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Saturday, December 29, 2007

happy xmas (part 2) 

In response to my earlier post on the subject at hand. . .

It is beautiful to read, and therefore must be shared with you, my dear reader. And I trust my darling BBW that you will not take offense that I have freed your wise words from the confines of the comments. I am quite certain that their eloquence needs to be more easily accessible to the world, even if only by 1 click.

It is beautiful to read, and very much a glimpse into my relationship with the BBW, whose dear friendship I have been able to thankfully count amongst my many blessings for neigh on 25 years.

It as though I am being scolded while being encouraged. It strikes me as well, nurturing. And for that please join me my dear reader, and raise high a toast, to the most beloved and blessed BBW!
Oh, please, you've really been duped--AGAIN. Christmas is not, and I repeat, NOT about the birth of Jesus. Scholars do not even believe he was born in late December. Christmas is the Christian answer to Pagan winter holidays. Cloaking it in the whole birth of Christ facade was just a way to make it acceptable within the "one God" framework. I could go into a debate about the trinity, here, but I'll spare you. The fact is, this is paganism, which you should appreciate, my goat-like friend. So, next year, when Christmas rolls around, feel free to enjoy it. Revel in wearing costumes (Santa--ok, it's usually a figurative costume, but you get the idea) and worshiping mythological figures. Enjoy the lovely songs and the forced (like anyone needs to force you) vacation days. Revel in the fact that, for at least one day a year, it is considered not only socially acceptable, but expected, to spoil your loved ones by showering them with material goods in a show of affection that would otherwise be considered bad parenting and bribery. Tis the season, my friend, and there's no reason you shouldn't enjoy it. You just gotta put it into terms that appeal to you. Give my best to the wife and the boy, and Merry Christmas, my dear friend.
bbw | 12.26.07 - 8:15 am
Oh yeah, what about that whole "goat-like friend" thing. . .

I trust it is an allusion to Pan, and a subtle geeky intellectual compliment.

I trust it is not in reference to my personal hygiene, which I can assure you has improved significantly since "back in the day" as they say.

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Tuesday, December 25, 2007

happy xmas (part 1?) 

And so this is Christmas
And what have you done

- Brother John
Yes. Yes it is. According to the little clock in the corner of my iBook screen, we are now officially 2 hours, 25 minutes and 52. . . 53. . . 54. . . seconds into Christmas.

Yeah.

While Santa has already eaten the cookies The Boy set out before he went to bed tonight and washed them down with a generous poor of vodka mixed with some some ginger ale topped with a large splash of cranberry juice, there are still no presents under the tree. Ah Hell, the family has spent the past three days bouncing between relatives and Santa is just too fucking tired to deal with wrapping shit right now. Guess he'll just get up early.

In all honesty, all that Santa wants for Christmas is to tie on a righteous buzz and give Mrs. Claus a good banging, but she is currently zonked on prescription medication for her allergies (blasted cedar fever) and her back injury (blasted kids she cares for while working as pediatric home health nurse), so that shit just ain't gonna happen tonight. Ah, but there is always hope for tomorrow. And it's fireplace weather. . .

Sigh.

I always feel weird on Christmas Eve.

Like I'm just going through the motions and faking it.

I've felt that way since I was a kid who was old enough to know the secret of Santa. I don't remember the exact "a ha"moment, but somewhere along the line when I recognized the fallacy of the Santa myth, I began to question the legitamacy of the primary reason for the day's celebration.

You know, that whole baby Jesus born in a manger to save you from the sin of being human thing.

I mean really now. Fool me once. . .

Ah, fuck it.

Happy X-Mas!

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Saturday, December 22, 2007

once was, still am 

a bit of a nerd. . . despite my best protestations and delusions of coolness.

Thanks to Jake for bringing this to my attention.
______________________

I Am A: Neutral Good Human Sorcerer (6th Level)

Ability Scores:

Strength-14

Dexterity-14

Constitution-16

Intelligence-14

Wisdom-14

Charisma-14


Alignment:
Neutral Good A neutral good character does the best that a good person can do. He is devoted to helping others. He works with kings and magistrates but does not feel beholden to them. Neutral good is the best alignment you can be because it means doing what is good without bias for or against order. However, neutral good can be a dangerous alignment because because it advances mediocrity by limiting the actions of the truly capable.


Race:
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.


Class:
Sorcerers are arcane spellcasters who manipulate magic energy with imagination and talent rather than studious discipline. They have no books, no mentors, no theories just raw power that they direct at will. Sorcerers know fewer spells than wizards do and acquire them more slowly, but they can cast individual spells more often and have no need to prepare their incantations ahead of time. Also unlike wizards, sorcerers cannot specialize in a school of magic. Since sorcerers gain their powers without undergoing the years of rigorous study that wizards go through, they have more time to learn fighting skills and are proficient with simple weapons. Charisma is very important for sorcerers; the higher their value in this ability, the higher the spell level they can cast.


Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)

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Thursday, December 13, 2007

i beg to differ (part one) 

Recently I found myself in the middle of a torrid stream of email exchanges between dear friends at times almost orgasmically extolling the virtues of the recent Led Zeppelin reunion. While I found the discussion very interesting and certainly entertaining, you must forgive me my dear reader, if I could not find it within myself to summon up the same level of enthusiasm.

You see, my dear reader, my reaction upon reading the news some weeks ago that these aging Gods of Rock were reuniting was not so much "Wow!" as it was "Why?"

I struggle, and have been for some time now, to properly express myself here. I realize that although I strive to chose my words carefully, I am still to some degree opening myself up to charges of hypocrisy (so tell me, who are you). This is okay. For now I can live with myself, and it is my hope that when this rant reaches its verbose conclusion those charges will be answered, or at least explained, to your satisfaction.

Perhaps it is a sign of the increasing cynicism that comes with encroaching middle age, but I just don't get it. I find myself wondering is it the music, or our memories of it that incite such excitement? I am currently more inclined to believe it is more the latter. Can the two be separated, or are they so intertwined in our consciousness that they are one and the same?

Getting more to my point, maybe, I have always believed that the one crucial ingredient that is essential for great rock music is not a blistering guitar lick or the swaggering moans of an oversexualized vocalist. It is passion. It is having the rebellious passion to rip your heart out, wear it on your sleeve and proudly proclaim to the world that this is who you are as you endeavor to find your place in it. And fuck all else.

I'm not knocking the music, from time to time I still let it be my master. For cripes sake man, my iPod has a hearty helping of it. I'm not knocking their musical abilities or their showmanship. I've read some reviews. I'm sure it was awesome, and yes, part of me wishes I could have been there.

I just don't believe that a group whose music sold Cadillacs can lay claim to having any real passion left for what the music originally meant to them or to the legions of their fans. It's like watching Dennis Hopper do those ads for that investment firm.

Well my dear reader, without the passion, it still may rock, but it's just not rock-n-roll. And I seem to remember that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, that distinction mattered.

I keep thinking of a few lines Pete Townshend wrote for a David Gilmour song twenty some years ago (perhaps when feeling a bit like I'm feeling now):
You know that you don't really fall in love
Unless you're seventeen
The break of day will make your spirits fly
But you can't know what it means
Unless you're seventeen
And my dear reader, while your back and shoulders may not remind you almost every morning as do mine, there is still no escaping the realization that we are no longer seventeen.

More later.

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Tuesday, December 11, 2007

in case you were curious 

I am still tired, very tired. Not so much physically anymore, as thankfully sleep has been a more plentiful commodity, but more mentally, which in a way is more totally, if you get my meaning, my dear reader. Although I am also still very much relieved.

The Boy is almost completely well. He will be going to school tomorrow. I'm not sure he is ready for it, so there is some anxiety that will come with the dawn. He will go to school tomorrow more out of our necessity than his need.

You know, that whole rains it pours thing. It's literally and figuratively doing both right now. The Nurse is not well again, although we are hopeful she will be able to come in tomorrow after a doctor's appointment, it is by no means certain. And now The Wife has been stricken with a back injury. She is fairly certain that she has fucked up a disc, near the base of her spine. She has been in constant and at times excruciating pain for the better part of the past few weeks. She goes to see the doctor tomorrow also.

It is no understatement to say the last six weeks or so have completely sucked ass. All I do is take care of others: my students by day, my wife and child by night. This is fine, it is my calling and my destiny. But I have never had to do it for this long without a break. I'm not talking like a major Bahamas vacation or anything, just a night off to go out with the boys and knock back a coupla coca colas without a care, or to go have one rita to many with The Wife and come home to do what drunk people in love do. Criminy, what I wouldn't give to have the means to load a bowl or two and spend a couple of good hours on my back patio pickin' and a strummin' my guitar.

I still feel frazzled, unable to just plain chill out.

Alas, Christmas vacation, and Scotch Night to begin it, is only a week and a half away. I just need to keep things together long enough to get there.

So good night, my dear reader. Thank you for allowing me the brief opportunity to vent some frustrations, 'cuz that's really what this is. Like I've stated, it's just been a long haul. Things really aren't that bad (damn, I can almost hear that blasted Bobby McFerrin song in my head! AAAGH!)

I trust and pray that all is right in your world.

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Sunday, December 09, 2007

i promise i won't stay out late again 

(warning: not workplace friendly, but very very funny)


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Saturday, December 08, 2007

imagine 



Stand by me, my dear reader, raise your glass high and solemnly join me in a mournful memoriam to another brotha who ain't here. . .

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okay, look 

Perhaps it means I'm getting older.

Yes, yes. My dear reader, mother fucking yes.

Yes I've briefly considerdered the sad inevitability of sand slipping through the hourglass like it's the days of our fucking lives. . .

But when this guy:



turns into this guy:

















I really start to wonder.

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Thursday, December 06, 2007

he didn't get where he is today 

When I read this story:

UK police arrest canoeist who vanished
SEATON CAREW, England - Was he a victim of amnesia or a con artist who tried to fake his death to collect life insurance?

Whatever the answer, Britain is captivated by the tale of how John Darwin vanished after paddling into the North Sea in a canoe, was declared dead when its wreckage washed ashore, then turned up five years later at a police station claiming to have lost his memory.

Investigators suspect fraud: They arrested the 57-year-old former prison officer Wednesday on suspicion he faked his death so his wife could cash in on his insurance policy and move to Panama.
It reminded me of this gem from 1970's:



Ah, Reg. . . I do know the feeling.

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Monday, December 03, 2007

release 

I don't know if I can take it
I'm not easy on my knees
Here's my heart you can break it
I need some release, release, release

- Bono
I don't know, my dear reader, if you have ever spent a month of your life taking care of a seriously sick child. If you have not, I pray you never have to do so.

The Boy is on the mend. While he is not yet completely over his pneumonia he is getting closer to fine. It has been a struggle, and the strain is seriously getting to both myself and The Wife. It is frustrating beyond belief. I count our blessings that every day brings improvement. This weekend has brought the first nights where he has been completely off of the oxygen, and the first nights since this whole mess started in early November where our sleep has not been interrupted by the alarm of the pulse oximeter alerting us to his dropping oxygen levels while he sleeps.

I don't need the damn beeping to remind me that he was really sick. It would take a normally developing child weeks if not months to fully overcome an illness of such severity. When you factor in that The Boy is compromised and has respiratory issues to begin with. . .

And that is where we find ourselves. The Wife and I bicker and sarcastically snipe at each other over the little things. We are fortunate to have the love and support of an amazing network family and friends. Again I thank you, my dear reader, for all that you have done. But still. . .

We are both exhausted and have been pushed to our limits. The situation is complicated by our different ways of coping with the stress.

She needs to withdraw to recharge and I feel an almost codependent need to pull her closer to do the same. Barring that, I just want to chain smoke and drink myself into a stupor. I am unable to do either.

Jesus H Fucking Christ man, it just wears you down.

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Sunday, December 02, 2007

it's just perfect 

Just when I start to think that life can't possibly get any better, along comes something that just blows my mind.

Yes, my dear reader, my mind is completely blown.

As you are doubtless well aware, my dear reader, that despite my delusions of being cool and hip I have been and always will be somewhat of a nerd, or perhaps a geek, if you will. Worry not, I take no offense and have been called far worse both in anger and affection.

Well slap me silly and call me Sally.

My two great nerd loves have somehow combined in a magical video from simpler if somewhat probably higher era. I didn't think, nay, dare not even imagined it possible. But here it is, for all the world to see. I proudly present possibly the strangest cross-over slash combination of Trek and Tolkien ever:


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happy anniversary baby 

Seven years ago tonight marks the anniversary of the first "date" with The Wife.

It wasn't so much a date as just meeting her with a couple of her friends for 'ritas at a local Tex-Mex joint.

Wow, seven years.

If I only knew then how my life was going to change. . .

I would have met her for 'ritas years earlier.

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Saturday, December 01, 2007

new verse 

to the Song of Death. . .
Evel Knievel died today
He's dead and gone and passed away
Never again will we hear him say
"Ouch"
Sadly but inevitably, my dear reader, another piece of my childhood died today as well.

So. . .

Until we are jumping buses and fountains and sharks and canyons and shit. . .

Or until we convert the vision into inspiration and pedal our Schwinns as fast as we can off of plywood ramps we piece together from scraps we find in our dad's garages to jump trash cans or friends foolish enough to lie down in the street or into swimming pools in the Lands of The Great Beyond. . .

Please join me, my dear reader, and raise high a toast:

To another brotha who ain't here.



(Much thanks to Matt for the verse)

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