Last night I stumbled back home around 10 PM or so. I wasn't inebriated, just exhausted. Played a few hours of basketball and drove myself to go all out all night. I didn't stumble on the court, just onto the porch of my house. As I walked up the steps one of my legs decided to mutiny and so I sort of fell into the door.
Suppose I should be happy that no one videotaped my inadvertent headbutt into the door. I learned two things from the experience.
1) I have a hard head. No bruise from the encounter and thankfully no headache.
2) The door isn't fragile. Intellectually I knew this, but I am a child trapped in a man's body so I like to test things to see if they really do work.
Once inside the mutinous leg decided that I am not Captain Queeg and rejoined the team. This was good as it made the shower that followed far more pleasurable. A short time later I wandered over to check on the children and marveled again at how peaceful they are when they sleep.
Simply amazing...I used to sleep like that, careless and fancy free. In general I still sleep well, but it is not uncommon for my dreams to slip and disturb that careless state of mind I sometimes miss. I kissed the kids and whispered in their ears and headed out to the computer. It was time to do some work.
Several hours later I strolled into the bedroom, lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was after 1 A.M. and I was wide awake and felt like I had enough energy to back to the gym. In the years prior to kids I might have done so, but I knew that in a few hours I had to get those kids out of bed.
So I did what I could to relax and try to fall asleep. It took a long time, but eventually I dozed off. And of course this coincided with the dark haired beauty's decision that she needed to sleep next to dad. Have I ever mentioned that she is like a 5.5 year-old version of the Tasmanian Devil?
The girl kicks and rolls and flails about...all night long. And of course she uses my body as her personal punching bag. The end result is that I decide I am too tired to deal with this and she is old enough to sleep by herself.
She didn't wake up because of a nightmare or because she didn't feel well. She woke up because she kicked off her covers and was cold. I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. As soon as I put her down she jumped up and raced back to my bed. The little sneak had pretended to be asleep. Not only that, she had managed to help ensure that I got about three hours sleep last night.
And then to add insult to injury she wouldn't get up this morning. She moaned about being cold and whined about being tired. Since I am a kind man and never grouchy I growled and grunted something about giving away all of her toys and putting her to bed at 6 P.M. every night from today until 2098.
Did I mention that not only was I exhausted but incredibly sore. The endorphins from the night before were gone and all that remained were sore muscles that screamed at me for asking them to work hard.
As I stormed about the house I heard my son whisper, "abba is serious. Don't make him any angrier he is impossible when he is tired like this." I grimaced and wandered into the kitchen to make sure that their breakfast was underway.
And then from out of nowhere I felt these little arms circle around me and I looked down. Dark eyes peered back up at me, a little cherubic face smiled. Silently I cursed, in 5 seconds she had made my anger disappear. It is unnaturally disarming. It is not supposed to work that way. I am supposed to make the choice about whether to be angry or not.
Damn, damn, damn. I did my best to try not to smile and then she started laughing at me. It is not fair. She is using my tricks against me. I own the patent and the copyright on them and she still did it. Agrhhh.
Showing posts with label Things About Jack. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things About Jack. Show all posts
Transitions
"Some need gold and some need diamond rings
Or a drug to take away the pain that living brings
A promise of a better world to come
When whatever here is done"
Happy- Bruce Springsteen
A dear friend and I had a long talk last night about life and how it doesn't always work out the way you think that it will. Thoughts about our conversation carried over into this morning and I found myself thinking about some of the things that I thought would happen that didn't.
The tweet below is a good example:
I remember thinking that I was going to fly home and pack up my stuff. Israel was where I wanted to be. I love L.A. I always have and I always will but there was something about Jerusalem that captured my heart. I fell in love with it and I couldn't imagine not following up on that love.
I wanted to have more than a month at a time to learn about it and to see if it was a summer romance or a life long relationship. The flight home was long. I wasn't coming home after my first visit. I had spent a lot of time there before, but this was different. I was in my twenties and had no obligation to anyone but myself.
The move back to Israel didn't happen because life happened. Various things came about and now fifteen years later I look back at it and sometimes I wonder about the road not taken. It is a moment in time, a snapshot of my life that I can still see vividly in my mind.
Three years later I went back to Israel, but this time I was married. It was a short trip, barely three weeks. A chance to show her around and try to sell her on a place that already owned a piece of my heart. It was a good trip, but we came home with the understanding that we would go back sooner than later.
But things changed again. More than a decade later and I haven't been back. My children have heard stories and want to go. One day we will.
When we spoke last night my friend and I talked about his wife. It is his second time on the merry-go-round called marriage. He is exceptionally happy, or as I told him disgustingly happy. The two of them get googly eyed over each other. It makes me happy to see him so happy.
The first wife was a problem. She didn't look like a problem. Didn't set off the radar and maybe she should have, but she didn't. When she left he was blindsided. It was ugly and I felt badly for him. The experience changed his perspective and mine.
But now I am confident and more importantly so is he that he has a much better partner. She is a better match for him in every way. And he never could have predicted this. Had it not been for the ugly experience he wouldn't have ever met her.
Can't say that I am a fan of enduring great hardship so that you can experience something amazing, but I suppose that it has its benefits.
I have written many times about friends and contemporaries that have died. At almost 41 I really shouldn't be able to list more than a few, if any. Yet I can run down at least ten people that I knew. Ten people who have died during the past 14 or so years.
Their deaths were all unexpected. When I look at them and I look at some of the other experiences I have had it makes me a bit crazy. Crazy in the sense that I am impatient to do the things that I love and to spend time with the people that I love.
Time is fleeting and we have little control over many things. No matter how hard we fight time and try to master it we cannot win. It will move, things will change and we will find ourselves in new situations. So I am doing my best to roll with the changes and to influence the transitions from one phase into another as best as I can.
My life is different from what I expected it to be 15 years ago. I can't say that I am entirely certain what it will be like in five years. But I can guarantee that everyday I am working on doing the things that I need to do to get the most of out it.
The biggest tragedy in my life, the one thing that I can't accept is not taking a chance on living. So, I am going for it...again.
Or a drug to take away the pain that living brings
A promise of a better world to come
When whatever here is done"
Happy- Bruce Springsteen
A dear friend and I had a long talk last night about life and how it doesn't always work out the way you think that it will. Thoughts about our conversation carried over into this morning and I found myself thinking about some of the things that I thought would happen that didn't.
The tweet below is a good example:
I remember thinking that I was going to fly home and pack up my stuff. Israel was where I wanted to be. I love L.A. I always have and I always will but there was something about Jerusalem that captured my heart. I fell in love with it and I couldn't imagine not following up on that love.
I wanted to have more than a month at a time to learn about it and to see if it was a summer romance or a life long relationship. The flight home was long. I wasn't coming home after my first visit. I had spent a lot of time there before, but this was different. I was in my twenties and had no obligation to anyone but myself.
The move back to Israel didn't happen because life happened. Various things came about and now fifteen years later I look back at it and sometimes I wonder about the road not taken. It is a moment in time, a snapshot of my life that I can still see vividly in my mind.
Three years later I went back to Israel, but this time I was married. It was a short trip, barely three weeks. A chance to show her around and try to sell her on a place that already owned a piece of my heart. It was a good trip, but we came home with the understanding that we would go back sooner than later.
But things changed again. More than a decade later and I haven't been back. My children have heard stories and want to go. One day we will.
+++++++++++++++++
When we spoke last night my friend and I talked about his wife. It is his second time on the merry-go-round called marriage. He is exceptionally happy, or as I told him disgustingly happy. The two of them get googly eyed over each other. It makes me happy to see him so happy.
The first wife was a problem. She didn't look like a problem. Didn't set off the radar and maybe she should have, but she didn't. When she left he was blindsided. It was ugly and I felt badly for him. The experience changed his perspective and mine.
But now I am confident and more importantly so is he that he has a much better partner. She is a better match for him in every way. And he never could have predicted this. Had it not been for the ugly experience he wouldn't have ever met her.
Can't say that I am a fan of enduring great hardship so that you can experience something amazing, but I suppose that it has its benefits.
+++++++++++++++++
I have written many times about friends and contemporaries that have died. At almost 41 I really shouldn't be able to list more than a few, if any. Yet I can run down at least ten people that I knew. Ten people who have died during the past 14 or so years.
Their deaths were all unexpected. When I look at them and I look at some of the other experiences I have had it makes me a bit crazy. Crazy in the sense that I am impatient to do the things that I love and to spend time with the people that I love.
Time is fleeting and we have little control over many things. No matter how hard we fight time and try to master it we cannot win. It will move, things will change and we will find ourselves in new situations. So I am doing my best to roll with the changes and to influence the transitions from one phase into another as best as I can.
My life is different from what I expected it to be 15 years ago. I can't say that I am entirely certain what it will be like in five years. But I can guarantee that everyday I am working on doing the things that I need to do to get the most of out it.
The biggest tragedy in my life, the one thing that I can't accept is not taking a chance on living. So, I am going for it...again.
Insolent Innocence
Saludos my friends and you know who you are. It is a bit after two in Los Angeles. I haven't shaved in two days so I have a healthy shadow running across my face. Dark circles beneath my eyes and a serious expression make me look a bit weathered and worn.
You wouldn't say that I am dressed to impress. I am barefoot and sporting a worn pair of denim shorts accompanied by a fine white T-shirt from the classic designers at Tar-jay. Might I add that the t-shirt sports a very fine photo of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
It is far more comfortable than the suit, tie and wingtips I once wore and far more my style. And today of all days it is not just well deserved but needed, this comfort line of clothing that is. 2010 may be the Year of Jack but this past week was not.
I woke up today and felt like I was the star of a Neil Diamond song. Don't ask me what that means because I haven't a clue. Went to bed late and woke up early and that my friends is a recipe for a half crazed and cranky Jack.
Some of you are asking the obvious question, what is the difference between you today and any other day. And the answer is that I don't know. No one told me that there would be any math or science on this test. I didn't pull a Sarah Palin, there is no crib sheet in my palm. No answers tattooed upon my thigh. I'd wink at you but you'd probably think that it was some sort of twitch or something.
Right about now is when I'd like to pull out my guitar and start strumming. I'd do my best impression of Bruce Springsteen. I'd sing a song about the working man and how he fights for his family. I'd sing a song about the executive that puts in 60 hours and coaches his kid's soccer team. I'd sing about the man and woman who love each other with the sort of fierce intensity that you hardly see and rarely experience.
You'd find yourself singing along with me. You'd stand up and clap and wonder why you never knew that I had this talent. Later on you'd come up and ask me why I am not doing this professionally and I'd tell you that I am not a musician or a rock star. I am just a man who has a little life experience that you can relate to. But then again maybe I can take this energy, these thoughts and feelings and turn it into something concrete.
That is the name of the book, the movie and the band that I want to read, write and start. Insolent Innocence is a name that came to me earlier today. To the best of my knowledge it doesn't exist yet, that is, no one else is using it. Now don't go getting any funny ideas because if you take it I will find you and do something.
Don't ask me what something is because I won't tell you in advance. Ask my kids and they'll tell you that this daddy blogger has a steely eyed glare that will make you flinch. If you are ever the recipient of it you'll know. Or maybe you'll think that I am squinting in which case I'll have to take steps to disabuse you of such a silly idea. I can be quite persuasive.
More on this to come later.
You wouldn't say that I am dressed to impress. I am barefoot and sporting a worn pair of denim shorts accompanied by a fine white T-shirt from the classic designers at Tar-jay. Might I add that the t-shirt sports a very fine photo of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
It is far more comfortable than the suit, tie and wingtips I once wore and far more my style. And today of all days it is not just well deserved but needed, this comfort line of clothing that is. 2010 may be the Year of Jack but this past week was not.
I woke up today and felt like I was the star of a Neil Diamond song. Don't ask me what that means because I haven't a clue. Went to bed late and woke up early and that my friends is a recipe for a half crazed and cranky Jack.
Some of you are asking the obvious question, what is the difference between you today and any other day. And the answer is that I don't know. No one told me that there would be any math or science on this test. I didn't pull a Sarah Palin, there is no crib sheet in my palm. No answers tattooed upon my thigh. I'd wink at you but you'd probably think that it was some sort of twitch or something.
Right about now is when I'd like to pull out my guitar and start strumming. I'd do my best impression of Bruce Springsteen. I'd sing a song about the working man and how he fights for his family. I'd sing a song about the executive that puts in 60 hours and coaches his kid's soccer team. I'd sing about the man and woman who love each other with the sort of fierce intensity that you hardly see and rarely experience.
You'd find yourself singing along with me. You'd stand up and clap and wonder why you never knew that I had this talent. Later on you'd come up and ask me why I am not doing this professionally and I'd tell you that I am not a musician or a rock star. I am just a man who has a little life experience that you can relate to. But then again maybe I can take this energy, these thoughts and feelings and turn it into something concrete.
+++++++Insolent Innocence+++++++++
That is the name of the book, the movie and the band that I want to read, write and start. Insolent Innocence is a name that came to me earlier today. To the best of my knowledge it doesn't exist yet, that is, no one else is using it. Now don't go getting any funny ideas because if you take it I will find you and do something.
Don't ask me what something is because I won't tell you in advance. Ask my kids and they'll tell you that this daddy blogger has a steely eyed glare that will make you flinch. If you are ever the recipient of it you'll know. Or maybe you'll think that I am squinting in which case I'll have to take steps to disabuse you of such a silly idea. I can be quite persuasive.
More on this to come later.
Instant Gratification Is Making Me Instantly Impatient
One of these days my buddy John Cave Osborne is going to make it out to L.A. and we're going to hit a Laker game. The occasion might even merit a t-shirt with his picture on it, perhaps the one of him and the pink pillow. Ok, I probably won't make the t-shirt. You can blame my laziness on having given in to the collective, I am a member of the instant gratification society.
Instant gratification is our unofficial motto. We want everything now and if not now than in mere seconds from now. Instant gratification means that we carry and use our cellphones everywhere so that we can call people at a moment's notice. No more wandering through stores or stopping at gas stations in search of a pay phone. No more worries about carrying a dime or a quarter for that call.
Remember when it was a big deal to make a long distance call. Long distance calls were expensive and we were only too happy to see Ma Bell compete with MCI, Sprint and other providers of cheap long distance services. Cell phones helped to kill that.
The proliferation of email helped to change things too. Email came along and changed written correspondence in a profound way. The speed with which it flew over the net made sending a letter by post seem quaint. Type, point, click and send and off it went.
Cell phones helped change email as well. The evolution of the smart phone made it possible to check your email on the move. You weren't tied down to a desk any more. You didn't have to wait until you got back to the office or until you got home to see what messages awaited you. No waiting was great and something that we all pushed for.
Technological advances that were designed to increase productivity and efficiency levels have impacted our attitudes about time. We don't like waiting for anything and our attention spans reflect this. Fewer and fewer people are blogging or reading long posts. They'd rather spend their time sending texts or using Twitter. Why read 800 words when you can glance at 140 characters.
Spend some time driving and you see more evidence of this impatience. People multitask as they drive and scream at those who don't move as fast as they'd like them to. We're like hamsters in a cage hurrying and scurrying about.
And I include myself. I am guilty of all of these things. If you don't answer my call I am ready to text and email you. And if you don't respond to the text or email in a timely fashion I get irritated. It is narishkeit, foolishness this behavior. I hate it. I hate that when I call someone by the third ring I am already tapping my foot.
I hate this expectation I have that everything should be happening now. It is not how life works. As much as I'd like to see the world cater to my every need that is just not going to happen. So I am making a conscious effort to take a deep breath and not react to all the stimulus.
I am taking a moment to stop and enjoy the moment, whatever that moment is. And I am working on showing my children the value in doing that too. Life moves fast enough without adding any more stress. And now if you'll excuse me I am off to do something else. Maybe I'll look into making that t-shirt now.
Instant gratification is our unofficial motto. We want everything now and if not now than in mere seconds from now. Instant gratification means that we carry and use our cellphones everywhere so that we can call people at a moment's notice. No more wandering through stores or stopping at gas stations in search of a pay phone. No more worries about carrying a dime or a quarter for that call.
Remember when it was a big deal to make a long distance call. Long distance calls were expensive and we were only too happy to see Ma Bell compete with MCI, Sprint and other providers of cheap long distance services. Cell phones helped to kill that.
The proliferation of email helped to change things too. Email came along and changed written correspondence in a profound way. The speed with which it flew over the net made sending a letter by post seem quaint. Type, point, click and send and off it went.
Cell phones helped change email as well. The evolution of the smart phone made it possible to check your email on the move. You weren't tied down to a desk any more. You didn't have to wait until you got back to the office or until you got home to see what messages awaited you. No waiting was great and something that we all pushed for.
Technological advances that were designed to increase productivity and efficiency levels have impacted our attitudes about time. We don't like waiting for anything and our attention spans reflect this. Fewer and fewer people are blogging or reading long posts. They'd rather spend their time sending texts or using Twitter. Why read 800 words when you can glance at 140 characters.
Spend some time driving and you see more evidence of this impatience. People multitask as they drive and scream at those who don't move as fast as they'd like them to. We're like hamsters in a cage hurrying and scurrying about.
And I include myself. I am guilty of all of these things. If you don't answer my call I am ready to text and email you. And if you don't respond to the text or email in a timely fashion I get irritated. It is narishkeit, foolishness this behavior. I hate it. I hate that when I call someone by the third ring I am already tapping my foot.
I hate this expectation I have that everything should be happening now. It is not how life works. As much as I'd like to see the world cater to my every need that is just not going to happen. So I am making a conscious effort to take a deep breath and not react to all the stimulus.
I am taking a moment to stop and enjoy the moment, whatever that moment is. And I am working on showing my children the value in doing that too. Life moves fast enough without adding any more stress. And now if you'll excuse me I am off to do something else. Maybe I'll look into making that t-shirt now.
The Greatest Blog Post Never Written
This could be the greatest blog post that was never written. It could be magical, amazing and enlightening. This could very well be the one that launches my career as a writer. Well, I should qualify that.I have worked and am working as a writer. This is a different sort of thing that I am referring to.
A post that leads to an opportunity to write a book and to become a published author. I keep dreaming about it. I keep writing about it and wondering how to make it into reality. Do I want to write the great American novel and if so, what do I want to write about.
I can be funny. I could tell a million stories that you make you laugh. Or I can go a different direction and write about the great love that got away. I can make you remember that man or woman you still carry a torch for. I can tap into those feelings and make you ask yourself the uncomfortable question of, "what if."
But then again maybe it is better to write a book under my role as a father. It could be called "The Dude they Called Dad" and feature me with a very serious and solemn look on my face. Or it could go the silly route, that fits me.
The other day I realized that I have an idea for a line of clothing. If you are one of the three people that know me you recognize how goofy that is. Me, the clothing designer. Ok, it is not really meant to be a designer like you'd see at some fashion show. It is different, but I have a pretty clear idea.
It is an idea that I am going to give life to. I am going to turn take it from something that I play around with in my mind into something that is real, tangible. Damn it, I am going to make it happen for no other reason than I can.
This thing is going to be proof that sheer desire and force of will can make amazing things happen. I am really fired up right now. We're almost one month into the year of Jack and things are happening, albeit slowly, but they are happening.
It reminds me a bit of moving a heavy object. I have started to rock it back and forth. Slowly the momentum is building and its own weight is beginning to make it move. I just need to generate a little bit more movement and then that sucker will start traveling.
The hard part is not getting started but making sure that I don't smack into any icebergs.
Well have to see what happens. For now all I can say is that this could have been the greatest blog post that was never written.
A post that leads to an opportunity to write a book and to become a published author. I keep dreaming about it. I keep writing about it and wondering how to make it into reality. Do I want to write the great American novel and if so, what do I want to write about.
I can be funny. I could tell a million stories that you make you laugh. Or I can go a different direction and write about the great love that got away. I can make you remember that man or woman you still carry a torch for. I can tap into those feelings and make you ask yourself the uncomfortable question of, "what if."
But then again maybe it is better to write a book under my role as a father. It could be called "The Dude they Called Dad" and feature me with a very serious and solemn look on my face. Or it could go the silly route, that fits me.
The other day I realized that I have an idea for a line of clothing. If you are one of the three people that know me you recognize how goofy that is. Me, the clothing designer. Ok, it is not really meant to be a designer like you'd see at some fashion show. It is different, but I have a pretty clear idea.
It is an idea that I am going to give life to. I am going to turn take it from something that I play around with in my mind into something that is real, tangible. Damn it, I am going to make it happen for no other reason than I can.
This thing is going to be proof that sheer desire and force of will can make amazing things happen. I am really fired up right now. We're almost one month into the year of Jack and things are happening, albeit slowly, but they are happening.
It reminds me a bit of moving a heavy object. I have started to rock it back and forth. Slowly the momentum is building and its own weight is beginning to make it move. I just need to generate a little bit more movement and then that sucker will start traveling.
The hard part is not getting started but making sure that I don't smack into any icebergs.
Well have to see what happens. For now all I can say is that this could have been the greatest blog post that was never written.
What I Dream About
My mother tells me that my preschool teachers used to tell her that they were certain that I would grow up to be a writer. They said that I had a very active imagination. They were right, I did and still do have a very active imagination.
I dream in bright colors and crystal clear images. I see movies play in my mind and wonder why I can't turn them into reality. I am not Walter Mitty, although I suppose that we share some traits. I am a dreamer but I am not someone who intentionally misleads other into believing that I am someone other than who I am.
I dream about writing books and becoming a published author. I dream about becoming a columnist and writing screenplays. I dream about becoming a doctor, a scientist and a teacher. I dream about playing left field for the Dodgers and power forward for the Lakers.
I dream about building a castle and manning the walls. I dream about traveling around the world and quiet moments at home. I dream about places and things that make me smile. I dream about MLBF and having a home library. A place with built in shelves and big overstuffed chairs.
I dream about owning a private jet and island getaways. I dream about living out the stories and promises and whispers of the night. I dream about that kiss and the moments in time. I dream about walking those roads in Jerusalem again.
I dream about doing the Ironman and the incredible amount of work it will take to get there. I dream about carving and reshaping my body so that it once again looks as I remember it.
I dream about many years from now when my children are grown and wonder if the visions I see will resemble reality. I dream of long walks on the beach and quiet drives up the coast.
I dream about writing songs and playing music. And sometimes I dream about being granted the talent and ability to perform them.
I have many dreams, far more than I have shared here. There are endless details that I could list but haven't. Some of these dreams will become reality and others will remain unfilled. The ultimate goal is to see that I don't look back in regret. I don't want to have a life that ends in I could have but didn't.
I want a life that is more than that. It is not to much too ask for. I may dream big, but I am willing to do things to make them into something more.
I dream in bright colors and crystal clear images. I see movies play in my mind and wonder why I can't turn them into reality. I am not Walter Mitty, although I suppose that we share some traits. I am a dreamer but I am not someone who intentionally misleads other into believing that I am someone other than who I am.
I dream about writing books and becoming a published author. I dream about becoming a columnist and writing screenplays. I dream about becoming a doctor, a scientist and a teacher. I dream about playing left field for the Dodgers and power forward for the Lakers.
I dream about building a castle and manning the walls. I dream about traveling around the world and quiet moments at home. I dream about places and things that make me smile. I dream about MLBF and having a home library. A place with built in shelves and big overstuffed chairs.
I dream about owning a private jet and island getaways. I dream about living out the stories and promises and whispers of the night. I dream about that kiss and the moments in time. I dream about walking those roads in Jerusalem again.
I dream about doing the Ironman and the incredible amount of work it will take to get there. I dream about carving and reshaping my body so that it once again looks as I remember it.
I dream about many years from now when my children are grown and wonder if the visions I see will resemble reality. I dream of long walks on the beach and quiet drives up the coast.
I dream about writing songs and playing music. And sometimes I dream about being granted the talent and ability to perform them.
I have many dreams, far more than I have shared here. There are endless details that I could list but haven't. Some of these dreams will become reality and others will remain unfilled. The ultimate goal is to see that I don't look back in regret. I don't want to have a life that ends in I could have but didn't.
I want a life that is more than that. It is not to much too ask for. I may dream big, but I am willing to do things to make them into something more.
The Northridge Earthquake- I forgot
It is hard to believe but I completely forgot about the anniversary of the Northridge Earthquake. I wrote about my experience with it here and here.
It is the first year that I didn't spend part of the day thinking about it. First time that I didn't spend a moment before drifting off to sleep remembering.
We were lucky. Very few lives were lost, but I knew more than a few people who lost their homes. I knew more than a few who had to start over. When I look at the pictures of destruction in Haiti it brings a lot of memories back.
I am grateful for all that I have, thankful that I didn't lose more. Those poor people in Haiti deserve better. What happens when more time passes and the spotlight goes elsewhere. What happens then. How many will die because people forget and there is no one there to push for change.
I wonder.
We were lucky. Very few lives were lost, but I knew more than a few people who lost their homes. I knew more than a few who had to start over. When I look at the pictures of destruction in Haiti it brings a lot of memories back.
I am grateful for all that I have, thankful that I didn't lose more. Those poor people in Haiti deserve better. What happens when more time passes and the spotlight goes elsewhere. What happens then. How many will die because people forget and there is no one there to push for change.
I wonder.
Stuff I think About...Sometimes
A few odds and ends before I shut down for the night. Sometimes I think that I was born 20 years too late and 20 years too early. Yes, that is a contradiction, but I am consistent in my contradictions.
Money doesn't make you happier, but it does a damn fine job of helping you discover the things that do. I am not materialistic, at least I don't really think so. But I admit that I have a list of things that I want that require more than just a couple of bucks.
Here is an incomplete list of those things:
That is enough for now. All of those are subject to change and or modification at a moments notice, by whim or reason.
I want to write a book, turn it into a screenplay and then make a movie out of it. I have an idea for a character that I want to create. He is separate from the book. Been thinking about him a lot lately, would turn him into a website and a t-shirt.
I still want to do the Ironman when I am 50. It is not important to win, just to finish.
Sometime in the future I think that I'll move this blog over to Wordpress and grab my own domain. It is time to make some changes.
Every time I see someone stick a gun in their waistband I envision a trip to the ER. Let's be honest, men want to be blown, but how embarrassing would it be to accidentally blow your boys away. How silly.
I have no desire to be on reality television, but if I did I would probably be a villain. It would be far more fun to be a complete caricature of myself. Still, I'd rather not do any of it. I like being an ordinary civilian who can go to the store without being chased by the paparazzi.
Sometimes I look at the popular blogs and roll my eyes. Can't decide if it is because I am truly envious of their popularity or if it is contempt because of how they made it.
Not sure how I feel about seeing Starbuck on 24. Some things are far more important, but every now and these little details catch my eye. ;)
One more thought,Who do you think was more surprised by the firestorm they landed in, Tiger of Leno?
Money doesn't make you happier, but it does a damn fine job of helping you discover the things that do. I am not materialistic, at least I don't really think so. But I admit that I have a list of things that I want that require more than just a couple of bucks.
Here is an incomplete list of those things:
- I'd like to have a house that includes a library. I want built in shelves and a media center inside it with big overstuffed chairs and a fireplace.
- I want to travel more often than I have been as of late. I'd like to visit every continent at least once.
- I'd like to have enough cash to go back to school just for the heck of it. It might be nice to get a degree that is useless for no other reason than for fun.
- Back to travel, it would be cool to have enough cash to have a private jet.
That is enough for now. All of those are subject to change and or modification at a moments notice, by whim or reason.
I want to write a book, turn it into a screenplay and then make a movie out of it. I have an idea for a character that I want to create. He is separate from the book. Been thinking about him a lot lately, would turn him into a website and a t-shirt.
I still want to do the Ironman when I am 50. It is not important to win, just to finish.
Sometime in the future I think that I'll move this blog over to Wordpress and grab my own domain. It is time to make some changes.
Every time I see someone stick a gun in their waistband I envision a trip to the ER. Let's be honest, men want to be blown, but how embarrassing would it be to accidentally blow your boys away. How silly.
I have no desire to be on reality television, but if I did I would probably be a villain. It would be far more fun to be a complete caricature of myself. Still, I'd rather not do any of it. I like being an ordinary civilian who can go to the store without being chased by the paparazzi.
Sometimes I look at the popular blogs and roll my eyes. Can't decide if it is because I am truly envious of their popularity or if it is contempt because of how they made it.
Not sure how I feel about seeing Starbuck on 24. Some things are far more important, but every now and these little details catch my eye. ;)
One more thought,Who do you think was more surprised by the firestorm they landed in, Tiger of Leno?
The Bedroom I Grew Up In
It is Sunday night. The Dodgers are getting pounded by the Phillies and I am watching it all from the flat screen inside the bedroom I grew up in.
My children want to know why grandma and grandpa let me have a television in my room and I won't do it for them. I laugh and tell them that when I was their age we didn't have a color TV. It was a small 19" black and white unit that came with those rabbit ears we used for antennae. Not to mention no remote, DVR or DVD player.
Haven't lived here in decades. Feels strange to say that, but it is true. The room that I grew up is no more. The furniture, posters, books and trophies that helped make this room mine are long gone. It has been painted and there is a new wood floor.
All that remains are the memories of what once happened inside this place. A thousand memories of my childhood are wrapped up inside. Enough things happened inside here that even though it serves as my mother's office I haven't any trouble picturing what used to be.
My bed was positioned against almost every wall except the one that I am facing now. It has a desk against it, with the television just above it. It is too small for a bed, but the desk works just fine, in fact this is where mine once was.
I turn to the right and I see a big window. The blinds are drawn upon it but I know exactly what is outside. I don't have to open it to see the neighbors den or to remember how at night I would watch television with them.
During the winter when the windows were closed I couldn't hear a thing, all I could do was guess at what was being said. But not during summer. Summer nights they'd open the window and I'd open mine. If I closed the bedroom door no one would know what I was doing or more importantly what I was seeing.
The neighbors had daughters who were about seven and ten years older than I am. I remember one night when I was around ten or so being given a show by the oldest and the guy who eventually married her. Since the lights were out in my room they had no idea that I was in there. And I suppose since that room didn't face the street it didn't occur to them that pulling the blinds would be wise.
I saw a number of things that night that alternately interested and horrified me. I couldn't understand why she moaned and wondered if she was being hurt. I remember considering getting out of bed to ask my parents if we should call the police to help her.
I decided against it because she didn't yell for help. To ten year-old Jack that was important, not crying for help meant that she was ok. Besides I had a million sisters and knew that girls were weird so why ruin the show. This was the only time that I had ever seen this, most of the time it was television with her parents. There was no doubt in my mind if I told my parents that would kill future opportunities to watch late night television.
Later on as a teenager the memories made me more cautious about my own interaction with girls. I always made sure to draw the blinds or find some privacy somewhere.
Hard to believe that some of these memories are more than 30 years old and yet it is easy. The echoes of the past almost make it feel like the present yet at the same time it is clear that those days are gone. Watching the Dodgers get routed makes me miss those days. I remember the championships from '77 and '78 when we beat the Phillies to win the pennant..
Davey Lopes is here, but he is coaching for the enemy now. Mike Schmidt isn't anchoring third for the Phils and Ron Cey isn't representing the boys in blue. Dusty Baker isn't roaming the outfield with Reggie Smith and I am not begging to stay up late on a school night.
Not much more time to reminisce. I am here because I have to pick the folks up from the airport. They're enjoying retired life and traveling to points unknown with some regularity. They live closer to the airport than I do so I figured that I'd swing by, use their treadmill, shower and then head out to pick them up.
Oh, did I mention that I am going to pick them up using dad's car. It makes me laugh. A big chunk of years ago it would have bothered me to admit that I am going to be driving daddy's car, but I could care less now.
Besides I need to make a stop at Home Depot and his car is bigger than mine. See you all later.
My children want to know why grandma and grandpa let me have a television in my room and I won't do it for them. I laugh and tell them that when I was their age we didn't have a color TV. It was a small 19" black and white unit that came with those rabbit ears we used for antennae. Not to mention no remote, DVR or DVD player.
Haven't lived here in decades. Feels strange to say that, but it is true. The room that I grew up is no more. The furniture, posters, books and trophies that helped make this room mine are long gone. It has been painted and there is a new wood floor.
All that remains are the memories of what once happened inside this place. A thousand memories of my childhood are wrapped up inside. Enough things happened inside here that even though it serves as my mother's office I haven't any trouble picturing what used to be.
My bed was positioned against almost every wall except the one that I am facing now. It has a desk against it, with the television just above it. It is too small for a bed, but the desk works just fine, in fact this is where mine once was.
I turn to the right and I see a big window. The blinds are drawn upon it but I know exactly what is outside. I don't have to open it to see the neighbors den or to remember how at night I would watch television with them.
During the winter when the windows were closed I couldn't hear a thing, all I could do was guess at what was being said. But not during summer. Summer nights they'd open the window and I'd open mine. If I closed the bedroom door no one would know what I was doing or more importantly what I was seeing.
The neighbors had daughters who were about seven and ten years older than I am. I remember one night when I was around ten or so being given a show by the oldest and the guy who eventually married her. Since the lights were out in my room they had no idea that I was in there. And I suppose since that room didn't face the street it didn't occur to them that pulling the blinds would be wise.
I saw a number of things that night that alternately interested and horrified me. I couldn't understand why she moaned and wondered if she was being hurt. I remember considering getting out of bed to ask my parents if we should call the police to help her.
I decided against it because she didn't yell for help. To ten year-old Jack that was important, not crying for help meant that she was ok. Besides I had a million sisters and knew that girls were weird so why ruin the show. This was the only time that I had ever seen this, most of the time it was television with her parents. There was no doubt in my mind if I told my parents that would kill future opportunities to watch late night television.
Later on as a teenager the memories made me more cautious about my own interaction with girls. I always made sure to draw the blinds or find some privacy somewhere.
Hard to believe that some of these memories are more than 30 years old and yet it is easy. The echoes of the past almost make it feel like the present yet at the same time it is clear that those days are gone. Watching the Dodgers get routed makes me miss those days. I remember the championships from '77 and '78 when we beat the Phillies to win the pennant..
Davey Lopes is here, but he is coaching for the enemy now. Mike Schmidt isn't anchoring third for the Phils and Ron Cey isn't representing the boys in blue. Dusty Baker isn't roaming the outfield with Reggie Smith and I am not begging to stay up late on a school night.
Not much more time to reminisce. I am here because I have to pick the folks up from the airport. They're enjoying retired life and traveling to points unknown with some regularity. They live closer to the airport than I do so I figured that I'd swing by, use their treadmill, shower and then head out to pick them up.
Oh, did I mention that I am going to pick them up using dad's car. It makes me laugh. A big chunk of years ago it would have bothered me to admit that I am going to be driving daddy's car, but I could care less now.
Besides I need to make a stop at Home Depot and his car is bigger than mine. See you all later.
My First Love
One day the dark haired beauty is going to be a big girl and she is going to have a lot of questions to ask me about my life. That is not to say that her big brother won't, but his will be different. I know that she isn't always going to be the cute five year-old who climbs into my lap and stares at me.
She won't always be the little girl who likes to hug and kiss me. The girl who squeals with delight when I pick her up and run around the house will one day be too big for that game. The dark haired beauty who insists that I sit so that she can read me stories already shows a few signs of the girl she is turning into and the woman she'll become..
So I know that one day she will sit me down and demand that I answer a few questions about who I am and who I was before I became her daddy. And I rather suspect that one of them will be something along the lines of, "tell me about your first love."
And when that day comes I am going to smile and play this song for her.
Baseball was my first love. I'll tell her about a five year-old boy who grew up last century thinking that he was going to play in the major leagues. She'll hear about how I used to sleep with my glove and how much fun it was to just play catch.
I'll tell her about the triumphs and the tragedies. She'll learn about how I cried when I made the last out in the championship game when I was nine. I'll talk about how I led the league in home runs when I was 12.
The stories of the Dodgers of the 70s will be a part of that. The anger I felt in the '78 series when Reggie Jackson wasn't called out for interfering with a throw and the redemption of the '81 season.
I'll tell her about how good I once was and how life got in the way of my dreams. We'll talk about whether I would have come close to making it, had things gone a different way. I'll be honest and say that there is no way to say that I would have made it. I stopped playing so long ago that I can't say that my skills would have been close.
In some respects I can lay claim to having been forced to retire at the top of my game. It is not an exaggeration to say that in my league there wasn't anyone better than I was, maybe equal, but not better. It is a nice memory, but it is just that.
The death of that dream doesn't bother me much anymore. It is so far away, not to mention that it is highly questionable whether it could have translated from my head to reality.
But in that conversation or another I'll talk to my girl about dreams. I'll tell her what I really think. I'll let her know that I think that dreams are critical to being happy and that sometimes they don't have to remain just a dream.
Because I really do believe that life is meant to be lived. I don't want to live a life in which I fill the empty places with dreams of what could be. I want to live those dreams and that is a lesson worth passing along.
She won't always be the little girl who likes to hug and kiss me. The girl who squeals with delight when I pick her up and run around the house will one day be too big for that game. The dark haired beauty who insists that I sit so that she can read me stories already shows a few signs of the girl she is turning into and the woman she'll become..
So I know that one day she will sit me down and demand that I answer a few questions about who I am and who I was before I became her daddy. And I rather suspect that one of them will be something along the lines of, "tell me about your first love."
And when that day comes I am going to smile and play this song for her.
Baseball was my first love. I'll tell her about a five year-old boy who grew up last century thinking that he was going to play in the major leagues. She'll hear about how I used to sleep with my glove and how much fun it was to just play catch.
I'll tell her about the triumphs and the tragedies. She'll learn about how I cried when I made the last out in the championship game when I was nine. I'll talk about how I led the league in home runs when I was 12.
The stories of the Dodgers of the 70s will be a part of that. The anger I felt in the '78 series when Reggie Jackson wasn't called out for interfering with a throw and the redemption of the '81 season.
I'll tell her about how good I once was and how life got in the way of my dreams. We'll talk about whether I would have come close to making it, had things gone a different way. I'll be honest and say that there is no way to say that I would have made it. I stopped playing so long ago that I can't say that my skills would have been close.
In some respects I can lay claim to having been forced to retire at the top of my game. It is not an exaggeration to say that in my league there wasn't anyone better than I was, maybe equal, but not better. It is a nice memory, but it is just that.
The death of that dream doesn't bother me much anymore. It is so far away, not to mention that it is highly questionable whether it could have translated from my head to reality.
But in that conversation or another I'll talk to my girl about dreams. I'll tell her what I really think. I'll let her know that I think that dreams are critical to being happy and that sometimes they don't have to remain just a dream.
Because I really do believe that life is meant to be lived. I don't want to live a life in which I fill the empty places with dreams of what could be. I want to live those dreams and that is a lesson worth passing along.
I Cast Away My Sins
I cast away my sins today or I hope as I suspect that this year there were more than usual. I am not really sure what that means, but I feel like I need to say it. Standing at the cement banks of a man man lake I joined hundreds of others in feeding the ducks day old bread that symbolized my sins.
It is called Tashlich and it is an ancient ceremony that usually has a lot of meaning for me. This year I had trouble focusing. Perhaps it was concern that the dark haired beauty was going to fling herself into the water along with the bread or perhaps it was the lady who kept talking about cleveland, not sure.
What I do know is that at one point I closed my eyes and did my best to look inward and focus upon the moment. Oftentimes when I try to drown out the world around me I turn on a song on the mental jukebox. For some reason all I could hear was The Planets - Mars, the Bringer of War by Holst.
One section in particular stuck with me and I found myself wondering whether to laugh or cry. This is on my workout mix. It is something that I listen to when I am focused on lifting more. It fits well with trying to add another plate to the benchpress, less so with spiritual moments.
Ok, that is probably not entirely true, but it wasn't really where I was trying to go with it. So I did my best to shuffle up a new song and came up with this. I get the connection, I am sure that John Williams was influenced by Holst. Certainly Darth Vader is a man who is in dire need of casting away his sins, but I am not him.
Confession time. If I had to go to the Dark Side I would always pick Darth Vader. Darth Maul had a cool double blade on his light saber, but the whole horns and Judaism thing doesn't work for me. And the emperor just doesn't do it. Nah, I'd be a 7 foot tall Sith lord with a cape and a bad attitude.
End of confession. Now we return you to your normally scheduled programming.
It took a moment but I finally managed to focus. I was surrounded by a sea of people but with my eyes closed I stood alone. Inside my mind I jumped off of a cliff into a sea of black. I could feel the air rushing by head and I really wasn't sure when I was going to hit the bottom.
Had I been able to step outside my body I would have seen someone with their eyes clenched shut and a rigid back. Pretty sure that you would have seen my lips silently moving.
In short, I would have looked like I was crazy or constipated, maybe both.
But that is ok with me. I am in a period of transition and I have stopped trying to fight it. I accept that things are changing and that all I can do is deal with me. Depending upon who you are that can sound new agey or religious, but that doesn't really matter to me. All that matters right now is riding out the storm.
If we continue along our Star Wars theme it feels a bit like when Obi-Wan fought Anakin. Ignore the bad acting and go with the theme. Anyway, I feel like the grizzled veteran who has seen incredible potential go up in flames. Perhaps it shall rise again like the phoenix, I don't know.
Slowly opening my eyes I look down and see children staring up at me. The dark haired beauty and her friends are giggling the way that girls do. They may be five but I can see the future and I know that 20 years from now the giggling will still be there, but it will be accompanied by a certain amount of knowledge and life experience.
But right now I see happy girls who haven't any idea that life can be so serious or that the grown ups don't have all of the answers. That is ok with me, not having all of the answers. As much as I kvetch about it and wish that I could see the future there is a certain amount of excitement in not knowing everything. There is a joy and a rush in knowing that sometimes I may sail blindly, but with a purpose.
In the interim please excuse me. I have to go brush away the bread crumbs those giggling girls left on my pants and shoes.
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It is called Tashlich and it is an ancient ceremony that usually has a lot of meaning for me. This year I had trouble focusing. Perhaps it was concern that the dark haired beauty was going to fling herself into the water along with the bread or perhaps it was the lady who kept talking about cleveland, not sure.
What I do know is that at one point I closed my eyes and did my best to look inward and focus upon the moment. Oftentimes when I try to drown out the world around me I turn on a song on the mental jukebox. For some reason all I could hear was The Planets - Mars, the Bringer of War by Holst.
One section in particular stuck with me and I found myself wondering whether to laugh or cry. This is on my workout mix. It is something that I listen to when I am focused on lifting more. It fits well with trying to add another plate to the benchpress, less so with spiritual moments.
Ok, that is probably not entirely true, but it wasn't really where I was trying to go with it. So I did my best to shuffle up a new song and came up with this. I get the connection, I am sure that John Williams was influenced by Holst. Certainly Darth Vader is a man who is in dire need of casting away his sins, but I am not him.
Confession time. If I had to go to the Dark Side I would always pick Darth Vader. Darth Maul had a cool double blade on his light saber, but the whole horns and Judaism thing doesn't work for me. And the emperor just doesn't do it. Nah, I'd be a 7 foot tall Sith lord with a cape and a bad attitude.
End of confession. Now we return you to your normally scheduled programming.
It took a moment but I finally managed to focus. I was surrounded by a sea of people but with my eyes closed I stood alone. Inside my mind I jumped off of a cliff into a sea of black. I could feel the air rushing by head and I really wasn't sure when I was going to hit the bottom.
Had I been able to step outside my body I would have seen someone with their eyes clenched shut and a rigid back. Pretty sure that you would have seen my lips silently moving.
In short, I would have looked like I was crazy or constipated, maybe both.
But that is ok with me. I am in a period of transition and I have stopped trying to fight it. I accept that things are changing and that all I can do is deal with me. Depending upon who you are that can sound new agey or religious, but that doesn't really matter to me. All that matters right now is riding out the storm.
If we continue along our Star Wars theme it feels a bit like when Obi-Wan fought Anakin. Ignore the bad acting and go with the theme. Anyway, I feel like the grizzled veteran who has seen incredible potential go up in flames. Perhaps it shall rise again like the phoenix, I don't know.
Slowly opening my eyes I look down and see children staring up at me. The dark haired beauty and her friends are giggling the way that girls do. They may be five but I can see the future and I know that 20 years from now the giggling will still be there, but it will be accompanied by a certain amount of knowledge and life experience.
But right now I see happy girls who haven't any idea that life can be so serious or that the grown ups don't have all of the answers. That is ok with me, not having all of the answers. As much as I kvetch about it and wish that I could see the future there is a certain amount of excitement in not knowing everything. There is a joy and a rush in knowing that sometimes I may sail blindly, but with a purpose.
In the interim please excuse me. I have to go brush away the bread crumbs those giggling girls left on my pants and shoes.
Life Is Overwhelming Me
Yes it is true, even the mighty Jack has moments of doubt and pain in which he feels that life is completely overwhelming. So much is going on that my head is spinning. I suppose that the good news is that this proves that my brain was not replaced my a melon, but is actually still located inside my skull.
Hooray for small favors or small wonders, I can't remember which.
Ok, Jack, you can't begin a post with that kind of introduction without providing an explanation for what is going on. And you can't really keep speaking about yourself in the third person unless you are Ricky Henderson or riding the subway.
So let's take a moment to try and take stock of what is going on and why my head feels like it is going to explode. You could say that some of this is part of the pseudo-mid life crisis I am in the middle of. It is a good place to start.
I feel trapped and angry about a number of things and no I am not going to list them all here. Thanks to the lack of complete anonymity I am not real comfortable displaying all of these things. When this place was populated by complete strangers it was easy to let it all hang out, but at the moment that is not the case.
There are unwanted visitors who frequent this joint. You know who you are. I don't understand why you are here or what you hope to accomplish. You are emotional vampires who make yourself feel better by feeding off of the pain of others. But I know your game and I know that in the dark corners of your little mind you are scared and insecure.
So if it makes you feel better to feed off of my distress, feel free. The difference is that even though I am torked I know that I will come out the other side. It is not a question of if, but of when. What did Churchill say, "If you're going through hell, keep going."
That is what I am doing. And because I am an ornery cuss and a glutton for punishment if I happen to stumble into the devil I will tweak his nose, poke him in the eyes and kick him in the ass. And if he happens to drop that pitchfork I will snatch it up and insert it into his ass pointy end first right up to the handle.
Yep, I am frustrated. I am angry and I am feeling crazed because there is so much going on that it is hard to catch my breath.
If I were advising my children on how to deal with this I'd tell the to break it up into bite size pieces. But since I rarely follow my own advice it doesn't matter. Ok, that is not true, I am breaking it up into little pieces. But it is taking a toll and I am a bit low on energy.
Part of the problem is that I had to suspend my gym membership. I used to expend all of my stress on the court. Three or four nights of basketball did wonders for my sanity. But given the economy and two kids in private school it made sense to give it up for a while.
I found a couple of new pick up games to play in, but they have challenges of their own. They all take place outdoors, on cement and my forty-year-old body doesn't like that very much. It is not that I can't play, but that I have to be more conscious of the pounding that my back and my knees take.
I want to be able to keep playing for years to come so I can't completely ignore the aches and pains that come from playing on the concrete. And it frustrates me to no end to have to limit my game because of this. I don't feel old. I see these twenty somethings and I can still run with them. Strength wise there are very few who can out do me, I haven't lost it there.
But the speed isn't what it once was and more importantly the elasticity of the joints and the resiliency is lacking. I don't recover like I used to. I keep trying to, but I can only fight time for so long.
It brings me back to where I was. If I can't relieve stress the same way than I have to find a good alternative and I am searching for it.
Writing always used to be a great complement to the basketball, but lately that hasn't worked as well. The words don't just fly off of the keyboard anymore. They feel stilted and awkward and that has stifled me a bit.
But I am working on it.
I suspect that part of it is due to the number of places that I am writing now. I am writing in a few places under my real name. Part of that is great and freeing, but it takes some of the energy I have for here.
The boys and I are leaning upon each other. A couple of them are in the midst of getting divorced. I do a lot of listening. I get a lot earfuls of their stuff. I don't mind as long as they can occasionally listen to my own.
But it all adds up.
Did I mention that the stress of getting the kids into back to school mode is another nightmare. So much freaking work. It shouldn't be this complicated, but there is just so much to do. I graduated from college last century, several presidents ago. Been working for years, but I still hate to see summer end.
Got to break out of this rut. Think that I am going to go grab my kettlebell and exercise for a bit. See you in a bit.
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Hooray for small favors or small wonders, I can't remember which.
Ok, Jack, you can't begin a post with that kind of introduction without providing an explanation for what is going on. And you can't really keep speaking about yourself in the third person unless you are Ricky Henderson or riding the subway.
So let's take a moment to try and take stock of what is going on and why my head feels like it is going to explode. You could say that some of this is part of the pseudo-mid life crisis I am in the middle of. It is a good place to start.
I feel trapped and angry about a number of things and no I am not going to list them all here. Thanks to the lack of complete anonymity I am not real comfortable displaying all of these things. When this place was populated by complete strangers it was easy to let it all hang out, but at the moment that is not the case.
There are unwanted visitors who frequent this joint. You know who you are. I don't understand why you are here or what you hope to accomplish. You are emotional vampires who make yourself feel better by feeding off of the pain of others. But I know your game and I know that in the dark corners of your little mind you are scared and insecure.
So if it makes you feel better to feed off of my distress, feel free. The difference is that even though I am torked I know that I will come out the other side. It is not a question of if, but of when. What did Churchill say, "If you're going through hell, keep going."
That is what I am doing. And because I am an ornery cuss and a glutton for punishment if I happen to stumble into the devil I will tweak his nose, poke him in the eyes and kick him in the ass. And if he happens to drop that pitchfork I will snatch it up and insert it into his ass pointy end first right up to the handle.
Yep, I am frustrated. I am angry and I am feeling crazed because there is so much going on that it is hard to catch my breath.
If I were advising my children on how to deal with this I'd tell the to break it up into bite size pieces. But since I rarely follow my own advice it doesn't matter. Ok, that is not true, I am breaking it up into little pieces. But it is taking a toll and I am a bit low on energy.
Part of the problem is that I had to suspend my gym membership. I used to expend all of my stress on the court. Three or four nights of basketball did wonders for my sanity. But given the economy and two kids in private school it made sense to give it up for a while.
I found a couple of new pick up games to play in, but they have challenges of their own. They all take place outdoors, on cement and my forty-year-old body doesn't like that very much. It is not that I can't play, but that I have to be more conscious of the pounding that my back and my knees take.
I want to be able to keep playing for years to come so I can't completely ignore the aches and pains that come from playing on the concrete. And it frustrates me to no end to have to limit my game because of this. I don't feel old. I see these twenty somethings and I can still run with them. Strength wise there are very few who can out do me, I haven't lost it there.
But the speed isn't what it once was and more importantly the elasticity of the joints and the resiliency is lacking. I don't recover like I used to. I keep trying to, but I can only fight time for so long.
It brings me back to where I was. If I can't relieve stress the same way than I have to find a good alternative and I am searching for it.
Writing always used to be a great complement to the basketball, but lately that hasn't worked as well. The words don't just fly off of the keyboard anymore. They feel stilted and awkward and that has stifled me a bit.
But I am working on it.
I suspect that part of it is due to the number of places that I am writing now. I am writing in a few places under my real name. Part of that is great and freeing, but it takes some of the energy I have for here.
The boys and I are leaning upon each other. A couple of them are in the midst of getting divorced. I do a lot of listening. I get a lot earfuls of their stuff. I don't mind as long as they can occasionally listen to my own.
But it all adds up.
Did I mention that the stress of getting the kids into back to school mode is another nightmare. So much freaking work. It shouldn't be this complicated, but there is just so much to do. I graduated from college last century, several presidents ago. Been working for years, but I still hate to see summer end.
Got to break out of this rut. Think that I am going to go grab my kettlebell and exercise for a bit. See you in a bit.
Sounds Of My Youth
(Originally posted here)
Sometimes I wonder if I spend too much time dreaming. My thoughts flitter around this and that and here and there. In my mind I visualize myself in various places with various people.
Some of it is fantasy and some of is memory. I suppose that you could attribute this to being someone who enjoys creativity and storytelling.
The world is a very interesting place. I never run out of things to do, places to go or people to see. In many ways I am a boy in a man's body. I love doing new things but I also like thinking about my past. I have many fine memories and I rather enjoy visiting them from time to time.
Certain smells and sounds remind me of the past. Some of them are bittersweet memories of people and places that are no longer part of my life, at least not in the way that they used to be.
For example for the first 28 years of my life my maternal grandparents lived in an apartment complex in West Hollywood.
I remember the drive from my parent's house in the Valley through Laurel Canyon to Hollywood. If I close my eyes for a moment I can hear the sound of a Dodge Dart or a Chevy Impala Station Wagon. My father is driving. I am sitting right behind him watching his every move. My mother is stationed to the left of him, a younger sister between them and two more to the right of me.
If you watch me drive you can see some of the same gestures my father makes. Watch me get onto the freeway. My foot presses down on the accelerator and I crane my head to the far left, searching for oncoming traffic. I mutter to myself about the traffic around me, some of it is intelligible and some less so. Those are the words that I really strain to hear because my father is cursing the guy who doesn't understand that you don't get on the freeway doing 25 MPH or maybe it is the guy in the lime green Ford Pinto who hasn't enough sense to signal before he switches lanes.
We aren't on the freeway for all that long before we exit.You get off at Laurel Canyon and make a right. Go straight for a couple of miles and suddenly you are in the middle of the canyon surrounded by the Hollywood Hills. If you know where to look you can see the ruins of Harry Houdini's home.
The houses are distinctly different from those in my neighborhood. There is a different feel to the area. I am too young to put my finger on it, but I am aware of it early on. The drive through the canyon is pleasant. Maybe it is part of why I enjoy fiction so much because it really feels like a transformation of worlds to me.
I rarely noticed the time in the canyon. One minute I was in the car and the next was spent finding a parking space in front of the building. Their apartment was on the third floor and overlooked the pool. I spent many pleasant hours eating lunch on their balcony and watching people swim.
But one of the things that sticks with me more than anything else was the sound that their front door made whenever it was opened or closed. I can't really describe it so I won't bother with an attempt other than to say that in my mind it is a very soothing sound.
I don't even have to close my eyes to see the way it looked inside. When you opened the front door you stepped into the living room. To your right was a hallway that led to the two bedrooms and a bathroom.
In front of you was the dining room and off to the left lay the kitchen. The kitchen that didn't have a dishwasher. Just off to the left of the front door was the door to the balcony. An end table was nearby. They stored decks of cards in it that my sisters and I would use to build houses or play games with.
We spent untold hours there. At a Passover seder I proposed marriage to my cousin. She was an older woman but I was a very mature six or maybe she was a very immature seven. One of these days I'll have to ask her.
It is funny to me how these memories stick with me. Not funny in a humorous way, but funny in the way that just intrigues me. Sounds, sounds, sounds. So many routine noises that have so much meaning. In the years that have passed I find so many reminders. Certain staircases have a specific echo that makes me remember the days in which my father had the biggest hands of anyone I knew.
Dinners at my parent's house where my mother suddenly realizes that she has forgotten to serve a dish remind me of an untold number of meals at which my grandmother did the same. Her expression and comments mirroring her mother's.
It is times like this that I miss my grandmother's little brother, my uncle. My dear uncle who would wait until the middle of the meal at grandma's house to ask her what she had forgotten. There was always this mischievous gleam in his eye that I recognized. I might have been a kid, but I was a big brother and that meant that I knew a little something about teasing a sister.
He died unexpectedly in 1985. More sounds at my grandparents. Only this time there is silence. My grandmother is clearly upset but she is hiding her feelings. I am old enough to understand that she is trying to avoid upsetting my sisters. It doesn't occur to me that maybe she is trying to protect me too.
It is not something that occurs to me because just a few months prior to this I was in Israel. Ten weeks abroad without my parents and I feel like an adult and so I help to maintain the silence there. It is almost unnatural, this silence. There are too many of us and it is just not that quiet.
Later that evening the silence is broken. It is the sound of someone crying. It is my grandmother. She is in the bathroom and she is trying to be quiet, but there is an echo in there. There is an echo that made the children laugh because if you didn't use the fan it was very obvious what was going on in there. And lord knows that potty humor is high comedy for the five to ten year-old crowd.
Sounds, more sounds and more memories. The complex is built around a large oval swimming pool, an intentional or perhaps unintentional amphitheatre. Voices carry and bits and pieces of conversations float up to the third floor.
Some are stories of fleeing the Nazis or the Cossacks, some are tales of how smart the grandchildren are. Today whenever I hear someone bragging about their grandchildren I remember the conversations from around the pool. Sometimes the sound of someone diving into a pool remind me of the pool at my grandparent's complex.
This October it will be nine years since they left Hollywood for the greener pastures of Camarillo. I have tried to develop new memories there but it is not the same. I still find myself listening for those old familiar sounds. The screendoor doesn't squeak and since they no longer live in an apartment there are no footsteps to listen to in a dark staircase.
My grandfather no longer watches for our arrival from the balcony. He stopped smoking cigars when I was about 22 so there are no ashtrays to help stimulate olfactory memories.
Don't get me wrong, I love my grandparents dearly and I really have found some special memories in their new home. But it is not the same. They have been there for almost a decade and I still refer to it as the new place.
Sounds, sounds, sounds. I listen for them sometimes consciously and sometimes otherwise but they just aren't there anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if I spend too much time dreaming. My thoughts flitter around this and that and here and there. In my mind I visualize myself in various places with various people.
Some of it is fantasy and some of is memory. I suppose that you could attribute this to being someone who enjoys creativity and storytelling.
The world is a very interesting place. I never run out of things to do, places to go or people to see. In many ways I am a boy in a man's body. I love doing new things but I also like thinking about my past. I have many fine memories and I rather enjoy visiting them from time to time.
Certain smells and sounds remind me of the past. Some of them are bittersweet memories of people and places that are no longer part of my life, at least not in the way that they used to be.
For example for the first 28 years of my life my maternal grandparents lived in an apartment complex in West Hollywood.
I remember the drive from my parent's house in the Valley through Laurel Canyon to Hollywood. If I close my eyes for a moment I can hear the sound of a Dodge Dart or a Chevy Impala Station Wagon. My father is driving. I am sitting right behind him watching his every move. My mother is stationed to the left of him, a younger sister between them and two more to the right of me.
If you watch me drive you can see some of the same gestures my father makes. Watch me get onto the freeway. My foot presses down on the accelerator and I crane my head to the far left, searching for oncoming traffic. I mutter to myself about the traffic around me, some of it is intelligible and some less so. Those are the words that I really strain to hear because my father is cursing the guy who doesn't understand that you don't get on the freeway doing 25 MPH or maybe it is the guy in the lime green Ford Pinto who hasn't enough sense to signal before he switches lanes.
We aren't on the freeway for all that long before we exit.You get off at Laurel Canyon and make a right. Go straight for a couple of miles and suddenly you are in the middle of the canyon surrounded by the Hollywood Hills. If you know where to look you can see the ruins of Harry Houdini's home.
The houses are distinctly different from those in my neighborhood. There is a different feel to the area. I am too young to put my finger on it, but I am aware of it early on. The drive through the canyon is pleasant. Maybe it is part of why I enjoy fiction so much because it really feels like a transformation of worlds to me.
I rarely noticed the time in the canyon. One minute I was in the car and the next was spent finding a parking space in front of the building. Their apartment was on the third floor and overlooked the pool. I spent many pleasant hours eating lunch on their balcony and watching people swim.
But one of the things that sticks with me more than anything else was the sound that their front door made whenever it was opened or closed. I can't really describe it so I won't bother with an attempt other than to say that in my mind it is a very soothing sound.
I don't even have to close my eyes to see the way it looked inside. When you opened the front door you stepped into the living room. To your right was a hallway that led to the two bedrooms and a bathroom.
In front of you was the dining room and off to the left lay the kitchen. The kitchen that didn't have a dishwasher. Just off to the left of the front door was the door to the balcony. An end table was nearby. They stored decks of cards in it that my sisters and I would use to build houses or play games with.
We spent untold hours there. At a Passover seder I proposed marriage to my cousin. She was an older woman but I was a very mature six or maybe she was a very immature seven. One of these days I'll have to ask her.
It is funny to me how these memories stick with me. Not funny in a humorous way, but funny in the way that just intrigues me. Sounds, sounds, sounds. So many routine noises that have so much meaning. In the years that have passed I find so many reminders. Certain staircases have a specific echo that makes me remember the days in which my father had the biggest hands of anyone I knew.
Dinners at my parent's house where my mother suddenly realizes that she has forgotten to serve a dish remind me of an untold number of meals at which my grandmother did the same. Her expression and comments mirroring her mother's.
It is times like this that I miss my grandmother's little brother, my uncle. My dear uncle who would wait until the middle of the meal at grandma's house to ask her what she had forgotten. There was always this mischievous gleam in his eye that I recognized. I might have been a kid, but I was a big brother and that meant that I knew a little something about teasing a sister.
He died unexpectedly in 1985. More sounds at my grandparents. Only this time there is silence. My grandmother is clearly upset but she is hiding her feelings. I am old enough to understand that she is trying to avoid upsetting my sisters. It doesn't occur to me that maybe she is trying to protect me too.
It is not something that occurs to me because just a few months prior to this I was in Israel. Ten weeks abroad without my parents and I feel like an adult and so I help to maintain the silence there. It is almost unnatural, this silence. There are too many of us and it is just not that quiet.
Later that evening the silence is broken. It is the sound of someone crying. It is my grandmother. She is in the bathroom and she is trying to be quiet, but there is an echo in there. There is an echo that made the children laugh because if you didn't use the fan it was very obvious what was going on in there. And lord knows that potty humor is high comedy for the five to ten year-old crowd.
Sounds, more sounds and more memories. The complex is built around a large oval swimming pool, an intentional or perhaps unintentional amphitheatre. Voices carry and bits and pieces of conversations float up to the third floor.
Some are stories of fleeing the Nazis or the Cossacks, some are tales of how smart the grandchildren are. Today whenever I hear someone bragging about their grandchildren I remember the conversations from around the pool. Sometimes the sound of someone diving into a pool remind me of the pool at my grandparent's complex.
This October it will be nine years since they left Hollywood for the greener pastures of Camarillo. I have tried to develop new memories there but it is not the same. I still find myself listening for those old familiar sounds. The screendoor doesn't squeak and since they no longer live in an apartment there are no footsteps to listen to in a dark staircase.
My grandfather no longer watches for our arrival from the balcony. He stopped smoking cigars when I was about 22 so there are no ashtrays to help stimulate olfactory memories.
Don't get me wrong, I love my grandparents dearly and I really have found some special memories in their new home. But it is not the same. They have been there for almost a decade and I still refer to it as the new place.
Sounds, sounds, sounds. I listen for them sometimes consciously and sometimes otherwise but they just aren't there anymore.
Do You Live Your Dreams
This is one of those questions that is worth asking repeatedly:
My question dear reader is this, Do you live your dreams or dream your life?
My question dear reader is this, Do you live your dreams or dream your life?
Nobody can say that running 135 miles in the desert is healthy
Now this is the sort of thing that I'd like to say I have done. It is an Ultramarathon through Death Valley. To my mind it is among the ultimate examples of mind over matter. Take a look at these facts from the CNN story:
But I am still interested in doing the Ironman. That is a different sort of test of endurance that I think I am better suited for and would be just as proud to finish.
135 miles through Death Valley, CaliforniaSome of you will read that and think that the people who do it are crazy and perhaps they are, but there is something about it that really captures my imagination. It is unlikely that I will ever attempt it. Running is not where I excel, or should I say long distance running.
Start: 280 feet below sea level
Finish: 8,300 feet on Mount Whitney
Race time limit: 60 hours, 48-hour cut-off to get a belt buckle
Course pavement exceeds 200 degrees F, same temp used to slow cook a pot roast
Dangers: Heat stroke, organ failure, hallucinations, huge blisters, severe dehydration
But I am still interested in doing the Ironman. That is a different sort of test of endurance that I think I am better suited for and would be just as proud to finish.
Do Men Cry?
The dark haired beauty looked up at me and asked me if daddies ever cry. I smiled back at her and said that sometimes they do. She looked up at me and asked why she hadn't ever seen me cry. I smiled again and asked her why.
"Abba, it is ok to cry. It doesn't mean that you are a baby," she replied. And with that she pulled my head down and kissed my black eye. For a moment I stopped and stared at her, not really sure what to say. So I hugged her and told her that she was right.
And then I thought back to a post I wrote five years ago called The tears that do not fall. In that post I related the story of how a 14 year-old boy swore that he wouldn't cry anymore. That post stands out for a number of reasons. It was among the first in which I really opened up here. It was among the first that made me realize that there was far more potential here than I had ever realized.
It stands out because it is our character for me. I suppose If you only know me through the blogosphere that might sound strange, but in person I am relatively guarded and careful with what I am willing to share. I don't open up very easily. Too many years of doing otherwise.
Five years later I still rarely cry. It is better than it was. It is easier than it was, but it is still rare. In fact, I don't think that anyone has really seen me cry in person since I was that teenage boy. I won't say that it is impossible or unlikely for things to change. It is a safe bet to say that one of these days that will change.
But it is not going to come easily. I look back at that post and five years later much of it is familiar, too familiar. Don't misunderstand, I don't see crying as a panacea for all that troubles me. I don't think that it is going to fix all of the challenges I may face at a particular time. I am not convinced that it is always going to make me feel better.
But I think that it will help. I think that some things that bother me may disappear or at least fade away more quickly. I think that it might make it easier to let go. For now I suppose that I will just have to wait and see what happens.
"Abba, it is ok to cry. It doesn't mean that you are a baby," she replied. And with that she pulled my head down and kissed my black eye. For a moment I stopped and stared at her, not really sure what to say. So I hugged her and told her that she was right.
And then I thought back to a post I wrote five years ago called The tears that do not fall. In that post I related the story of how a 14 year-old boy swore that he wouldn't cry anymore. That post stands out for a number of reasons. It was among the first in which I really opened up here. It was among the first that made me realize that there was far more potential here than I had ever realized.
It stands out because it is our character for me. I suppose If you only know me through the blogosphere that might sound strange, but in person I am relatively guarded and careful with what I am willing to share. I don't open up very easily. Too many years of doing otherwise.
Five years later I still rarely cry. It is better than it was. It is easier than it was, but it is still rare. In fact, I don't think that anyone has really seen me cry in person since I was that teenage boy. I won't say that it is impossible or unlikely for things to change. It is a safe bet to say that one of these days that will change.
But it is not going to come easily. I look back at that post and five years later much of it is familiar, too familiar. Don't misunderstand, I don't see crying as a panacea for all that troubles me. I don't think that it is going to fix all of the challenges I may face at a particular time. I am not convinced that it is always going to make me feel better.
But I think that it will help. I think that some things that bother me may disappear or at least fade away more quickly. I think that it might make it easier to let go. For now I suppose that I will just have to wait and see what happens.
My Dream Job
If you ask me, the world renowned philosopher known as Jack, many things in life are backwards. We spend enormous amounts of our childhood in school being instructed about many important topics. It is hard to argue against education and I am certainly not going to do so.
But the hard thing about a school education is that it doesn't always prepare you for the real world. It doesn't give you the sort of life experiences that you can only find outside of the classroom and in some ways that is tragic.
The human life span is very brief. You are born, you hit middle age and then you die. It doesn't provide much time for you to venture out into the world and learn about who you really are and what you like. Far too often you find that circumstances require you to spend your time working in places and situations that are not suited for you.
There are a variety of reasons why this happens, but not the least of which is that sometimes you cannot know until you try. You may think that you were born to be a teacher but until you hit the classroom and get real life experience all you have is your suppositions and expectations.
Most of us do not grow up knowing exactly what we want to do. Most of us have an idea or two, but we are not really sure so we just muddle our way into new things and hope that they work out.
I am no different. When I graduated college I had this dream of becoming a sports writer. It didn't happen. I am not a sports writer and haven't been one in years. Can't even claim to be a writer who moonlights as a sports writer, a la Mitch Albom.
But that is ok. I am not some 25 year old kid who wishes that he could cover the Lakers or Dodger's beat.
These days I have slightly different dreams of what and how I want to spend my time, not to mention, with whom. Life is a funny sort of creature.
I am a native Angeleno. Forty years spent in the great City of Angels and I have never cared at all about being a part of the business. Know all sorts of people who are. Writers, directors, producers, agents, I have friends in every category, some of who are quite successful.
And until recently I never cared one whit about being a part of that world. But a while ago something changed. A while back I realized that I really enjoy writing these Fragments of Fiction pieces.
I really enjoy trying to tell a story. It makes me very happy and I think that it could be fulfilling. So suddenly I find myself thinking that writing is really where I want to be. I find myself thinking about making a movie. I find myself thinking about how cool it would be to translate the things I see inside my head onto paper and then onto film.
So now I find myself wondering if I should pursue the dream. I don't care about being famous, in fact I don't really want to be. I want to be able to live my life without concern about being tabloid fodder. But it would be very cool to write a book and or a screenplay. Now I want the chance and the experience.
I may find that I hate it, or aspects of it. But I know for certain that I won't ever get tired of telling stories. It won't grow old for me. So now all I have to do is figure out a way to do it and fifty percent of my dreams will come true.
But the hard thing about a school education is that it doesn't always prepare you for the real world. It doesn't give you the sort of life experiences that you can only find outside of the classroom and in some ways that is tragic.
The human life span is very brief. You are born, you hit middle age and then you die. It doesn't provide much time for you to venture out into the world and learn about who you really are and what you like. Far too often you find that circumstances require you to spend your time working in places and situations that are not suited for you.
There are a variety of reasons why this happens, but not the least of which is that sometimes you cannot know until you try. You may think that you were born to be a teacher but until you hit the classroom and get real life experience all you have is your suppositions and expectations.
Most of us do not grow up knowing exactly what we want to do. Most of us have an idea or two, but we are not really sure so we just muddle our way into new things and hope that they work out.
I am no different. When I graduated college I had this dream of becoming a sports writer. It didn't happen. I am not a sports writer and haven't been one in years. Can't even claim to be a writer who moonlights as a sports writer, a la Mitch Albom.
But that is ok. I am not some 25 year old kid who wishes that he could cover the Lakers or Dodger's beat.
These days I have slightly different dreams of what and how I want to spend my time, not to mention, with whom. Life is a funny sort of creature.
I am a native Angeleno. Forty years spent in the great City of Angels and I have never cared at all about being a part of the business. Know all sorts of people who are. Writers, directors, producers, agents, I have friends in every category, some of who are quite successful.
And until recently I never cared one whit about being a part of that world. But a while ago something changed. A while back I realized that I really enjoy writing these Fragments of Fiction pieces.
I really enjoy trying to tell a story. It makes me very happy and I think that it could be fulfilling. So suddenly I find myself thinking that writing is really where I want to be. I find myself thinking about making a movie. I find myself thinking about how cool it would be to translate the things I see inside my head onto paper and then onto film.
So now I find myself wondering if I should pursue the dream. I don't care about being famous, in fact I don't really want to be. I want to be able to live my life without concern about being tabloid fodder. But it would be very cool to write a book and or a screenplay. Now I want the chance and the experience.
I may find that I hate it, or aspects of it. But I know for certain that I won't ever get tired of telling stories. It won't grow old for me. So now all I have to do is figure out a way to do it and fifty percent of my dreams will come true.
Write Compelling Content Using Music
"I am a big fan of soundtracks. A good soundtrack is a critical part of a movie/television show as it helps to paint a picture and set the mood. Think about watching a horror movie, without the sound it is just not that scary. The music sets the tone, even if you are not familiar with a particular movie the music affects your feelings and emotions." -JackIf you want compelling content that hooks a reader I suggest that you find a way to incorporate music into your posts. Music is a very useful tool that you can use to set a mood and to help color the scene you are setting.
I write these posts because I love to write. It feels natural to sit here and find ways to arrange the words so that they evoke thoughts and feelings in myself and those who read them. So
I intentionally try to seek out pieces that complement the words that you read here.
The music helps to fill in the gaps that language cannot reach and to help express the thoughts and ideas that I am trying to share with you. So it is with some regret and frustration that I say again that I wish that I could play an instrument and write musical pieces.
There are moments when I dream about having the time to devote to this. There are moments when I dream of writing a symphony or opera about life, love and heartbreak. Moments where I can almost hear the song of my soul and I think that I am crippled by not being able to truly share it.
Now I can take advantage of the resources that we do have and provide links that you can use to hear some of what I am referring to. In some cases the music has such a strong association with a movie that it becomes easier to use it to draw a picture for the readers.
Ideally music is there to supplement the writing and not to supplant it.
What do you think?
Living The Bachelor Life
I am man, hear me roar. Watch as I burp and scratch and revert back to my bachelor life. The family is as they say....Gone!
Here I sit at the computer, unshaved and unwashed. There are a couple of dishes in the sink and newspapers spread across the table. Last night I stayed up well past the witching hour and thoroughly enjoyed the silence and the solitude of my man cave.
I woke up this morning sans alarm, wife and children. In other words I woke up as nature intended. For a moment I wondered if it was all a dream and then I remembered that it wasn't. With a yawn, a stretch and a big smile I rolled out of the bed and strolled through the house.
The quiet, oh, the blessed quiet.
I paused and looked around and smiled. It won't be long before I miss the chaos and the racket. It won't be long before it is almost too quiet, but for now I am doing my happy dance around this joint.
Truth is that it is not particularly messy or cluttered. I don't like that much, but I don't have to be the role model so I don't have to do it all immediately. I don't have to do anything that I do not want to do.
For a while I was tempted to get in the car and go somewhere. Last night around midnight I played with thoughts of going to Vegas. A short while ago there was no one who could play, but now that life has happened and some of the boys are single possibilities exist.
So at a few minutes past 12 I called and asked if was up for a road trip. I had a full tank of gas and offered to drive. He laughed and told me that he wanted to, but had to be at a dinner meeting today.
I said no problem and he laughed again. He believed that I could get us there and back in time for the meeting, but said that he didn't think he'd be rested enough for the meeting.
And that my friends is the difference between who we were twenty years ago and who we are now.
Of course I should stipulate that I considered the state of my personal economy and remembered that Obama and company haven't offered to bail me out. But I'd be lying if I didn't think about how time at the blackjack table could solve that. With a little luck and a short run I could provide my own bailout.
Maybe next time.
Instead I consoled myself by playing Viva Las Vegas while writing a brief and sending out 1,876,993 emails for work. And then for good measure I wrote three posts that I immediately deleted.
And now I sit here, staring at the computer screen, wondering whether I feel like cooking or barbecuing my dinner. It is summer in LA and in a short time the weather will be perfect for dining outdoors.
All I have to say is that some days it is good to be a man.
Here I sit at the computer, unshaved and unwashed. There are a couple of dishes in the sink and newspapers spread across the table. Last night I stayed up well past the witching hour and thoroughly enjoyed the silence and the solitude of my man cave.
I woke up this morning sans alarm, wife and children. In other words I woke up as nature intended. For a moment I wondered if it was all a dream and then I remembered that it wasn't. With a yawn, a stretch and a big smile I rolled out of the bed and strolled through the house.
The quiet, oh, the blessed quiet.
I paused and looked around and smiled. It won't be long before I miss the chaos and the racket. It won't be long before it is almost too quiet, but for now I am doing my happy dance around this joint.
Truth is that it is not particularly messy or cluttered. I don't like that much, but I don't have to be the role model so I don't have to do it all immediately. I don't have to do anything that I do not want to do.
For a while I was tempted to get in the car and go somewhere. Last night around midnight I played with thoughts of going to Vegas. A short while ago there was no one who could play, but now that life has happened and some of the boys are single possibilities exist.
So at a few minutes past 12 I called and asked if was up for a road trip. I had a full tank of gas and offered to drive. He laughed and told me that he wanted to, but had to be at a dinner meeting today.
I said no problem and he laughed again. He believed that I could get us there and back in time for the meeting, but said that he didn't think he'd be rested enough for the meeting.
And that my friends is the difference between who we were twenty years ago and who we are now.
Of course I should stipulate that I considered the state of my personal economy and remembered that Obama and company haven't offered to bail me out. But I'd be lying if I didn't think about how time at the blackjack table could solve that. With a little luck and a short run I could provide my own bailout.
Maybe next time.
Instead I consoled myself by playing Viva Las Vegas while writing a brief and sending out 1,876,993 emails for work. And then for good measure I wrote three posts that I immediately deleted.
And now I sit here, staring at the computer screen, wondering whether I feel like cooking or barbecuing my dinner. It is summer in LA and in a short time the weather will be perfect for dining outdoors.
All I have to say is that some days it is good to be a man.
What Are You Doing In There
The dark haired beauty looks up at me through a mass of dark curls and giggles. She is up to something, I know it and she knows that I know it. The key question is what has she done and why are her eyes sparkling.
I won't have to wait long for the answer. In a matter of moments she'll be unable to contain herself and she'll confess. I already know from experience it is unlikely to be serious because when she thinks she is in trouble she remains silent. Of course her older brother is usually happy to try and tip me off, getting the little sister in trouble remains one of the joys of being an older sibling.
Of course it goes both directions as she is more than happy to try and tweak his nose. They are typical siblings and exhibit the standard behavior of love/hate for each other. Most of the time they get along beautifully, but they have their moments. Ah, the joy of children.
That famous second set which consists of wondering how long I let them try to work it out before I get involved and if I get involved, how many years will I ground them for.
It is a serious thing. You have to teach them how to cope when things don't go the way that they want. You have to help them learn how to share and negotiate their way through life. So when I wonder how long I need to wait before interceding there is an educational component to it. But there is also the question of my sanity.
How long can I listen to them kvetching at each other. And of course the joy of having a home office is that during the summer you have substantially more exposure to the joys of your life.
Anyhoo, there have been some occasions when I have opted to answer the call of nature during these little dust ups. And upon occasion inquiries have been made as to whether I really was busy or not as it seemed far too convenient for me to be in there at moment.
I of course have always offered to provide proof and was always turned down, until recently. That dark haired beauty decided that she wanted to see for herself. Standing outside the door, she asks me to open it so that she can see for herself. I pause for a moment and suggest that she find something else to do.
Without missing a beat she tells me that she is almost five and besides she has seen boys go to the bathroom before. So I open the door and just as I am about to tell her what I think about all that she starts laughing because she knows that she has gotten me.
Then for good measure she steps inside, sniffs the air and proclaims, "it doesn't stink in here, you are just hiding from us."
And people ask me why I am losing my hair.
I won't have to wait long for the answer. In a matter of moments she'll be unable to contain herself and she'll confess. I already know from experience it is unlikely to be serious because when she thinks she is in trouble she remains silent. Of course her older brother is usually happy to try and tip me off, getting the little sister in trouble remains one of the joys of being an older sibling.
Of course it goes both directions as she is more than happy to try and tweak his nose. They are typical siblings and exhibit the standard behavior of love/hate for each other. Most of the time they get along beautifully, but they have their moments. Ah, the joy of children.
*********************
Sometimes when those moments come I find myself asking questions that many parents ask, such as why didn't I wear 19 condoms or if I leave now can I be in Vegas before nightfall. A half second later reality sets in and I go to the second set of options.That famous second set which consists of wondering how long I let them try to work it out before I get involved and if I get involved, how many years will I ground them for.
It is a serious thing. You have to teach them how to cope when things don't go the way that they want. You have to help them learn how to share and negotiate their way through life. So when I wonder how long I need to wait before interceding there is an educational component to it. But there is also the question of my sanity.
How long can I listen to them kvetching at each other. And of course the joy of having a home office is that during the summer you have substantially more exposure to the joys of your life.
*********************
Sometimes if you are me you have also adopted a strategy of heading off to the second office. You can blame this on having watched Happy Days as a kid. Fonzie always took Ritchie into the bathroom and we all know that he was the coolest guy ever, at least until he jumped the shark.Anyhoo, there have been some occasions when I have opted to answer the call of nature during these little dust ups. And upon occasion inquiries have been made as to whether I really was busy or not as it seemed far too convenient for me to be in there at moment.
I of course have always offered to provide proof and was always turned down, until recently. That dark haired beauty decided that she wanted to see for herself. Standing outside the door, she asks me to open it so that she can see for herself. I pause for a moment and suggest that she find something else to do.
Without missing a beat she tells me that she is almost five and besides she has seen boys go to the bathroom before. So I open the door and just as I am about to tell her what I think about all that she starts laughing because she knows that she has gotten me.
Then for good measure she steps inside, sniffs the air and proclaims, "it doesn't stink in here, you are just hiding from us."
And people ask me why I am losing my hair.
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