".
148. I agreed when I saw it.
149. I believe I have at least one novel in me, but lack the time and discipline to write it down.
150. I have always believed I would die in a car accident.
151. As much knowledge as I possess, I'm still naive in being able to spot a prostitute or a drug deal. Maybe I'm just too trusting.
152. I have an incredibly nervous stomach. When nervous, I sometimes experience severe nausea, but have never thrown up due to nerves.
153. Common fears like public speaking and public performance and leading groups don't make me even marginally nervous anymore.
154. I often talk so fast that even members of my own family can't understand me.
155. An old woman at church once called me an "auctioneer for God" after I spoke to the congregation.
156. Changing plans on me at the last minute often infuriates me momentarily. But then I'm very flexible.
157. Ouija boards scare the hell out of me.
158. I never cut a class in high school. I was terrified of getting caught.
159. I believe that remembering a woman's name is very attractive.
160. I have no idea if that's true.
161. I've tried to force myself to follow a pro sports team through just a single season. I can't do it.
162. I can't see someone familiar somewhere and leave without knowing where I know them from. It'll keep me up at night.
163. I generally dream about things that are weighing on me, but I didn't have time to think about during the day.
164. I am an etymology nut.
165. I couldn't care less about entomology.
166. My mom sent me to kindergarten in elastic-waist corduroy pants. It's my earliest recollection of embarrassment.
167. I earned a stuffed Snoopy from my mom for not sucking the Snoopy drawings off the medical tape around my thumbs when I was napping. I was four.
168. I did the laundry for my family of five at a laundromat every Sunday during my teen years.
169. My family didn't own a color television until 1980.
170. I scored the best of out of three classes in a VCR repair course at a local technical college.
171. I have no clue whatsoever how to fix a VCR. Never have.
172. I used to install hard drives when they were $10 a meg. Now they're 5 cents a meg. 1/200th the price.
173. I once charged the exact price of a pair of Yes tickets for some PC hardware work. The concert was cancelled.
174. I have a copy of Prince's "Black Album." It sucks. That's why he didn't release it.
175. I thought Michael Jackson was innovative until his last album.
176. I know more about decorating cakes than any man should ever know.
177. When I was seven, I cried until my mom agreed to throw my favorite stuffed frog (with poseable legs) in a box being sent to my newborn cousin. I don't know why I wanted to send it to him so badly. I missed that frog terribly for years.
178. People tell me I have an innate talent for explaining highly technical or complex ideas in simple terms using metaphors.
179. I never leave home or work the first time. I always come back to grab something I absent-mindedly left behind.
180. I had a previously-abused border collie that hated me (the only that dog ever did). She would wait till I left the second time to jump up on the bed.
181. I only ever think to warm my car up on days that the windows aren't frosted.
182. I can instantly tell you where I went for vacation 25 years ago, but I have to think really hard to tell you what I did over the weekend.
183. I grew up believing that what you ate and what day you went to church made the difference between heaven and hell, and that--figuratively speaking--I was going to heaven.
184. I now believe it's a matter of works, faith, repentance and grace, and that--figuratively speaking--I'm going to hell.
185. I lived in the same house for the first twenty-three years of my life until I got married.
186. After that, I moved I moved ten times in eleven years.
187. My wife's best friend's husband has helped me move all ten times.
188. I feel really guilty about that.
189. I absolutely believe everything in my philosophy essay.
190. I am a procrastinator.
191. I work in small, extremely productive spurts.
192. I once had a crush on a cousin.
193. I have never mastered touch typing, despite many attempts to learn.
194. I have a really annoying habit of explaining the difference between "centrifugal force" and "centripetal force" when the wrong term is used. Nobody cares.
195. I have spent time in a sensory deprivation chamber (a la Altered States).
196. I met Charleton Heston once. I have a picture that makes it look like his hand is on my ass.
197. I can hit a strong high G without falsetto.
198. I know the names of all fifty states in alphabetical order.
199. I've never been asked or required to learn anything about presidential chronology. I have no idea who the 19th president was or what century that was even in.
200. I love riddles, but generally can't solve them. My brain doesn't seem to work that way.

I will never come up with another hundred things. So you're off the hook. Your suffering is over.

Due to some personnel changes at work, I spent the morning changing passwords. Plus, my job responsibilites will double.

I have one hell of a headache. I think it was bad sleep at the retreat...

Okay. One of the volunteer activites referred to below was a church teen retreat. I was the counsellor in charge of music. Becklyn has posted a list of ten good things and ten bad things about the weekend and challenged me to do the same.

Nice Things about the Teen Retreat

1. The collection of affirmations from everyone else at the retreat. (Every one got one.)
2. Heart-to-heart talk with Becklyn and Wade in the kitchen.
3. Being the bandleader instead of being led by a megalomanic as in the other band.
4. Playing music with Becklyn, Josh, and Lisa
5. A vacation from being the "man of the house."
6. The candle-lighting thing.
7. Playing "Finish Lines" was very cool. Wade's the master.
8. Mini-concert I performed for the group.
9. That teens came that weren't from our church.
10. Teaching a guy how to play acoustic guitar and a girl how to play electric.

Not-so-nice Things about the Teen Retreat

1. Inablility to keep a beat.
2. No internet. No blogs. No AIM.
3. It was just plain cold.
4. Except when playing music, when I was sweating because I was standing on the furnace grate.
5. I regret opting out of some of the activities. I felt like I missed important interaction.
6. Not everyone stuck around all weekend due to scheduling conflicts.
7. Not practicing the music more before we went.
8. Forgot my towel. [Don't Panic]
9. Misscheduling that made She-who-must-not-be-named miss the mini-concert [she was supposed to sing, I had to learn some songs in 2 hours.].
10. One of the songs on a CD I made only recorded the left channel. That just bugged me.

Keep an eye out for Becklyn's 100 list. Coming Soon!
[By the way, I'm working on another 100 things. All those other 100 things lists made me think of a bunch more things...]