New look

I'm not sure I like it, but I was going nuts over the old one. I was inspired by the designs I mentioned the other day.

(This is actually the image from version 2. This design is version 7.)

Long Weekend

Well, I'm back. Spent the weekend walking around Paramount King's Island amusement park near Cincinnati (but outside the beltway) in every imaginable weather condition--rain, sunny, overscast, humidity, gale-force winds, you name it. It was rather fun because the lines were short.

Paramount has dumped a ton of money into it and it isn't the rathole it was ten years ago when I went there. They actually have rides that compare favorably to Cedar Point. It used to be that The Beast was the only thing worth going for, but we found there were enough coasters to fill up two days of casual park-going. (As opposed to racing from one attraction to the next.)

Due to it being April and the inclimate weather, the longest line we were in was forty-five minutes for Son of Beast. If you've ever been to a major amusement park, you know that's remarkable. Son of Beast, Flight of Fear and the new Tomb Raider ride were truly unique experiences and were as "thrilling" as any I've ever been on.

The only drawback was having eighteen people in our party with different ride-tolerance levels. (Me, four moms and thirteen brownie and junior girl scouts. Oy. And one--guess who--on crutches.) But, ironically, it wasn't as painful as doing DisneyWorld with a party of eleven in-laws.

If you want any details of what the rides were like, feel free to inquire and I'll describe them.

I'm sore. Very sore.

Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

I'm a happy, happy camper! I got this quote done today. I had no idea it had been weighing on me that much, till I sent it out. Plus! It's sunny and warm and I'm getting the bills paid! And I'm going to an amusement park all weekend. And I'm getting a laptop!

Hope you're having a good Friday!

Eye Candy

Hey! Brooke has an incredibly well-laid-out blog. We could take lessons from a design like this. It ranks right up there with words mean things.

Whip and chair

We talked/fought about the bill thing bit last night. She is terribly depressed (probably clinically so) about a great number of things. I asked what she wanted of me, she said to hold her and make her feel safe.

I told her "You're like an injured lion cub. I want to hold it and help it heal, but I get scratched and bitten so much I'm afraid to hold it anymore. I just want it to get better with or without me."

Maybe that's callous, but it's how I felt. I'll still keep trying. She needs me and pushes me away at the same time.

Addenedum

To be fair, she had settled up the check mentioned parenthetically in the last post. No warrant was issued.

Slit. Slit. Slit.

Can't post right now. I'm spending my lunch hour opening THREE POUNDS of unopened mail.

(Oh, look! Fancy that! I just opened a note from the County Prosecutor to take care of a bounced check by Feburary 7th "before issuance of a warrant of arrest." Hmmm.)

This is why! This is why!

Three inches. Three inches.

That's how much unopened non-junk mail I found under the microwave cart this morning. The "bills" my wife was supposed to be taking care of. To say that I am disappointed would be a gross understatement. I was just continuing to tie up the loose ends and I find an fecking afghan's worth of loose ends. Shit.

I take the stack of sealed envelopes into the bedroom where she's convalescing and show them to her.

"I'm very disappointed." Should I say more? Yes. "How can you be 'taking care of the budget' if there's a stack of unopened bills under the microwave dating back to January?"

Long Pause. "Well, January was about when my stress started, if you'll recall."

"No. I don't recall, and I don't appreciate the attitude. Lose the attitude and tell me what you're talking about."

"January was when I started really wanting you out of the house." Silence.

That's it? That's the whole response? Now, let me just say that--objectively speaking--I don't have a problem taking care of the bills, catching them up because she was under stress or whatever. I'm a loving father and I have a household to run, so doing that is something I would gladly do. But--

"Fine. But you know what kills me? That if the tables were turned and I had a stack of bills four months old and I told you I had stress, that wouldn't fly. You would be absolutely furious." Breathe. "I'll take care of it."

And it occurs to me at that point that the one underlying stress in our relationship for me is the double standard. I'd imagine this isn't unique to my relationship, and some sort of double standard is expected (otherwise chivalry would be truly dead), but...

Odd day

Didn't go to work till two. Didn't get to be last night till five. Tying up the loose ends. (See below.) Bills haven't been kept up on since She-who-must-not-be-named sprained her ankle.

That's my task tonight. Catch up the bills. And catch up on sleep. And consider my next post. I know the story I want to tell--something postitive about my father. I just need a block of time to tell it.

On the bright side, I should have my Laptop on Monday. Maybe even Friday. The weekend will be spent in what one Cincinnatian called a horrid thing, Kings Island. With a dozen girl scouts. (And assorted adults! Get your mind out of the gutter.)

I'm driving in my car, I turn on the radio

I was out driving tonight, trying to tie up some loose ends for my family. I had to return videos, get some bread, buy a videotape so I could edit a pen-pal video for my middle daughter--you know, dad stuff. I turn on the radio. and it blares out a "Magic Organ"-style song that must be "Jazz" on the new NPR station. I guess "Marketplace" is over now. I quickly punch the AM selector hoping for some thought-provoking talk. (I haven't been in the mood for popular music lately since a good friend steered me back to NPR news.) On comes "Savage Nation." Now, I'm a conservative, but this guy's a jackass, so I hit the next AM channel--commercial. Next--sports. Next--fuzz. Next--fuzz. Oh yeah, Fort Wayne only has three AM channels. My '89 Regal has a radio that only has five AM buttons and five FM buttons, so I pop back over to FM. Plink--classic rock (odd that it's "classic," because I've never heard it before.) Plink--

Then it occurs to me that I might have to manually tune the radio to find something good. God, that's such work. I hope one of the last three buttons has something good.

Commercial. Plink--

This describes much of my life. I'm limited to about ten different things I do each day. I have radio buttons for things like eating, showering, driving, working and parenting. There's even one I hate, but like the country music/farm reports/sports AM button that's programmed in my car because it makes one less fuzz channel, I end up hitting the "apologize" button at least once a day. At times, each of the buttons is rewarding; at other times, disappointing. Each day I reach for the buttons because I hope one will bring that day's joy. I know I can find pleasure or joy or escape if I make the effort to manually tune to things that aren't pre-programmed--a different route to work, a vacation, a night out--but I'm always hoping that one of the buttons will do the trick. Less work that way. Less thought.

Some days I'm rested and happy and I'm actually capable of something different; I can tune to a new station. When I'm happy, I love to try new things. When I'm tired or overwhelmed or depressed it's all I can do to lift my arm to press a button--to hear the familiar. And then even "All Things Considered" may not even help me. Sometimes I just leave the radio off--I don't press any buttons because it's doesn't seem worth the effort.

Tonight I'm weary, a bit harried, but hopeful. Plink--Peter Gabriel's falsetto nails me with "Shock the Monkey!" and I smile. The buttons are working tonight. Maybe I'll actually tune around tomorrow.

It's Official!

I declare this officially "Blogger is Fucked Day!"

Grrr.

Take a Five-minute Break

This is the funniest damned lesbian story I've ever read.

Some Housekeeping

WARNING: Eclectic post ahead.

Annoying Diet Story
Two things struck me over the weekend. One was that I'm one of those really annoying people that talk about their diets when they're on one. Sorry. The other is that one of the main reasons I've lost weight is because I've increased my Wellbutrin intake and that (as I posted back in January or February) serves as an appetite suppressant (at least until your body adjusts.) I guess that makes me less of a bastion of willpower and more a victim of chemistry.

Annoying Kid Story
Cue Batman bumper music. Whip pan to new topic. Two more things. One, I'm one of those annoying people that talk about what smart kids they have. Sorry. The other is that my seven-year-old, Roo, thinks in a way I'll never understand. It seems a sort of savant-symbolic-spatial sort of thing. At four, she wanted to show grandma she could write the alphabet. But grandma was laying on the couch on the other side of the coffee table from her, so she wrote it upside-down so grandma could read it. Scary.

At five, you could ask her simple addition problems that many older kids would need fingers or paper to do. "Hey, Roo, what seven plus eight?" She'd direct her eyes toward the ceiling and you could almost see the gears turning. "Fifteen?" Wow.

Then, over the weekend, The Rooster and I were driving around. "Hey Daddy!" "Yes, Roo?" "You know what fourteen plus fourteen is?" I knew her class only did addition that resulted in sums of less than twenty. "What is it, hon?" "It's twenty-eight! Know how I know that? I knew it had to end in eight, but eighteen was too small, so it must be twenty-eight!"

"Very cool! But you know," I said, "it doesn't always work that way. Like what number should sixteen and sixteen end with?"

Eyes up, gears turn. "Thirty-two!"

"That's right! How'd you know that?" She shrugs. I offered, "did you just see the answer?"

She nodded and I smiled. Proudly.

Finally, something interesting
I have made it my goal to improve my writing and get published this year. I don't care where or even what genre really. I'm flexible. I just bought an ancient laptop from eBay, and I have--sitting on my desk--the submission guidelines for my local paper. (Circulation: 17 and a half. The half is for Carl down at the truck stop who's only got one eye. He convinced them to charge him less.)

Now, I think I'll start my lowest ebb story for the Low-Ebb-a-thon. Coming Soon.

HEY! Albion People!

Leave me a comment! Make me feel loved! Give me a warm fuzzy! Or correct my grammar! All you girls and guys coming over here from Krista's site, mental, are hereby requested to click the comment link below. Thanks!

Earlier Today...

Dad: Thanks girls for helping me clean the kitchen! We got so much done, you were a big help!

Girls: You're welcome.

Dad: I always do better when I'm working with other people. I think you guys like it when Mommy or Daddy cleans with you, don't you?

9-yr-old daughter: "Many hands make light work!"

Dad: [gasping, kneeling, waving arms] I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!


A properly applied aphorism! I'm so proud!

I'm Number One!

Google Search: bitchen dog food lists me as the first hit! I'm soooo proud!

Stop screwing with my head!

I was on vacation the first week of April. My wife made me watch John Edward. To her, he is legitimate. I am a skeptic--at the moment. But he did some pretty convincing stuff. I find myself wondering, despite my better judgement, if John Edward might be legit; if all that stuff may be really out there.

I keep thinking about the wack-job that read me. She wasn't wrong so far. Who knows? Then I struggle with the basic conflict that has with my theology. I can't concientiously have it both ways. Some people can. They can reconcile all that parapsychology with basic Christianity. I can't. I feel like I'd have to choose.

I'm just in a writing mood today I guess. Trying to push through the amorphous white blobstrocity that's impeding every aspect of my life right now.

I really just want to start from scratch. All new house, job, friends. Live my life as if it were just beginning, but bringing into it all of my past experience. I finally feel like I've learned just enough to succeed. Right now, my failures hang on me like boat anchors.

What does my future hold? Can anyone really see it? How could that possibly be? But yet I wonder now...

Mediocre

Go ahead.

Insist I have talents. Insist I have redeeming qualities. Insist I have a good life. That's what everyone does when I feel like this. Right now, I can't think of a single aspect of my life where I'm truly succeeding. I'm not being an effective employee, a gentle father, a loving husband, a decent housekeeper, a competent musician or a good friend. I'm not saying this as an exaggeration or a pity party, it's just how I feel. All the evidence I see before me (including the posts here, add "great writer" to the things I'm not) paints a vibrant picture of sheer mediocrity.

The strangest part is that I know it's not true. No amount of telling me what I have will convince my brain to tell my soul it not true. I also know that it's probably just one thing weighing heavily on me that causes all else to be weighted by it's shadow. I've been me long enough to know this about myself. I also know it's very hard for me to find out that one thing till I accidentally solve it. Then the realization comes. Is it the lousy practice last night? Is it my overreactive anger toward my daughter the other night? Is it the three or four or five people who I regard as "best" friends that don't talk to me unless I talk to them? Is it that I'm too pissed about it to call them? Is it that I've pissed too many people off with my words? Is it my growing frustration--brought on by blogging--that I'm, more my father than my father was sometimes, and I hate that version of me? Is it that I'm fucking blogging instead of working? Is it simply money?

Something has blocked out my sun. Everything I have is under Pink Floyd's sun that is eclipsed by the moon. And I can never tell what the moon is.

Oh, I can make lists and get sleep and take Wellbutrin and they all help, but the weight is still there casting it's lunar shadow on the rest of my life. What needs to change? Whom do I embrace or learn to ignore. What do I do or stop doing? Is it my fault or am I just a victim of circumstance?

The moon is beautiful. The sun is even more beautiful. Heh-heh. Oh, Yeah...
"Oh Yeah" -- Yello

McDonald's Rant

Been to McDonald's lately? When I worked at McDonald's I was reprimanded for not double-folding my sacks (folding the top down twice to hold in the heat). It's been years since I've gotten a properly double-folded sack from a McDonald's employee.

"Crew Member." That's what they're called. I know. I used to work there. So did nearly 40% of the entire workforce today (or some such propaganda from McOpCo). That's what they told me when I worked there. But that was back in the days when the little aluminium numbers actually carried meaning. They used to mean, "Throw this food away when the big hand reaches this number." Now it means, "you may have to deal with an irate customer if you serve this after the big hand reaches the number, but if you feel you can chance it (for, say, a DRIVE-THRU customer, go right ahead and pack it up."

And, please, if you're gonna make me wait for my food, at least "clean as you go." How many times did I hear "if you're leanin', you could be cleanin'?" Fire up that rag (sorry "cloth"), son, I want my old food to be sanitary.

[NOTE: I found this in my archives. I wrote it probably eight years ago. I probably should have deleted it then too...]

Unsympathetic Benevolence

How does a fight start anyway? No one ever starts a fight do they? Each party universally feels the other has started it. A odd paradox that. That being said, she started it. Saturday morning. She came out of the bedroom after sleeping in (her first Saturday off in a long time) and commenced criticism. "I heard the spawn of Satan out here." This is what started the fight for her. Harsh words through gritted teeth to children who have been told three times in the span of five minutes to wash the dishes yet haven't started. The criticism is where I mark the beginning. Funny, huh?

I continually pull punches when I argue with anyone. I know how badly my tongue can hurt accidentally, and I try not to do it intentionally. This time I didn't care. This time I alienated my arguee in a severe way by taking her tack of saying exactly how she feels. It was not pretty. I escaped via chemistry, she escaped via Ford Explorer.

A shopping trip and two wine coolers later, I--universally considered the peacemaker between us by counselors--was ready to apologize and work things out. Nothing doing. I left to help my mom throw my dad's 40-year collection of useless junk out of the garage while he was gone at work. (That's a whole 'nother story.) While I was organizing boxes of Boy Scout equipment (I'm the youngest son at 35), college notes and textbooks (he's been out of college since 1988) and ham radios that still employ vacuum tubes, my wife was getting ready for the band gig.

I showed up a the bar at about 9:00 to take pictures and play a few songs and she was cool toward me. I couldn't blame her. I was evil.

We'd driven different cars, so I went home before the gig was over to sleep and/or await her arrival. At 3:30, she still wasn't home (the bar being less than five minutes from home, it was strange). I called her cell and she was still at the bar. The band was long gone, but she hadn't had her fill of free Tequila shots. Her friend was with her. They were doubtlessly bitching about me.

I called the cell again at 4:00 and yet again at 5:00 with no response. (I found out later she'd driven to "the" truck stop for breakfast and then back to sleep it off at her friend's.) She called at 7:30 Sunday morning. "I'm here at my friend's but I'm hungover, so I'm going to sleep some more."

Waking the children, we set about getting ready for church. At about 9:30, when we were loading in the car, she was exiting said friend's house dressed in her stage outfit. Most of it is inconsequential (you can look at the pictures) except the three-inch platform heels. Factor the tall shoes, a half-dozen snakebites still in her system and a two-step cement porch at her friend's and you can guess that she slipped and fell.

She drives in about 9:35, so I hurriedly shift the kids to the Explorer and listen to her slurred complaints about her sore ankle. Then we take off, leaving her to go back to bed once more.

Upon our return home, we find her in bed, leg propped up, in a velcro and plastic splint (her friend had decided she needed to go the the emergency room) to relieve the baseball-sized lump on the side of her ankle that was a "severe sprain."

I found (and still find) it hard not to be cynical about the sprain, but I found myself later that day at Wal-Mart buying feminine hygiene products and 7-up, renting DVD's and catering to her, regardless.

Sometimes I find myself torn between loving her and wanting to get the hell away. Sometimes in the same day. Sometimes over the span of ten minutes.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to write this in detail. But here it is, in all of it's banal glory.

Thanks for reading.

Interesting

I'm not a big fan of community blogs, but this one seems to be consitently intelligent and funny.

"Love is what life feels like when you aren't being scared of it."

[ soul kitchen ]

Mood Swing

I was going to blog last night but I didn't. To explain why, I'll just post what I would have:

I am so out of sorts right now. Earlier today I was fine, now I'm totally depressed. Can't even find the words... Maybe it's because I'm short on sleep for about five or six nights straight or that I've been consuming about 50% of my standard caloric intake for a couple of weeks. I don't know. I feel like I'm depressed, but about nothing. I know it's only 8:15 but I think I'll just go to bed and see how things look in the morning.

Well, I did indeed go to bed at 8:15 and woke up exactly nine hours later at 5:15 (for those of you not up to post-graduate-level advanced time-math). I feel incredible! I got some laundry done this morning, got the kids ready for school, made me and my bed-ridden wife (story still coming, I promise) eggs and toast for breakfast and still left for work early. Actually got here on time (7:30). What's remarkable is that if I get here at 7:30, I'm the first or second one here (out of about ten). But none of us leave at 5:30 anyway. Plus, 10-hour work days suck, so we all clip the mornings.

So I've come to the realization that I occasionally mistake extreme tiredness for depression. I guess I've been doing it all my life. (I do, however, get actual depression sometimes that isn't sleep-related.) I guess that's probably not a revelation to the rest of you guys, but sometimes I am blind to obvious things until the light switch clicks on. (What a stupidly obvious statement! Oh, well, I'll leave it in.)

I hadn't planned to mention it, but it was a similar light switch that is helping me lose weight. I was reading a blog (and have no idea whose it was; if it was you, let me know) where the blogger (I'm thinking it was a guy) was commenting about his dieting. He said something like "I know I'll be hungry, but I guess it builds character, right?" And, bam, it hit me. All of my adult life, whenever I've thought about dieting and "willpower," I've always thought of willpower in terms of the strength to not eat bad foods. I now realize that a big part of the willpower/dieting equation is the strength to not eat just because you're hungry. I've never done that. It's always been "I'm hungry, find something that's on my diet so I can eat. And hurry, or I might eat that donut." Now it's "I'm hungry, but that's okay, it builds character, I'll eat soon enough."

Thank you, mystery blogger.

Lookee!

Bunch of new blog links (lower left). Check them out. Tell 'em I sent ya!

A Countdown Meme
So sue me

Nine things you wear daily:

Shirt

Pants

Underpants

Socks

Shoes

Wedding Ring

Geeky Casio Databank Watch

Contact Lenses

My Heart on my Sleeve

Eight movies you'd watch over and over:

Raiders of the Lost Ark

Blues Brothers

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

The Matrix

Dead Poet's Society

JFK [no, I don't think it's the truth, just a well-made movie]

Risky Business

Arsenic and Old Lace

Seven albums that matter:

Chess -- 1984 concept album

Watermark -- Enya

90125 -- Yes

Glass Houses -- Billy Joel

Upstairs at Eric's -- Yaz

Blues Brothers -- Soundtrack

Stella -- Yello

Six objects you touch every day:

Keyboard, Computer

Keyboard, Musical

Mouse

Steering Wheel

Coffee Cup

Johnson

Five things you do every day:

Drink Caffiene

Surf and Blog

Sing

Talk

Apologize

Four bands/singers that you couldn't live without:

Billy Joel

Elton John

Phil Collins

The Beatles

Three of your favorite songs at this moment:

Drops of Jupiter -- Train

Short Skirt, Long Jacket -- Cake

Family Portrait -- Pink

Two people that have influenced your life the most:

My Father [not always (not usually?) in a good way]

Kevin Bassett

One thing you could spend the rest of your life with:

A Piano

Feh.

You need a new blog to read

Krista's site mental is a well-written blog by a college student studying Creative Writing. She makes the banalities of day-to-day life interesting.

Check out her content site too. Very nice design.

Thanks to Mary T. for the link.

Pleased with myself

I've been on a diet. I weighed myself today. I'm down seventeen pounds! Hurrah!

Now, if can actually start the ab exercises...

Busy

Sorry I haven't posted for a couple of days. I've been terrifically busy. My list from last night was something like:

• Buy kitchen trash bags
• Return Videos
• Pay Bills
• Do state taxes
• Watch "The X-Files"
• Do ab crunches
• Do last week's timesheets

Plus, my wife sprained her ankle yesterday. It's a good story and one I'd like to take my time to write it effectively. Hope you don't mind.

To keep you occupied, here is some pictures from the band gig Saturday. I took them, so I'm not in them. (Not like I'm really in the band anymore anyway.) The blond is my wife. Enjoy.

ADDENDUM [4:01 pm]:
What I failed to mention is that last night's "completed" list looked something like:

• Return videos
• Play with PhotoShop
• Watch "The X-Files" (three episodes)
• Play with PhotoShop
• Crap! Do taxes
• Play with PhotoShop
• Piss off office lady this morning 'cause my timesheets weren't done.

Gotta go pay some bills...

Limerence & Googling

Here is a Real Audio commentary from "All Things Considered" about people "googling" each other before a first date.

Very cute. And a boon for the limerence meter. (Robin?)

(no words)

Read this now. It is amazing.

Thanks to Aldo Alvarez for the heads up.

Open it Right

You know, that's the thing about "cling" wrap—you have to open it carefully. You have to open it right. You have to follow instructions. You have to be gentle. You know why? 'Cause if you don't you'll never be able to tear it off right and you'll be stuck with an ill-tearing box and crappily wrapped leftovers for the next fecking year till you finally use up that roll and get to start a new one! That's why.

It seems that what I just wrote should be allegorical. Like everyone (including the president) thought Chance (Peter Sellers) was a brilliant man with fantastic metaphors for the solving the country's problems (not LeAnn Rimes, "America" the country, silly) in Being There. In reality he was a mentally slow gardener who simply told everyone the best way to raise a garden.

So when I log in and type stupid stuff, maybe I'm actually saying something really profound. Look for the Chance in me.

And I will look for him in you.

Damned Freud

My ego has helped me drop ten pounds, but my id just fed me a quart of Rocky Road ice cream.

Dammit.

Holy Toledo!

My blog got a hit from Saudi Arabia this afternoon! I've never seen traffic from Saudi Arabia on the 100 or so sites I've developed or helped develop. Astounding. No referrer though, wonder why.

Also, welcome Sniper! I've added her to my read list. She found me and kept coming back and left a comment to that effect. It made my day! Thanks!

The Subjective School of Hard Knocks

There's a bunch of teens out there that perceive the 1980's the same way I perceive the 1960's--as a long time ago.

I was born in 1966, so I don't remember anything about 1960's except the Apollo 11 moon shot in 1969. I can recall in the seventies and eighties thinking that the sixties were a terrifically long time ago. The Vietnam war is ancient history to me. You know what isn't ancient history to me? Watergate. I remember the coverage of the Watergate trials and the resignation of Richard Nixon. The phrase "Judge John Sirica said today...," is branded in my earliest memories.

So how long was it between the end of the Vietnam war and the impeachment hearings of Richard Nixon? Less than a year? The Watergate break-in actually occurred before we pulled out of Vietnam. [see PBS timeline]

Memory is a tricky thing. We tend to remember things in a mental timeline, with things father back fading with some neurological half-life. But things in history we didn't experience (or don't remember experiencing) take a giant leap back.

Is this why they say that those who don't recall history are doomed to repeat it? We tend to put less weight on un-remembered historical events. I love "That 80's Show" because that my exciting youth. Oliver Stone is passionate about the sixties because that's his exciting youth. I think this is why older, experienced but uneducated advisors are often better that younger yet educated advisors. You can have all the book-learning you want, but there's nothing like being there.

We used to joke in college how the teachers didn't seem to grasp what it was like in the real world. And we were right. The real world is a far better teacher. And a far better teacher of history.

I hate that I and my ilk are damned to repeating the mistakes we haven't lived through. I just now occurs to me that perhaps when virtual reality gets good enough we may be able actually experience historical events. To "be there" rather than read a book or watch a movie about it.

I hope so.

Yes, you

she, a map
confirming good paths

when absent
proceeding on instinct
driving by gut
without correction
meandering
redundant

I may arrive
alone without her
more frustrated than happy

maybe not at all

Epiphany of a Teen-aged Christian Virgin and Former Self-mutilator
My review for the The Peer-to-Peer Review Project

Epiphany is a blog by Heather, who is nearly sixteen. It has the standard stuff you'd expect in a teen blog: size 1 fonts, ever-changing grunge layouts, clique links, occasional meme-test results and current music lists.

But it has something more. Through the fog of misspellings and unfortunate font choices lies an affecting account of a maligned Christian girl climbing victoriously out of a vicious self-mutilation cycle only to be laid bare on the sharpness of those to whom she's made every attempt to be kind.

Could you write about your own experience of self-mutilation? What if you were fifteen? Could you describe the slanderous words of your "friends" that cut deeper than any blade?

Heather does. And not in a self-pitying way. She doesn't expect pity, she explains what went through her head. And now she is haunted by the unanswerable questions of post-adolescence. She is plagued by mea culpa, but she doesn't know it yet. At least not in those terms.

Her words are powerful if immature. She will write well as the years pass. She evokes emotion completely from her honesty. I envy that degree of honesty. It's that sort of honesty that makes me want to start a new, anonymous blog to tell my real story because too many meatspace friends know about my current one.

The only thing truly lacking is a link for archives. I'd love to go read her whole story from the beginning. I hope she can help us out.

Pure Limerence

Sar has a new blog up. It's replacing her LiveJournal. It's such a great read if you watch for the "Ben" entries. A true tale of limerence at it's purest.

Depravity at the Wal-Mart
Damn the Sexual Revolution

This may shock or disappoint some of you, but I'm a relatively typical guy. The one inexorable fact of my existence since I was thirteen is:

I look at pretty girls.

I seldom have immediate, imagined sexual fantasies with every pretty girl or beautiful women I see (some guys do, trust me). A friend once told me that what is wicked "isn't the glance, but the stare." Well, I do stare sometimes. As a typical conservative, I am occasionally(!) a moral hypocrite.

Live with it.

Last night I was at the Wal-Mart (in my small Hoosier town, you'd swear it's actually called "the Wal-Mart") in the middle of the night buying garage sale signs and Braun ear-thermometer shields. On my way to Health and Beauty Aids, I found my self walking behind four stunning, young blonde girls probably averaging eighteen years old heading down the main aisle with intent. Most hetero, white, American males would have had a hard time not watching them walk from behind, smiling and giggling at seemingly illicit inside humor. My glance had certainly mutated into a stare and I became conscious that this was a rare occasion when fantasy did start to enter in.

My conservative side kicked in and yelled at me about how it wasn't right that a 35-year-old guy should be looking at this foursome the way I was. Society had pounded into me that old men are guilty, perverted and highly persuasive and young girls are innocent, pure and easily persuaded. That it is my responsibility not to allow thoughts, let alone deeds, encroach upon unacceptability.

I shut my mind to the thoughts and headed straight toward the ear thermometers. Coincidentally, this beeline kept me behind the foursome (strictly coincidence, I think) until we reached our respective destinations at almost exactly the same moment. You see, the ear thermometers are three scant yards from the rack of condoms. They promptly burst into a discussion of what brand and type to buy. I grabbed a pack of thermometer shields and left for my other destinations. (After catching a final glance, of course.)

I'm going to have to tell you that I felt gypped. (Oh. My. God. I just realized "gypped" is a bigoted slur of gypsy. Damn me.) I was beating myself up for imagining exactly the act that they were already preparing to do through no action or coercion by me. What's up with that?

Why is it becoming more and more acceptable for teenaged girls to have sex but no more acceptable for older men to think of having sex with teenaged girls? I don't buy that distributing condoms to teens in high schools isn't condoning this activity. The lead argument for this is "they are going to do it anyway, so give them protection." That sounds like condoning to me. But where's those "going to do it anyway" people when an older male is labeled a sexual predator because he has a girlfriend half his age?

I apologize for the random tone this post has taken. I'm not writing an essay this time. I'm journaling to get my thoughts down "on paper" about something that is such a non sequitur in my brain that it simply pisses me off.

If anyone is actually reading this, your comments are appreciated.

Kids are Cool (or: Why We're Such Bigots)

I'm convinced that bigotry is strictly nurture and not nature. This seems like an obvious thought, but consider that many children make fun of the strangers in their midst. I believe, in a very Jungian tabula rasa sort of way, that children are taught to be cruel to the children among them that are different. Parents, I believe, unconsciously teach their young ones to belittle the things in life that are unknown or unfamiliar and thus feared. I don't think this is an instinctive reaction, but rather a learned one. My children have taught me this.

When she was in pre-school, my middle daughter befriended another girl with an obvious congenital disorder replete with thick glasses and back brace. My daughter didn't see why it was remarkable to us that she had chosen to befriend a classmate that no one else would sit alongside, talk to or color with. I was never taught to ridicule the unfamiliar, so I believe that she hasn't really learned that. She sees bigotry as strange when manifested in others.

Then, the other day, my girls (seven, nine and ten years old now) and I were talking about Teletubbies. Grandma was visiting and related that their eighteen-month-old cousin was a big fan of the Teletubbies. I, on a typical trivia whim, was trying to name all four of them without the aid of my children. Stuck for the name of the purple one with the handbag and super-cranial triangle, I asked the kids "which one is the gay one?" To which they replied in unison, "Tinky-Winky!" No distaste, discomfort or disrespect in their answer, simply a statement of how they understood a world with Teletubbies.

I don't know how they learned of Reverend Falwell's disparagement of The Violet One's character, but they apparently saw no problem with his assessment. I'm not here to say whether or not Tink is gay, but my kids have no problem accepting that a character on a show aimed at tiny children could be so. I think that's very cool. To them, it's normal.

As ashamed as I am to say it, I still have a very slight twinge of bigotry when I encounter gays. When I was a kid, in the days of Billy Crystal's "Jodie Dallas" on Soap, it was popular demean gays as outcasts. I would imagine that my father feels the same way about African-Americans. He grew up in a world of condoned racism, and I'm sure he's repressed a twinge of racial bigotry all of his life.

I'm proud to say my kids are colorblind to both race and sexual orientation. I wonder what bigotry they will have that their children won't? Probably something that we wouldn't even consider bigotry today.

Food for thought.

Entertainment Epitomized

Disturbing Search Requests lists odd requests from search engines that people have found in their referrer logs. You can submit the ones that you find in yours. A total riot.

UPDATE: I've just been reading this site. I'm actually crying from laughing so hard. Don't miss this one.