'Tis the season

So, it's Candy Corn season. Woo Hoo. Now, who out there doesn't love Candy Corn? I'm not talkin' about those nasty brown topped wanna be candy corns either. I'll give a little props to the pumpkins, but overall, I'm talking white, orange and yellow candy corn. Sugar. Pure and simple. How many of you bite the crown off to see how close you can get to the actual color stripe? Busted.

I don't have a huge thing for candy, but I walked by the bags of candy corn the other day and suddenly, I had one magically appear in my hand. What gives? I don't even recall reaching for it. It was just there. I think it lasted 4 whole days. I keep hearing tales of people eating the whole bag at once. Not surprised with that one either. I mean, Krispy Kreme could learn a thing or two about addiction from the candy corn people.

Comfort this

You ever notice you have a comfort wardrobe? I'm not talking about comfortable clothes, but clothes that are like comfort food. The stuff you put on when you just feel blah, or you ate too much, or it's raining. Whatever the cause, you've got this article or set of clothing you can put on and suddenly things seem a little better. Perhaps it's a sweatshirt from an ex-boyfriend (or a sweatshirt an ex-girlfriend gave you) that you'd never tell your current Beau about the history.

Or perhaps it's a pair or shorts or sweats from when you were fat and they threaten to slide off your hips and it makes you smile every time you have to hike them up. Maybe it's an old T-shirt from college your wife has been nagging at you to throw away for years because it's threadbare and falling apart. The kind of piece of clothing that makes you sigh in delight as you slip into it and frown at the end of the day when you take it off. Cotton so soft with age that you aren't sure what holds it together other than your whim.

Like curling up on the couch under a blanket in the winter with a cup of hot cocoa. Or a conversation with an old friend (one of those debates that has lasted years.) You can't quite get enough, but the separation doesn't cause anxiety either. My salute today is to the comfort wardrobe. May you never part with it. Unless it's underwear with holes in it guys, then it's time to throw them in the trash, I don't care how comfortable they are.

Mind eraser

If you could erase parts of your memory, would you? Is there anything so terrible that you would be willing to erase any bit of it from your mind? If you did so, do you think you would end up being a different person? I can think of some scenario's you might want to block out of your mind?

Being the first to find a suicide victim, being in the pit at a place like the Oklahoma City bombing or Ground Zero, the death of a child, combat, POW or kidnapping experiences all come to mind. However, by removing those memories, would you become somehow less of a person? Would you be less whole or more whole?

Does pain in some way help define our shining moments? Is there anyway you would ever delete a happy memory? What would that take? What kind of incentive would be required to induce you to delete something good from your mind? I've been curious about memory for years. Pick any year of my life, I can probably pick out some terrible memory from that year. Something I'd like to forget. Ask me for a happy memory from many of those same years, I'd likely draw a blank. I think most of us would. I'm not saying they aren't there, I'm saying that are archival systems in our brains are not set up to retrieve the good as easily as the bad.

So, at this late stage in our lives, can that system be rebuilt? Can you redesign your memory and thought process as an adult to assist you to be able to get to positive memories faster and negative ones slower or not at all? Would we be happy zombies? Would the lack of bad memories somehow make us all smiles and good thoughts? Yeah, I didn't think so either. But, it's an attractive thought sometimes isn't it. That memory of the time... Never mind, I'm sure you are picturing just the thought that you'd like to zap. Good luck.

Blind rapacity

I wait for you
tired and weary
your smile the energy I crave
your caress a treasure
a kind word the world
I wait for you
in quiet angst
your gaze i crave
your caress my simple desire
your word is my thirst

Corridors of unknown

This started as a comment on Kerry's blog. This blog rips me and leaves me raw and hurting, but I can't quit reading it. I realized I had more to say than a brief comment so I brought the whole thing here.

This is the post that I'm responding to. Even as I write these words, I am trying to ignore that my friend is in an ICU fighting for his life. And these comments are not about him or his situation. Nor are they about Kerry or her husband. She just got me thinking.














It's institutionalization. The reason the Dr. doesn't want him there is that you become used to it. Why is it that so many patients never leave? Hospitals sap will. They are places of pain and misery. Even childrens' wards are dismal. (Think of the words associated with hospital. Wards, ICU (Intensive Care Unite), Code.) These are not kind image provoking words. Hospitals are sterile eveironments not only in the terms of germs, but in terms of what happens there. Rarely will you ever hear a loud noise or laughter in a hospital. It's worse than a library. Everything is stifled there. Including humanity. We learn at a young age that people die in hospitals. Sure, a majority of patients seen in a year probably go home in better condition (or at least recovering) than they were in when they arrived. I'm startled that with all the medical advances they've made over the last 40-50 years that they haven't found a way to make a hospital more warm and inviting. Hospitable even. How's that for funny. Hospitable. Isn't that what a hospital should be?

Perhaps I'm colored by my own experiences of spending time in hospital waiting rooms with my brother as our mother, aunts and uncles and even older cousins argued about the care my grandmother was getting in the ICU. Heart attack you know. Days on end. Nothing to do. Hard nasty benches. Specified hours you can visit. Is this prison? What if the person I'm visiting is a night person? No visiting hours then is there? So sorry.

I was admitted to a hospital (A really well known one.) about 6-7 years ago. I had a cluster migraine. Imagine 30 days of pain and sensitivity to everything around you. Only relenting for a few hours every few days. By the time I'd been admitted, I'd tried every single pain medication you can name that you can get in a pill at a pharmacy. I'd also tried every migraine pill made too. Most made my heart hammer in my chest so bad that I couldn't imagine that it wasn't going to just rip itself free of my chest and go to a boxing match all on it's own. It would have been a contender.

So no-one knew what was wrong with me. They wouldn't share their theories or even the reasons for the tests they were doing. What they were ruling out. Finally, I had two neurologists going over me and and talking about more tests. "I'm not moving until you tell me what it is that you are afraid I have and what the tests are for."

"We think you have MS." I've never been more terrified in my entire life. No, that is that thing that Jerry Lewis stays up all night for. Not happening. This is not happening to me. I had no one to call. No one to tell. No one to give me comfort. After another test and prescriptions for a bunch of intravenous drugs, I was admitted for observation. To my knowledge, I didn't see either of those doctors again. The MRI they scheduled to see if I had a tumor never happened. After two days of lying in a hospital bed with that half rag wrap as my only clothing I was discharged. Wearing the same clothes I'd had on three days before when I came to the hospital.

While I was there, I saw two sets of nurses and perhaps an intern doing rounds. Everyone was businesslike about their jobs. There was very little friendliness and the room itself couldn't have been less stimulating. Now, you might be thinking, with a migraine, what do you want stimulation for? I didn't. I'm just trying to illustrate my put about the sapping of wills that happens in hospitals and why. I think it's time someone considered the effect the place of treatment has on a patient as well as the treatment itself. It's well known that laughter is good medicine. Why is it then that hospitals don't have closed circuit comedy channels for patients to watch? Hmmm... the laughter and good will might spread like an infection. I'll tip my glass to that.

I got picked to play with the big kids...

Tagged by SDK, thus saving you from some random post today.

Three Random Facts About My Closet:
1) Which one?
2) One is simply not big enough.
3) Which part didn't you understand? The closet is not big enough. I use them all. I have a closet just for my suits.

Three Items I've Never Worn But Still Haven't Tossed:
1) You can own clothes without wearing them? What kind of blasphemy is this?
2) Oh, items... Water socks.
3) Condoms.

Three Items I'll Never Get Rid Of, No Matter How Ugly They Get:
1) Every time I say that about a piece of clothing I toss it. Not saying it again.
2) OK - the jeans I paint in. The ones I've patched twice.
3) My motorcycle jackets.

Three Items People Wouldn't Expect To Find In My Closet:
1) A dress.
2) High heels.
3) A military dress uniform.

Three items that made me go, "Oh Lord, what was I thinking?":
1) Question your own wardrobe, I don't question mine.
2) The hooded, full length leather jacket I just threw away on a whim.
3) A T-shirt that said, "Your village called, their idiot is missing."


Three things that I have a surprising number of:
1) Socks. I have SO many socks. (around 100-150 pairs)
2) Shoe trees.
3) Shoes to put the trees in.

Three dominant colors in my wardrobe:
1) Black.
2) Gray.
3) Lavender. (Fuck off you judgmental Fuck.)


Three items that never fail to put me in a good mood whenever I wear them:
1) The green shirt that gets me laid 85% of wearings.
2) My Marlboro classic jeans (batting almost .1000 in those).
3) My Puma shoes or a suit (I look good in a suit).


Three people I will tag (or throw under the bus):
No-one. If you want to tag yourself (or throw yourself under a bus), be my guest. Just be quick about it.

Updated label - same beer

So has anyone seen the new Heineken label? If you drink Heineken, did you actually notice that they changed the label? Instead of being on white paper, they have updated their resume so to speak. Now the label is printed on clear vinyl or plastic and since it's probably put on a heat transfer, this means the freakin thing is hard to get off. Did I say hard? Yes, but it has another advantage over paper. It peels in one piece - with the stickiness still included. This means you can decorate your room, fridge, etc. with Heineken. You can display your love of the brand. OK - further examination of the label leads you to discover two very old accomplishments for the beer. Now, I understand when I see someone's resume with old information. They are struggling to be relevant and somehow better than they are. Now, I'll give you that Heineken is decent beer. It's not a Stella or Pilsner Urquell, but good enough to drink over bud and miller products. I digress, back to my resume point. On the label it says: 1873 For Europe, this is a young beer. Then it also says: Diplome D'honneur Amsterdam 1883, Medaille D'or Paris 1875, Grand Prix Paris 1889, Hors Concours membre du jury Paris 1900. People does your beer suck that bad that you haven't won an award in over 100 years? I think it's time to enter some beer contests. Please. Update your label yet again with something current and fresh. Don't just make your label look cooler. Give it some new content. I'm begging you.

Son of a bitch...

This blog typically isn't about my daily life (at least I don't think of it that way). It's more my observations. Today is a little different.

My world just got rocked. Not in a good way. I just found out a friend of mine has been placed in the ICU after a long illness. So far, he's been diagnosed with liver and kidney failure, pneumonia and malnuitrition. His probability of living is not high. Right now, he's too weak to even have most of the tests run that Dr.s want to do. If he lives, he'll be on daily dialysis for the rest of his life.

How did it get so bad? He is an alcoholic. I knew it within days of meeting him, but never mentioned it specifically. His coworkers knew it and despite one person's efforts, they didn't stage an intervention. Had I lived in the same city, I would have done it myself. I fought with him earlier this year after seeing him. I knew he was sick. He knew it too. He promised to get help and said things were getting better. I listened. My mistake. I know what happened to him isn't my fault, but it's hard not to think there is something I could have done.

How much do you have to drink and for how long to have this happen? I don't know. If anyone out there does, could you let me know. It would make me feel better to know the reality.

For now, all I can do is send whatever positive energy I have. Hope he gets better so I can kick the ever-lovin' shit out of him later.

Sorry to be so somber, but I just needed to get this out.

Tunnel rocketeer

Warning: disgusting content to follow. Continue to read at your own risk.

So last night I dreamed about blowing my nose. Not like putting tissue in my hand and placing it in front of the my nostril and blowing to expel whatever matter was hanging out there. Rather, I dreamed like I was a tiny video camera inside the nose itself. From the hurricane gale force winds. To watching the giant snot ball come rolling out of the depths of my sinus's, it was a very curious dream. I mean, actually seeing the process it requires to expel this stuff is really quite interesting, but it's not like you could sell a DVD on the mass market and have yourself a hit on your hands. I can see the title now. The Snotball Express. Or. You and Your Nasal Hygiene. That one sounds like a 50's Sex Ed or other health class video. But I digress, so this slime is rolling toward the exit and stops whenever the blowing force slows. Sometimes it even edges back a bit. Finally, the howling wind breaks it's tenuous infuriating grasp on your mucus membranes and gains enough momentum to fly out your nose into the waiting receptacle of tissue. Ah...

Shoe mania

OK, it turns out that for this trip, the shoe count is three pairs of shoes and one pair of sandals. I'd probably really like to pack a few more pairs of shoes, but the suitcase is only so big. And I think I got it covered. One really dressy pair in black, one stylish chunky black shoe, one pair of Tsubo's . I walked all over europe in these shoes. They are so comfortable, it should be illegal. Despite the shoelace, this is a slip on. Great for the airport where the nazi bastards have taken to requiring that your shoes must come off. I'm thinking they just want us to be like the Koreans or Japanese and wear thongs (not the underwear kind either. Get your mind out of the gutter.) For those who don't know me personally, I have more shoes than most of the women I date. (And I dated a woman who sold shoes to retailers for awhile.) Well, maybe she had more shoes, but it was close. Now, I know it's slightly aberrant for a man to have a lot of shoes, but the days of having three pairs of shoes for men is over. Welcome to the world of dressing for the occasion guys. My dad once almost shit a brick when I spent $280 on a pair of Cole Haan lofers. I said, I'll have them 10 years. Funny, I've had them 9. I have resoled them twice and they still look great. That's $28 bucks a year. Works for me. lol This is contrary to the women shoe thing. Where they buy cheap shoes and plan to only wear them one season or even only once. Insanity. Need I say more? OK. I'm done then. I may or may not post the rest of the week as I'm traveling, but pop in and check. Perhaps I'll have a juicy morsel for your edification.

Potpourri

Ever have the urge to go into Starbucks and order a really complex drink? Something that just makes the Barrista start writing and then go "What the F*CK?" Something with everything taken out of it even the coffee? Maybe you just end up with a glass of milk or something. Can someone who drinks Starbucks help me out with this one. I want to do it, just don't know what to say.

A friend of mine went to Best Buy to get a Nano pod tonight. just off the truck. They got in 59 of them. Odd number? The break down was 57 2GB models and 2 4 GB models. Now, I'm not a marketing genius, but I'm thinking the 4 GB is more popular for only $50 more. I mean really. Do they expect to sell that many pods that only hold 500 songs vs. 1000 for $50 more? I'm so confused. Let's see, I can double my playlist for 25% of of the original cost. Any numbers people out there that can make sense of this one?

Why is it that when you look for something that it's the last place you look? I'm not talking about because you FOUND the thing. I mean, you have 5 places to look for said item (the real # was closer to 20 but for the sake of argument...). You begin looking. It's not a random search. There is an order. 1, 2, 3... and so on. How is it that when there is only one place left you haven't found it and sure enough it's in the very last one. Now, have you ever inverted the search? I have. You know what? The thing is still in the last damn place. Try it next time you lose your keys (or whatever). Stop. Sit down and write down all the possible locations. Then begin your search. I guarantee that the last place on the list is where it is. Perhaps you could give someone else the list. And see where they find it. I live alone so I can't experiment with that one. Help me out though. Do the research for me and get back to me.

Why is there a point in every meal when I say in my head, "I've had enough." I then I keep eating. Hello? Earth to fat people. Listen up will you? When your brain says stop, clamp your freakin' lips shut in a vise grips if you have to and quit eating. It's not that hard. You simply stop swallowing. It's not like breathing where you literally can't stop. Eating is not an involuntary action. Think you are getting over by sneaking in that last bite? (or 10?) Nope. You just distend your stomach for tomorrow so you'll be hungrier. And the cycle repeats. Mmm... isn't that burrito good? I must consume the whole thing. Oh, and the side of beans and the side of rice. Oh, and two beers. Or soda or whatever it is you consume with your burrito these days.

How many shoes does a man need for a 5 day trip? I'll let you know tomorrow. I promise it's more than you think. And less than I really need. Uggghhh.

Wasting a few slices of tree

I have just ensured that I will receive tons of mail in my new mailbox. How? You might ask. I'll tell you. Hold your horses. Goodness. My story, my pace.

OK, I'm trying to figure out how it is that an entity of the federal government can sell my address and name to commercial enterprises. You think it doesn't happen? Go change your address and watch the variety of junk mail that begins to arrive at your new home. Addressed correctly. Now, I know for a fact that I never gave my name and address to a dentist I've never met. And since very few people actually have my address, I'm pretty certain none of my friends gave him the address either. Now, this isn't a rant against the good dentist who is trying to make an honest living (or at least pay for all that high tech crap in his office) but rather the entity he got my personal information from.

The Post Office. You have no button to opt out. No choice. Now, I can see years ago where this might have been a good thing. Just out of college I got a package from the local "Welcome Wagon" Who picked that as a brand name I so want to know and pummel them for stupidity. I digress. So, you change your address with the US Postal Service and suddenly any marketer has access to your name and your address. Now, my own mother doesn't have this information. Why would I want it available to the general public. Especially when that general public is trying to sell me something I probably don't want or need. Over the next few weeks, I'll keep and post some of the select mail I get that is directly attributable to the Post Office (aka - the Federal Government) selling my good name and location.

Have a nice day.

Autumn's dance

The fiery riot of color has overtaken the trees once again for fall. My eyes trace the foliage trying unconsciously to discern the myriad of different hues of the leaves. The cool of morning has waned. The sun bright in the sky warms my skin in delicious licks as it passes through the openings in the boughs overhead. My footsteps bring crackles and wild rustling to my ears as I step along the path. I watch you walking in front of me. Picking your way gracefully through the wild. The river closer then further as we walk. The gurgle, chirp and splash of natures sound invades my thoughts. I ache to wrap my arms around you and feel your heartbeat against my hands. The breeze blows across our cheeks. Your hair caught like a dandelion 'cotten' flutters and dances in the invisible current. High above, a hawk swoops and reels in a never ending search; the hunter seeking prey. I inhale the fresh forest aromas. The raw earth, the scent of the wildflowers and evergreen. I close my eyes and it all remains. My empty hands close upon air. Alone again with my thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Euphoria's master

You ever have one of those strange lucid moments when for absolutely no reason you suddenly just have this bright smile and your face and a depth of peace inside that it feels foreign? Like suddenly you were placed under some type of ray and it took you to a whole new plane? This happens to me sometimes around sunset. I'm almost always in my car. Moving from point A to B in a scurry of hurry. Then it's like this calm just washes over me and I'm completely at peace with my world. Note: this doesn't happen that often, but it's memorable when it does. I had one the other day. Totally out of the blue. I wish I could figure out what it is that causes this and make it happen more often. It's not like I'm unhappy or anything. This feeling is just amazing though. How much would we pay for such a feeling? I sometimes wonder if this is what it feels like to be on heroin. To take that needle and slide it into your vein. The calm sense of euphoria that follows. I guess the difference is that I'm not looking to feel numb. I'm not trying to escape. I'd just like to share that sense of comfort with someone else. I'm always alone when it happens. Strange. Maybe that is when I feel the safest. No guards, no censors, no doublethink. Just me and my thoughts.

Technology whore

OK, so I'll admit I'm a technology whore. I'm the guy in the airport with the cool new widget. The guy sitting two rows in front of you with a 17" laptop watching a DVD bigger than the cabin video screen. I've followed the iPod craze with an avid fascination. Seeing them sell 18 million of them in the last year alone is mind-blowing. Now, they've come out with a new iPod that will make many users go buy another one. The iPod Nano. Suh-weet doesn't even come close. This is the must have. No more waiting for things to get any better. If they get better than this, they'll come with your choice of (nevermind).



Image Copyright © 2005 Apple Computer, Inc.

Ah, good...

Is it just me, or is there really nothing better to eat than your favorite slice (or four)? Oh, and a bottle of beer (or two). Hot, melted cheese. It drips and oozes off the crust. The delicate balance of toppings exquisite on your palette. The warm crust tears just right in your mouth. Succulent. Decadent. Your craving delivered. Thanksgiving dinner isn't this good. Think about it. The steam rising from the box. The aroma drifting across the room, filling your senses. Just when you think you can stop. You reach into the box for another slice. The flavors exploding off your tongue. Juicy and fulfilling. Oh, god.

Closing time...

My fingers raw. My mind fogged and blind. My depth of tired goes beyond what I thought I could deal with. I trudged on. I continued. We do, you know? We accomplish. We exceed expectations. We have the capacity to work for 16 hours or more. Our muscles crying with the unfamiliarity of their assigned tasks. You might think I was in the Gulf Coast. I sit surrounded by boxes. My life. The things in my life. My life is not a mere collection of things. We forget this sometimes I think. We attach value to things in our lives. Our experiences, the people that help shape our view of the world. Things are nice. They are replaceable. People are irreplaceable. I walked away from much that I have carried through the last decade of my life. My accumulations. My possessions. My baggage. I did not weep as I placed these articles by the wayside. Rather I rejoiced that I could finally leave them by the side of the road. I won't bore you with a list. As I move on into my next evolution, rather than focus on the things I parted with, I focused on the people that helped me along the way of this move. I can't think of anything more fitting right now.

Whirl

Sometimes we don't have the right words. We have this mass of confusion in our heads. It swirls and whirls like a dancing dervish and it tries to beat us into submission. It increases its pace frenetic, wild, unpredictable. Lulling for a moment calm then back biting into us again. It gives us conflicting data, images and feelings. Little pieces slip out and they aren't always the ones we'd hoped. I'm in day four of my migraine. I've pretty much settled into it now. The vision problems are gone. I really only notice it when I sneeze or turn my head too fast. Yeah, driving sucks.

I'm taking the rest of the weekend off. Look back on Monday and I might have some kind of gem for for you. That something yummy for your mind. Then again. Maybe Tuesday. We'll see.

Indiscretion

A soft touch of the girls hand
A long stem lightly caressing
Indecision of right and wrong - hesitation
Should it be left alone or grasped
The grasp wins out - fingers enclose
Praying fervently that she chose right
Fingers move quickly back and forth
Lifting away a sweet smelling flower

Ever feel like...

You are the white car in the middle of this stack? I got a migraine last night. Something that doesn't happen very often. My biggest trigger is bright light. You'll rarely see me with a pair of sunglasses with reach. When I go out at night, I take a pair with me just in case I don't get home and need them in the morning. I have a spare set stashed in my glovebox just in case the rainy day suddenly gets bright too. In other words, I am careful. Well, I messed up bad last night. I ended up awake most of the night. I even experienced something new. I had my hands over my eyes lying in bed and realized that my hand was moist. I was crying it hurt so bad and didn't even know it. The worst part of a migraine for me is the occular migraine. This is more common for me than than the throbbing pain of a regular migraine. The only way I can describe this is to have you rub your eyes vigorously, pushing on them as your rub. Not to the point of pain, ok? Now, the stars and weird shapes of light you see? go anywhere from 1-10 times that and you'll get the idea of an occular migraine. Anyway, the occular part is gone, but I have this feeling like there is an ice pick stuck in my temple and perhaps I got hit with a baseball bat. I'm not writing today to complain and whine. It is what it is and I feel like I kinda neglected my blog yesterday. Things have been busy, busy. Anyway. I'm off to see the wizard (or the car crusher). Ciao.