137. officially old...make that mature

It's official. I had a MUCH better time at Beethoven's 9th than I did at the Crue concert (see blog 131). Turns out row CC isn't three rows back from the front, it's actually THE front row! I know it's not the best seat in the house, my neck still hurts and I had a bass-heavy mix since I was basically sitting right in front of the Cellos and Violas. The best seats in the house, sound wise, are probably ten to twenty rows back from where I was because then you get a sense of the full sound of the orchestra blended with the natural ambiance of the concert hall.

But what an experience! Being front and center is a singular experience. I don't think I'll ever sit that close again (if I can help it) but I recommend all classical music fans try it at least once. One of the unique things about being that close is being able to really see the mechanics of the orchestra. What I mean is, you can see every page turn, every facial expression, every bit of technique. I could even see the horsehairs on the 2nd violinist's bow fray away in the passion of the performance. And being that close, you really get a sense of the individual instruments before they blend into one sound further out into the concert hall. Again, not ideal for hearing the sound of the orchestra as a whole, but a fascinating experience nevertheless.

And the music! I think of the movie Contact where Jodie Foster meets the "alien" (who takes the form of her father...boo, weak) and the alien says something like, "You're an interesting species, an interesting mix. You're capable of such beautiful dreams. . ." This music, it's almost inconceivable that such sounds could be the work of one man - a deaf one at that. And an orchestra is a beautiful metaphor for what can happen when different people come together to create something wonderful.

See, another thing you get to see when you sit up in the front row is the uniqueness of the individual performers. From further back everyone is dressed in black dresses and tuxedos. Closer up, you see that some of the women are wearing tuxes as well and some of the men are wearing dresses (not). I could see that one of the violinists' pants were old and a bit frayed - not ratty, just well worn. And the age mix was interesting as well. There were instrumentalists who looked like they were still in college and others who may have been retired from whatever career they pursued in order to keep playing music. Being the Honolulu Symphony, there were also lots of different ethnicities represented.

What I'm getting at is, there were all these different people - different just based on their appearance, multiply that by what different lives they must all lead away from the orchestra - and yet these differences are set aside for the sake of this amazing music. What an example for the rest of the world, for our nation, for the body of Christ. Call it naive idealism, but what would life on planet earth be like if we were to, if only for a season, work together towards some common good? I think of those disaster-from-space movies like Armageddon or Deep Impact or Independence Day or Signs. Faced with global annihilation, people put their petty differences aside to fight the comet or the asteroid or the aliens. Like Sting sang, while still in the Police, "one world is enough for all of us."

During the intermission I was reading about Beethoven's 9th symphony in the program and it said that this was not just an Ode to Joy, but also a celebration or tribute to the brotherhood of all mankind. And I guess he succeeded because look at me going on about all of us getting along.

You know, I was just thinking (still thinking, after all that?), I'm no expert in eschatology (Biblical study of the end-times) but I wonder if the message of Revelations, with it's horrors of the antichrist and tribulation, is a warning for the rest of us that if we can't get our shit together in peace then God's going to rain down fury from heaven and won't we feel stupid then for not being able to settle our differences civilly? I mean the terror of a species-ending object from space crashing into the earth is nothing compared to the wrath of God unleashed.

I don't know. All I know is, I had a kick ass time at the concert. Don't get me wrong, I still love rock music. If Sheryl Crow had been playing on the same night, you'd better bet I would have been there instead of at the orchestra. I mention Sheryl Crow because out of all the concerts I've been to (not that I've been to a lot, Hawaii is NOT a tour stop for most bands), Sheryl's was my favorite by far. Would I say that her concert was better than tonight's? Hard to say. They both touched places deep in my heart, just different places or in different ways.

Anyway, I'm working the early shift at work tomorrow and so I'd better get to sleep.

If I don't write before then, let me take this opportunity to wish all of you a happy new year full of good luck and joy.

136. embarrassing stories

Originally posted this as a response to Leigh Nash's blog (see her MySpace page).

I was a sophomore in college and it was finals week. One of my classes was a Survey of Philosophy (Phil 100) and because the final was scheduled for the last day of school, the prof offered the option to take the final earlier in the week in the Philosophy department library. So I get to there and all the seats around the table have been taken. So I take one of the seats around the edge of the room but there's no table to write on so I sit cross-legged and put the blue book in my lap.

Anyway, this is a philosophy class so of course the final is short essay style. I'm writing away and making good progress when I get that feeling. You know that feeling where you need to fart and you know it and it's one of those where you know it's not going back up from whence it came no matter how long you hold it in? Yeah, that's the feeling I had. So I'm in the philosophy department library with maybe twenty five to thirty other students working on their essays and as you can imagine, it's dead, still, granite silence.

Okay, so you know that feeling when you know you have to fart but you think it's going to be a silent one? Well that's what I thought but in a room where a pin drop would have sounded like an avalanche, my otherwise tiny, high-pitched "pweeeeesssst" rang out across the room like a bottle rocket. Again, this is a philosophy final and so the room didn't explode with laughter. That would have been a relief, instead the room stayed silent but the tension in the air was volatile. One little chuckle or snort and everyone would have been rolling. Everyone wanted to laugh, you could taste it in the air, but everyone held it in.

Anticlimactic, I know and so I share another...

I can't remember what I was doing that night, maybe I was driving home from a gig with my band. Anyway, it's late and I'm driving home and it's one of those drives where you're right on the edge of falling asleep and the only thing keeping you awake are those plastic bumps dividing the lanes that you keep drifting into. But I'm almost home so I keep going. I don't know how, but I finally make it home. I pull into the garage, turn off the engine, turn off the lights, put my head back into the headrest and succumb.

I don't know how long I was out but I wake up with a jolt! I still have my hands on the steering wheel and I'm thinking that I'm still on the road driving (because I'd caught myself dozing a dozen times that night). So my first instinct is to slam on the brakes. I'm mashing the brake pedal to the floor but I'm confused because it doesn't feel like I'm slowing down. And then I notice that it's pitch black out my window and I start thinking that I've driven over a cliff and I'm free-falling into space. I'm out of my mind, thinking I'm going to die when I realize that my car lights are off. I flip them on and I swear I see the back of my garage rushing up to meet the front of my car - see, in my head, I'm still thinking that I'm speeding down the road out of control or flying through the air off a cliff and so when I see the back of my garage, I'm thinking that I'm traveling at some ungodly speed and I'm about to crash through the back wall. And so I start slamming on the brakes again and I'm putting my arms up in front of my face to shield myself from the inevitable chaos of glass and sheet metal. . .

And then I figure it out. I remember making it home and falling asleep in the car seat. I turn the lights back off, get out and go to bed but now I'm so wired, I can't sleep and I'm too tired to laugh at myself, until the next day when I tell my friends what happened. From then on, it's been one of the funniest things that ever happened to me.

135. love, beautiful and true

Being single as long as I have, it's hard to not feel a little bit envious, a little bit jealous, a little bit sorry for myself when I see a good friend hook up with someone who's just right for them. But earlier this year, my good friend Rocky fell in love with Alice, but because they were in the mainland, I didn't get that tinge of jealousy mentioned above.

But this Christmas they came back to Hawaii and I'm not sure how to explain it except to say that they just looked so happy, so purely, blissfully, truly in love that I couldn't help but be stoked for them both. (I don't know if you remember this Alice, but) I used to see Alice at the Starbucks near my workplace and she always seemed to be brooding, like there was a cloud over her head and it was always raining. But now, with Rocky, she seems free and buoyant. And Rocky has pretty much always been a positive guy and so the difference isn't as obvious, but it manifests in his song-writing. Even his guitar playing, which has always been drop-dead amazing, is imbued with new energy and fire and the sickest solos this side of John Scofield or Stevie Ray Hendrix.

I'm so glad for them both.

Oh, and not to turn this blog back to me, but you can actually find a little story thing I wrote for Rocky while he was still in Hawaii and Alice was in California. I wrote it the last night he played at Kapono's before moving up to Cali and you can find it here at my LoneTomato Sauce blog.

It was great seeing them while they were here. They fly back this week and I wish them traveling mercies and God speed.

134. by popular demand...

...actually, no one even asked for it, but in a shameless act of self-promotion I am announcing that I've created a space for my little short story things and my futile attempts at poetry.

It's called the LoneTomato Sauce.

In addition, the bits and pieces I wrote for National Novel Writing Month can be found at http://anonycity.blogspot.com/.

I'm going to try to find out more about publishing options starting in 2006 (one of my resolutions...more to come) so read them for free while you can!

And tell your friends.

133. breakfast in the new year

The end of the year is always a strange time for me. There's an odd feeling of unease that's diffuse, vague, and as imprecise as it is incessant. I know part of it has to do with the reasons I hate the Christmas season (see blog 125), but there's something more, something hovering over those other, more definable reasons. Maybe it's because their sum is greater than their parts, but I don't think that's it.

Actually, I just had a thought. Christmas is a time of sharing. Now I consider myself a pretty generous person year 'round, so you'd think this would be a tremendous time for me, but I think the thing that troubles me about this time of year is the fact that giving is obligatory rather than spontaneous, extemporaneous, unexpected. Maybe this makes me some kind of purist when it comes to generosity, but the idea of giving someone a gift because it's expected of you is distasteful to me. And the fact that it saturates the air this time of year makes it that much more uncomfortable.

Anyway, I'm writing on the eve of Christmas and I just thought I'd share some annual rituals that I have this time of year. Tonight I'll attend the candle light service at Central Union Church. I'm not sure how many years I've been attending this service - for the last two or three I know, and a few other times before that. It's a beautiful service in a beautiful church full of beautiful people. It's about as formal as church services get in Hawaii, you even see a few suits in the congregation. Unlike most guys I know, I like dressing up. Now I don't wear a suit (I don't own one...not one that fits anyway), but I wear something nice (don me now my gay aparel) and I tuck my shirt into my slacks (shirt in slacks equals formal, shirt outside equals informal). It feels like a date even though I'm going by myself. The church is close to my house and so I walk there and back (weather permitting) and the walk is a nice way to be alone even though there lurks the unmentioned danger of drunk drivers in the subtext.

And then there's Christmas morning. There's really no ritual or tradition for me here except that of opening presents. I don't know what your Christmases are like, but it seems like every year I'm getting fewer and fewer wrapped presents. I mean I still get presents, but only a few of them are wrapped. Anyway, what wrapped presents I have, I save until Christmas morning and I open them upon waking. I know as an adult that there's no point in waiting until Christmas morning but it's something I'm pretty anal about. It's not something I impose on people I give presents to, if they want to open their present as soon as I give it to them, that's their evil right.

Then there are the New Years things. First of all is New Year's Eve at my very good friend, Luke's house, deep in Kalihi Valley. So deep in fact, that back when illegal ariel fireworks were easy to come by, family and friends would amass a formidable arsenal of shells and spinning, sparkly, airborne things that are the bane of Hawaii firefighters. There's only one road into and out of the street were Luke's house lies, and the cops never make it back that far. I remember one year, we had so many strings of firecrackers that after a while, the only ones we bothered to string up were the 100,000s. We had so many 10,000s and 50,000s, that we left them coiled up and lit them just like that. They unleashed the most glorious, wall of noise and light I've ever experienced - a riot of red firecracker paper and spent gunpowder smoke. Shit-eating grins all around. The neighbors thought us mad. Those were good times.

One last year end ritual. I started doing it the year after I graduated from high school so this will be the sixteenth year in a row that I've done it. After champagne and good luck mochi soup at Luke's, I drive out to Sandy Beach, park my car, set my alarm and then try to catch some sleep. I get up around 6:30 AM either by alarm clock or aching back. If it's not raining, I pick out some spot in the sand, think about the year that's past and about the one to come, and I wait for the sun to come up. Sometimes I take a random selection of old journals with me and review thoughts from years past, sometimes I take my guitar, sometimes I write. Most times I'm too tired to give a shit and I wonder why the hell I started doing it, but it's something I do and I'm too stubborn about it to stop.

I remember when I started doing this, I'd be pretty much by myself. Every year though, more and more people would be out there when I woke up. Some of them look like they're a part of some church group - they're all dressed in white and they hold hands, gather in a circle, and slit the throat of a goat before throwing it in the ocean (I'm kidding of course...they don't hold hands). And then there are the Asians who do those funny stretching exercises that they teach in Japan and China and, I suspect, elsewhere in the Far East. And then there are the jerks who come to fire off the last of their whistling bottle rockets with report. Assholes. Don't they see there are other people here trying to have a moment?

And then there's me, glad Christmas is over, wondering about what the coming year will bring, reveling in the possibilities, brushing the sand off my ass.

Oh, and one more thing. Most of the restaurants are closed, but I can always count on Jack In The Box to be open. That first meal of the year is always a tasty one indeed.

132. less than a week until Christmas...

...until Christmas is over. And not a moment too soon.

I'm in a really pissy mood, not just because of Christmas but also because of that stupid game called Chess. Truth be told, the game isn't stupid, it's stupid players like me who end up pushing all the wrong pieces at the wrong time and end up getting wiped off the board in a manner not unlike watching a pit bull trouncing a chihuahua. It's embarrassing and frustrating and the worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself.

This happens all the time. I decide to take up chess again (hey, it beats channel surfing, couch potato) and it starts out so innocently. One game every other night - sometimes I win, most times I lose. And then I start getting better again (once I've dusted the cobwebs off) and I start winning a bit more than I lose. And then obsession takes over. I'm playing three, four, five games every night. And I get a bit better still. And then I'm playing right after I get home from work and then after dinner and then again before bed.

And then something strange happens. I don't know if it's because of over-confidence or neurosis, or the fact that I'm so wrapped up in the game that I'm not just playing for fun anymore - I've got my self-esteem tied into it. Whatever it is, I start playing like shit. It's like every piece I move ends up evaporating off of the board. And it kills me because I know I can play better than that. And so I play some more and it's like the more I play, the worse I get. It's like I can hear the pieces groan when I move them - I can see them calling their insurance agents, on their little wooden cell phones, making sure their policy is paid up so their spouse will have something to live on after I've cast them onto some vulnerable square, sealing their doom.

I don't know how many games I've played tonight but I lost just about every one of them. A couple of those losses were to players who were obviously better than me but for most of those games, I should have at least been able to put up a good fight. And the few games I did win were to players who were new to the game. Savoring a victory like that is like feeling superior to the roach you just smashed under your slipper. At one point my rating actually got down BELOW 1100. That's like Koko the gorilla level chess. That's like third grade reading level chess. That's like a Geo Metro entering NASCAR.

This has happened to me before. Chess has sunk its teeth into these dendrites and neurons in the past, twisting them into sickly, obsessive knots. This has happened to me before and I know what I must do to repair. I've got to put the stupid game down and let it rest. Even though the skills I've sharpened will go rusty and dull again, I have to stop playing for a while - just walk away and remember, once again, that most really good chess players are neurotic, annoying, and tell bad jokes. They have bad manners, bad complexion, and bad breath because they have bad gums because they'd rather study variations on variations of obscure openings than brush their teeth. I don't want to end up like them. Besides, I bet they don't play drums in a really kick-ass rock band like I do, so there!

Okay, I feel better already.

Great. Now back to building my self-esteem through my blog count.

131. old fart

The Crue concert was...underwhelming. The mix was awful, of course part of that is the Blaisdell Arena - I've never heard a band sound good in there, even Toto (back when Jeff Porcaro was still alive) - but I don't think the room was the only problem. The bass was muddy beyond belief, the toms on the drum kit all sounded alike, couldn't hear the cymbals, couldn't hear any of the bass lines, sounded like he was just playing one note all night. The vocals were usually buried in the mix. Only thing that really sounded great was the guitar.

Now the fact that I can remember this much about the mix should say something about the performance aspect of the show. The Crue used be known for the most in-your-face, cram-it-down-their-throat, take-no-prisoners shows of the 80's. Although they swore a lot and tried to get the audience worked up, their stage presence left much to be desired. I give a pass to Mick Mars who's performing with a painful bone-fusing disease but even the healthy guys in the band looked like they were reading off a script rather than rocking off the cuff.

Sadly, even Tommy Lee was not what he used to be. I mean, he was still the most entertaining of the four, but his stick twirling wasn't nearly as crisp and a lot of his athletic drumming style was hidden behind a monster kick drum.

Now here's the thing that's got me worried. I think I'm going to have a better time at the Beethoven concert later this month than I did at the Crue show. Crap! Doesn't that basically make me certifiably old? And it's not just these concerts - I got a 30% off coupon from Borders and my first thought was, "ooh, I'm going to pick up Stravinsky's Firebird Suite!" And while I was there I also bought a copy of Handel's Messiah. What's happening to me?

Maybe being single this long, I've become the male equivalent of those old maids with a house full of cats. I believe term for women like that is spinster. Is there term like that for males?

Of course I'm being facetious. I know I'm not (that) old. Besides, age is a social construct. Still, I'm going to be 34 in two months which is one year away from 35. I didn't care about turning 25 or even turning 30, but for some reason the thought of being 35 freaks me out. Age may be a social construct, but I happen to live in that society and so am subject to its perceptions.

That's okay, I'm a rock-n-roll drummer which comes with a license for perpetual adolescence.

130. going to see the Crue!!...and Beethoven

Motley Crue was my first big concert back in 1990. I remember the year because the concert was on the same day as my last day in high school. It was an amazing show then and I'm thinking it'll be just as mind-blowing (if not moreso) tonight.

Tommy Lee is one of my favorite drummers. His kick drum sound is obscene and nobody twirls sticks like he does (although I try). I've got seats up in the loges (front row, upper level) so the view should be amazing...I can't wait to relive a bit of the '80s.

Later this month (12/29 to be exact) I'll be listening to Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I got amazing seats for this show as well - four rows back, near the middle. I guess this means I'll be staring at the conductor's ass the whole night, but I'll also be able to soak up the sound of the orchestra up close and personal. Remember that Memorex commercial where the guy is sitting on his couch and the music is blowing his hair back? That's going to be me.

You know, I just thought of something. Beethoven's 9th ends with a couple solo singers blowing their lungs out. I hope I don't get hit with their spray.

129. the hard work of happiness

It takes vigilance, discipline. It takes speed - squashing negative thoughts as they appear. Sometimes it takes ingenuity - finding a way to think of something else, something other than what's frustrating or humiliating or just plain depressing.

It takes prayer and for me (for whom prayer never came easy), prayer takes the form of stubbornly repeating the phrase, "Lord, I need you, please help me." The way I do it, it's the equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ear and yelling, "la la la la la," the way you do when you don't want to pay attention to someone. I don't know if what I do even counts as prayer, but sometimes it's all I can do to keep the hounds at bay.

It takes a good book. I'm in the middle of two right now: Tooth and Claw: and Other Stories by T.C. Boyle and The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.

It takes good music. I'm on a classical music binge. Frequently played works on my iPod: Dvorak: Symphony no. 9 "From the New World" and the stunningly, amazingly beautiful Beethoven's 9th Symphony.

It takes a good game of chess, although I'm not doing very well. I'm back down to 1181 (blah).

They don't tell you happiness is hard work, but it is, but I'm working at it. I wouldn't say I'm exactly happy, but it's something better than where I was earlier in the week, and I suppose that's a start. Hanging on to this positive start is like trying to climb a greased pole - it takes tenacity, and grip, and hope. It's like salmon swimming upstream, soldiers trying to storm the beach at Normandy, butterflies building a storm by flapping their wings. It seems impossible but it's been done.

God give me strength.

128. random thought

We are, all of us, writers of history - we write for our children.

Will they wonder at what fools we were or will they marvel at our bravery and ingenuity?

127. personal reminders

I don't have mood swings. A swing implies a transition from one state to another. Remember that game Asteroids? You fly this little spaceship (actually a triangle) around the screen trying to blast polygons. If you fly past one edge of the screen, you reappear on the opposite side. Well if good mood is the left side of the screen and bad mood is the right side, then my spaceship stays near the edges and warps between the two.

Anyway, I'm getting really tired of it...and that's kind of pissing me off, which kind of contradicts what I want to write about...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

There's this book by Dennis Prager called, Happiness Is A Serious Problem. I read about half of it before it got stolen along with the rest of my backpack (along with my treasured Etymotic Research ER4P earphones...pricey bastards, but the sound is oh so choice). Anyway, one of Prager's arguments in the book is, "Not only do we have the right to be happy, we have an obligation to be happy. Our happiness has an effect on the lives of everyone around us—it provides them with a positive enviroment in which to thrive and to be happy themselves." And I've been thinking about this last bit lately.

I used to do my best to smile and act okay even when I wasn't okay. Even around my closest friends, I'd only let them know I was in a shitty mood if I went to them for help. I mean if they just came out and asked me, I'd usually say I was okay (fyi...in Randall's dictionary, "okay" or "all right," usually means "shitty." If I'm doing well, I say, "I'm good" or "I'm fine." If I say, "I'm doing great," that usually means I have a date scheduled or I just won a kick ass game of chess). However, lately I've been just wearing my emotions on my sleeve. I didn't make an effort to smile if I didn't feel like it. I didn't make witty jokes or try to disguise my bad mood with pleasant small talk. I wore my long face where everyone could see.

It wasn't a conscious decision, I was just tired of politely pretending. I didn't do it to elicit a response or to see what would happen, but the effect that had on my friends was striking. Just as Prager states in his quote about his book, "our [mood] has an effect on the lives of everyone around us. . ." And I don't know if it was just my imagination, but it seemed like my bad vibes were having an effect on those around me. It seemed to make those around me uneasy, queasy, awkward. This, of course, made me feel even worse for passing my melancholy around like the flu.

Anyway, I have to say that I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I mean, it's such bullshit. What the hell do I have the right to complain about? What an ungrateful bastard I am. Me being moody and depressed all the time makes about as much sense as a billionaire on welfare. It's an insult to those who love and care for me and it's spitting in the face of God who's gifted me with talent and knowledge and good looks and a healthy serving of humility. That and an astonishingly large penis (I wish...well no, actually I don't. Something like that would be such a pain in the ass (no pun intended) to keep stuffing in your underwear).

Back in June I had some breakthroughs and I need to go back and review what I had learned (see blog 34 and 36). There were two key things that I realized back then:

1. God really is a good and loving God.
See, up until then, I had this mistaken notion that God was plotting against me - that he was constantly setting me up for failure like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown after promising to hold it steady. But that's not the God that's described in the Bible and unless I'm willing to say that the Bible is wrong on this point, I had better discard this old, incorrect view of God.
Now let me qualify this just a bit, so people don't misunderstand (like I did). God is God and can do whatever he wants. He is a good and loving God, but he's not a sugar-daddy. Just as a real father would be cruel and inept if he blindly gave his children everything they wanted - feeding them candy breakfast, lunch, and dinner - so would our Heavenly Father be if he answered every prayer and showered us with blessings only. "May you get what you wish for," goes the old Chinese Curse.

2. Every day is a new day, the past has passed.
I used to think I was cursed. I thought that I was genetically predisposed to turning women off. Back in blog 36 I phrased it this way: ". . .perhaps through some genetic defect, instead of releasing come-hither pheromones when attracted to a female, my body released a subtle, toxic go-yonder scent that made it impossible to hold the attention of anyone I was remotely attracted to."
But then I came to understand that there is no curse, that every day is a new day with new possibilities.


I need to go back and review. The days, weeks, months after I wrote those blogs were some of the best times I've had in a very long time. And then I lost it, I forgot, I got wrapped up in (with?) my own shit and lost sight of what I had learned.

I'll close with this quote from the great, John Milton (I have a BA in English Literature and if you don't refer to Milton as "the great," they ask for your degree back). The quote goes like this:

"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven."

I need to get back to the business of making "heaven of Hell." And my life ain't nowhere near hell so it shouldn't be that hard.

126. can't catch 22

Just to prepare you, I've got a lot on my mind so this blog may take some abrupt turns. Please observe the "fasten seat-belt" sign.

So I don't know if you've seen it but A&E TV has been playing the made-for-TV-movie, "Knights Of the South Bronx" over and over this week. I like chess (even though I suck at it...current Yahoo Chess rating: 1254) and so I watched it one time through even though it wears it's melodramatic heart proudly on its sleeve.

Anyway, it's not really about chess (for really great chess movies I recommend "Searching For Bobby Fischer" and the harder to find, "The Luzhin Defense" starring the lovely Emily Watson and a very young John Turturro). It's about a teacher trying to do a good deed which turns into a big deal and costs him more than he bargained for although everything works out in the end (made-for-TV, remember?)

So I'm watching this movie and I can't believe it, I'm bawling like a little baby. But not at the end, because who didn't see that coming? It's at some of the bits in the middle like when a mother decides to turn her crack habit around after her daughter wins a small chess tournament trophy. Or when the wife of the chess teacher agrees to letting her husband keep teaching at this school even if it means a huge pay cut and lifestyle adjustment - she comes to this decision after seeing how his work is reaching this one kid who keeps getting beat up by thugs. Or when a wealthy philanthropist (is there another kind?) donates the funds needed to send the chess team to the Nationals.

That kind of selfless love kills me - I mean it crumples me into a little ball like so much soiled hamster-cage newspaper (and wasn't that a lovely image?) - because it amazes me that that kind of love exists. And a part of me wonders just how much truth there was in those plot elements because in this selfish, cynical world, that kind of selfless, generous love seems about as believable as Julia Roberts marrying Lyle Lovett...and staying married. It just doesn't compute.

Now, there are lots of stories about generosity, but I think the thing that tweaks me so hard about this movie is how the chess teacher, David MacEnulty, wanted to do this good thing and it actually made a difference. So often, good intentions just pave the road to hell. They go unnoticed and they don't seem to make a dent - they seem futile and naive instead. Not to equate my meager life with what MacEnulty did, but I've seen far too much of my generosity evaporate into thin air. Poof, gone.

See, here's the thing. Nice guys get shat upon. It's happened to me and I've seen it happen to friends of mine whom I would categorize as nice guys. And here's the screwed up bit about that. Being nice, good, honorable, kind - it requires a vulnerability. You stick your neck out then get stabbed in the back. That happens a couple times and you start thickening up your skin, you start being less vulnerable, you stop giving even though you want to because they really do take a mile when you hand out an inch. And what began as kindness ends up as fear and distrust and an unwillingness to risk.

There's a poem thing floating around the internet as spam. Part of it contains the line, "love like you've never been hurt before." Some people read that and think warm, fuzzy thoughts. I read that and I wince, I guard, I wonder what sick brand of masochism would suggest such a thing.

Recoiling from the possibility of love becomes a Pavlovian response. He rang his bell and his dogs drooled. I see the possibility of love and I recoil in fear. Maybe I do miss out on possibilities because of that, and maybe 22 just can't be caught - I don't ask her out because I'm afraid of being hurt which causes another kind of hurt which gets associated with pursuing love which means the next time I want to ask someone out I won't because I'm just as, if not more, afraid.

In the end, on some theoretical level, I know that God is in control and he knows me and my fear. I believe he's got a plan to work around the complications and whether that means a relationship falls into my lap or he takes me through the long process of working through this fear, God will pull me through. I say this is theory because as I've said before, God is God and can do whatever he wants. Maybe he just wants me to toughen up, bite the bullet, make that leap of faith. But I can't just yet, and besides, there's really nowhere to leap to right now.

I'll end with these lyrics by Karla Bonoff from her amazing song, "If He's Ever Near" (gender adjusted for my situation):

And love's so hard to find
I guess I'll just give up trying
But I hope I'll know her
I hope I'll know her
If she's ever near

125. bah humbug, aka 10 reasons Randall hates Christmas

I won't mince words. I hate Christmas - the season, the holiday, not the event it celebrates.

I hate Christmas because...

10. normal, everyday shoppers turn into animal assholes.

9. traffic in a ten mile radius around any important shopping center becomes a nightmare.

8. mindlessly cheery, cheesy, annoying, repetitive, asinine Christmas songs.

7. this is the worst time of year to be single. Valentine's Day is one day of misery. Christmas time is at least a month of commercials with lovey-fucking-dovey couples giving one another diamonds and cars and chocolates. Makes me want to take up Buddhism and hide myself away in a monastery until January rolls around.

6. I'm a pretty generous person year-round but this time of year, for some reason I only want to buy stuff for myself...which is why I'm currently loading up my 30Gig Video iPod with songs.

5. the sun comes up later, which means it's darker when I wake up, which means it's harder to get up, which means I'll probably be grouchy the rest of the day.

4. the sun goes down earlier, which means it's easier for me to make excuses not to run, which means I'm not keeping my fitness up, which means I'm not losing weight, which means I won't be able to impress chicks, which means I'll be single for the rest of my life, which means I'll never be able to buy that special someone a diamond, which means no one will ever know me well enough to buy me something that only someone who truly knows and understands me would buy, which means I'll die old and alone and no one will remember me. Good thing I have my iPod to keep me company.

3. mediocre school bands and choirs at the mall playing mediocre arrangements on mediocre instruments.

2. Salvation Army bell ringers. I have nothing against charity. I have lots against the clang of bells designed to vibrate the fillings in your teeth. And it's not like putting money in the can makes the noise go away, it encourages them and they start beating that damn bell louder. And never mind that you already gave at some other store, that won't stop the next bell ringer from giving you that "cheap-ass, selfish bastard" look when you walk on by.

And the number one reason Randall hates Christmas...

1. All I've ever wanted for Christmas is someone special to share it with, and every year it's another reminder of how single I am.

124. on empathy and faith

Empathy is stupid. It's a burden, a curse. It's a monkey on your back that just won't let up.

It's not an easy thing to feel this ache to help, to comfort, to heal but to not be able to. I suppose one can pray but so often, prayer seems to have so little reach. You speak it into the air and where does it go? What does it do? How is it supposed to work? And even after the, "amen," the ache is still there.

Better the selfish bliss of ignorance, to not know, to not comprehend, to not care. Better to wonder why they can't just get over it. Better to pity than to burn for resolution, to seek after some solution, whatever the cost.

To make another's pain one's own, to hear it echo in your own heart (a ping, tart and tang), to yearn for justice and redemption. What use are these when there's nothing you can do?

And a prayer seems like so small a thing, yet faith (the mustard size of it) can amplify, multiply its use. Faith, the evidence and substance of it, can be the only hope one can hold on to. And where do you place this faith? In the One who can turn water into wine, the One who declares that those who mourn will be comforted. In the One who wove the fabric of space and time in ten dimensions, confounding Mensa minds and atom smashers alike.

...but all that said, I still think empathy sucks.

123. viva la revolucion!

I, in my naivete, used to believe that being a kind, generous person meant that kindness and generosity would be returned to me. I don't mean if I helped someone that I expected that specific person to be available to help me in return on some future date. I guess I believed in a kind of grand karmic bank account where good deeds deposited could be withdrawn from in times of need.

I've found that this is an exercise in frustration. The world is like a black hole for kindness - it goes in but it's a one-way trip. Now it turns out that apart from x-ray radiation, black holes do kind of leak minute quantities of mass due to quantum effects. In the same way, sometimes kindness does return but it's at a much, much, much smaller level.

The realization that kindness and generosity are bad investments has been a source of much frustration for me these last few years. I felt lied to. I had believed all those church/Bible study lessons that told me it was better to give than to receive, that JOY meant putting Jesus first, Others second, and Yourself last. I believed those things and put them into practice. And then I kept trying to figure out how giving was any better than receiving; and I kept wondering when the joy part of the JOY formula started kicking in. I can't say exactly when, but it finally dawned on me that those sayings were/are bunk. Receiving is better than giving in every way, and putting yourself last is a surefire way to kill joy.

It's been hard for me these last few years. I'd been a generous person for so long, that it's just a part of who I am. It didn't matter that the foundation on which I had built my generosity was made of sand, it was there to stay. Sometimes friends tell me to just forget about helping people and to just do what makes me happy. Well, helping people is the thing that makes me happy.

But doesn't that contradict your critique of JOY? Perhaps I'm not explaining myself well. What I mean is, I grew up believing that being kind and generous would cultivate a life where kindness and generosity would return to you - it would create an atmosphere of good will, (kind of like terraforming - turning the hostile air of cynicism and greed into sweet, breathable mercy). The realization that's been killing me these last few years is that there is no guarantee of return, in fact chances are good that kindness will never be returned. And that made me pretty salty because it's like I've been investing in a start-up that had already shut down. Think of those people in New Orleans who pumped money into hurricane insurance year after year only to have their home destroyed in a flood which is not something their policy covers. "Well then what good is all that money I've been paying for hurricane insurance?" That's how I felt about kindness and generosity.

So I get to the point where I realize that kindness and generosity are bad investments. I figured there were only a handfull of things I could do in response:

1. Stop being kind and generous. Switch to live and let die mode and just look out for number one.

2. Stop being kind and generous. Switch to being selfish and greedy instead.

3. Keep being kind and generous. Live with the frustration I'm feeling now, grin and bear it. Try not to go poastal.

4. Go poastal. Do not go gentle into that good night, go with a big fucking bang.

None of those options appealed to me because none of them were sustainable. Even option three, which is pretty much the way I've been living for years, was unappealing because it seemed pointless, stupid, absurd.

And then...

And then the skies parted, light broke through the darkness and the fog. The little bulb over my head flickered to life. I had a eureka moment.

I realized that I could be kind and generous DESPITE the fact that it was a bad investment, despite the fact that it offered no yield. I could be kind and generous knowing full well that it would likely never come back to me, that it offered no guarantee of good friends, good jobs, good wife, not even a good reputation. I could be kind and generous as an act of sheer rebellion, as a subversive act of open aggression against a greedy, needy world. I could be the leader of a rebel force of one. I could strike out with guerilla attacks of random kindness. I sow the seeds of a revolution that seeks to overturn a world stuck in the trap of consumerism - where everything is seen as a transaction with one party profiting and another suffering a loss, where even free car washes are not really free car washes, where we are defined by what we own rather than what we give a way.

Yes, it's futile. Yes, I'm just one little man and my revolution of kindness will go unnoticed, ignored, perhaps even exploited by those who will take advantage of my cause. I acknowledge all those things, but I don't care. If I am just one tiny flame of light in a dark world, so be it. If I can allow the Kingdom of God to trickle into this fallen world through my life, I think that's as noble a cause as any.

It's mad, but it's beautiful. I just hope I'm up to the task.

122. how to make Randall happy

1. Make sure he eats breakfast.
I think breakfast is one of the most easily accessible sources of joy in my life. Unfortunately, it gets trumped by another even more easily accessible source of joy called sleep. Thus, when confronted with the choice of sleeping in or making breakfast, I choose sleep.

2. Show him, don't tell him, he's loved.
I've got lots of people who will tell me they love me. I appreciate and believe every one of them...well, most of them, but I won't go there. Unfortunately, to paraphrase Morpheus, no one can be told what love is. You have to experience it for yourself. So how do you show Randall you love him? Well, as far as I can tell, my love language is girlfriend. Now I know most of you can't speak to me in that language so you'll have to find some other way. Good luck.

3. Play him chess. Play well, but let him win...but don't let him know you let him win.
I bring up this last one because I've been in a generally lame mood this week. Even this morning, there was this Pigpen-style cloud surrounding me. So this morning, I bought myself breakfast from I Love Country Cafe in Kahala Mall and while I was waiting for it to cool down, I fired up the iBook and played me a game of Yahoo Chess. I ended up playing someone who was ranked somewhere in the mid-1300s (I have no idea why these 1300+ players hang out in the Beginner rooms, maybe they're the type who liked to bully nerds in high school). Now the average chess-playing chess player is ranked somewhere around 1200. At the time I had a rating somewhere in the mid 1100s which makes me somewhat of an embarrassment, which is why I usually play in the "Beginner" area, where I don't feel so out-gunned.

Anyway, I'm playing Mr. 1300 and he's busting some ninja chess techniques I've never seen before. He took control of the center pretty quick and was sending a pawn storm up my queen-side where I had castled (me likes castling queen-side). Anyway, I'm not exactly sure how I pulled it off, but I made a couple bold stabs, took some risks, sent up a pawn storm of my own up his king-side, traded off some pieces to poke holes in his defenses and before I knew it, I had nabbed his queen and got to a point where all he had was his king, some pawns and his rook. I still had my queen and my rook and after trading rooks, he resigned.

I couldn't believe it! Because I had beaten someone ranked in the 1300s, my rating got kicked up to the low 1200s, which means I don't look like a complete loser anymore - just an average loser. On top of that, my bad mood all but disappeared. It's hard to describe what a rush a victory like that feels like. And I know it's kind of pathetic to know that my mood can be altered by something as small as a chess game, but I'll take happy however it comes to me.

121. where've you been?

I haven't been posting a lot here because I've been working on my futile NaNoWriMo attempt. (For those who don't know what I'm talking about, see blobs 106-108 for an intro.) I say "futile" because there's no way I'm going to reach the required 50,000 word mark unless I make like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and just repeat the same line ad infinitum.

Looking back now, I can see that my style of writing is not a good fit for this event. This event is mostly geared towards plot-driven novels. The idea is to get the story out of one's head and onto the page. The pace of the event is based on this one fact - "plot happens." In other words, the very act of throwing words at the page will inevitably give birth to some kind of story.

Unfortunately, plot doesn't play a big part in the things I write. My main concern is not so much with story as it is with language. I like playing with words, trying to come up with new uses for old words. I also like to try and make small, ordinary events sound more epic. I mean the way I see it, things that may be small in the grand scheme of things are still huge when they happen to you. For example, couples have fights all the time and so in general, that's no big deal as far as movies and novels go, but if you're the one fighting with your boy/girlfriend then it's a huge, emotional deal. I want to treat these "small" events with just as much care and attention as other authors give to big, larger-than-life type stories.

Truth be told, I write this way because one, I like this kind of writing (Raymond Carver, Douglas Coupland, T.C. Boye's short stories). And two, I haven't lived a very epic life so I'm not very interested in epic stories. And three, in order to pull off big epic tales convincingly, you usually need to do a lot of research...and I'm lazy like that.

But in the end, it's the experimenting with words that keeps me writing.

Here's an example:

"He remembers the sound, a squishy thud, nothing like the concussive sound foley artists made for movie fight scenes. He remembers the surprise and then the shock in her eyes. He remembers how plastic, clay-like the side of her face felt as his fist poured into her flesh. He remembers the bones in his hand compressing, the newtonian exchange of forces. He remembers the follow through and the recoil as her head turned back towards him. And then there was the sound of her scream, short, sharp, piercing him, slicing straight through the center of him. And then the blood. And then the absurd realization of what he had just done." - from the chapter titled "Domestic"

See, that line about his fist pouring into her flesh - that's a way of describing a punch that I've never seen before. It's unorthodox, but it's still clear - it's a new way of describing a relatively common event but written in a way that feels fresh.

Okay, I just realized that I'm going on and on about my own writing, which is kind of an egotistical, megalomanical thing to do...which isn't like me, so I'll stop.

Originally, I just wanted to pass on the link to this novel thing I've been working on. It's call Anonycity and you can find it at anonycity.blogspot.com. Because it's a blog, the newest chapters are on the top. To really get a sense of the novel, you have to start at the bottom and work your way up.

A lot of it is sub-par, in my opinion, but some of it is salvagable. It's a work in progress so all the storylines are left dangling. But anyway, if you're wondering what I've been doing lately, take a look over there.

Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving.

120. holding on/letting go

So last night I kind of went off about some of the frustrations I've been feeling about life and Christ and the awkward space between the two. I was sharing these things at a home church that a friend started up (more on that in another blog) and the people there were kind enough to listen and to try to help me out, and while I appreciated their attempts, it wasn't resolving anything for me.

On the drive home (Mililani to Makiki), I was ranting and raving at God. I hurled questions at him and waited, but there was no reply, at least none that I could discern.

Sleep that night was fitful, frustrating. I got up a bunch of times because one thing was coming up again and again and I didn't want to be thinking about this thing (sorry I can't be more specific...it's...aw, fuck it, I'll share). This thing was Orange. See, Orange goes to the home church, and as I was sharing my frustrations, she was the only one who seemed to know where I was coming from. And the thing that kills me is, why her? Why does she understand?

Anyway, Orange keeps making appearances in my dreams and I keep waking up because even in the unconscious soup of sleep, my brain is aware enough to bolt at the thought of Orange being any kind of answer to all the angst and frustrations I've been feeling lately.

Bottom line with Orange and I, I'm too scared to do anything and I don't trust God to pull me through. I know that's fucked up and it's the cowardly way out, but that's just where I'm at.

Okay...

Back to the original reason I started writing. This morning, I get up and I felt different. Not better, but different. I still had the same frustrations from last night but they were more blurry, harder to hold on to. Strange thing is, I wanted to hold on to them because I felt like the issues between God and I hadn't been resolved yet. I wanted to hold on to them until I received an answer.

And then I realized how futile that was. God doesn't have to give an account for what he does, not to anyone or anything, and certainly not to me. I was holding on to the frustrations because...maybe an analogy would be useful here. Have you ever had a problem with your car that only happened every once in a while? Like maybe the air conditioner makes some random shrieking noise, but it only happens a couple times per week. When it happens, you hate it and you push buttons and turn knobs to make it stop, but nothing works except for turning the air conditioner off but once you turn it on again, it's there again, and then the sound just goes away by itself. And you're happy because everything is working normally again, but you're frustrated because you know that if you were take the car in to the shop that the mechanics wouldn't be able to hear the sound and so they wouldn't know how to fix it and so you secretly wish the sound would come back and stay so you could get it fixed...but it doesn't, it just comes and goes as it pleases.

Well this morning, I wanted to hold on to the frustrations even though they had dissipated. I wanted to latch onto them, keep them close to me so that I could share it with friends in hopes of getting some kind of resolution. If I thought about it enough, I could conjure up some semblance of the angst, but it lacked the visceral, icicle-through-the-heart impact of the real thing. And after a couple attempts to hold on to the fake plastic version, I realized what I was doing and just let it go.

And then I decided to blog about it.

Enjoy.

119. thoughts on thinking

Frustrations have been weighing heavily on my mind this week. I won't go into details (not yet) but I was hanging out with a good friend of mine sharing these frustrations and he said something like, "yeah, you think about those big issues don't you?" And I kind of let it slip by me, but it did get me thinking...about thinking. What if I stopped worrying and thinking about all the things I think and worry about. What if I just go from day to day, not worrying about the widening political divide between liberals and conservatives, about the worldwide spread of consumeristic hedonism and the church's blatant adoption of that culture, about all the everyday injustices (mostly perceived rather than actual, I'll admit) that plague my life, about the problem of being thirty three and single.

What if I just stopped thinking about all of this and just didn't care about any of it. I mean it's not like I can really do anything about any of it, so why care? I mean, sure I have to live in a world and those problems will impinge upon me in more or less concrete ways from time to time, but for the most part, I could arrange my life in such a way as to minimize the intrusion. So why not? Why care?

Of course I can't just do that. These are things I care about and that makes up a part of who I am. I mean, what else would I think about? What else would I do if I wasn't thinking about these things? These are the things that I'm interested in, and I doubt I could content myself with just living apart from them. And it's a moot point anyway because it's not like I'm talking about a vase on my shelf that I can just throw out and be done with.

If I could just abandon this way of thinking, I think finding a girlfriend would be a lot simpler. See as it is right now, I'm looking for someone who shares my concerns, maybe not the exact same ones but someone who is thinking about the world and what's wrong with it - someone whose thoughts extend past the area immediately around them, someone who wants to see past the surface of things. Without this burden, I could simply woo the first pretty face I see and go about building a blissfully ignorant life full of non-weighty movies, cheezy reality television, and ultra-lame corporate-drone music. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?

Geeze...I don't know the term for it but I know that all of this is the kind of thinking that socialists would blame on the luxuries of the bourgeoisie. There's a verse in Billy Bragg's song, "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward," that goes like this:

It may have been Camelot for Jack and Jacqueline
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline
Fidel Castro’s brother spies a rich lady who’s crying
Over luxury’s disappointment
So he walks over and he’s trying
To sympathise with her but he thinks that he should warn her
That the third world is just around the corner

What I mean to say is, I can think about these abstract problems in the abstract (I mean, ask me what I'm doing about any of it) because I have the time to do so - time which I have because of the comparatively cushy life I live (not that you're going to be seeing me on VH1's show, The Fabulous Life, anytime soon, but still, compared to most of my friends I've got it pretty good).

I don't know, I'd like to think that even if I did have a harder life (like if I had to work two jobs to make ends meet), that I'd still be thinking about these same things. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if one of the new problems I'd have is trying to find enough free time to think about the problems that really concern me.

...but you know what?

This is a really pointless blog (because I have the time to write a pointless blog, no doubt). In reality, maybe all I'm doing is doing something else so I don't have to write my novel (which is not doing well, btw). I know I'm not going to reach the 50,000 word count, but I'm still trying to write something everyday just to sort of fulfill the spirit of the event.

The novel is taking a darker turn (as evidenced by the chapter titled, "Domestic"...see blog 118) and as such, it's getting even harder to write because I'm not sure if I want to go there. On top of that, it still reads far more like a collection of short stories than a novel. I know I said I wasn't going to worry about that, but...but I do.

Okay, enough dicking around. Back to the "novel."

118. at last

Okay, NaNo update. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I'm not going to be a successful participant this year. That doesn't mean I've given up, what it means is that I'm going to keep going with this mongrel that I've started but now I no longer have that ape on the back of my head telling me that I'm never going to make it to 50,000, that what I'm writing isn't a novel by any definition, that he wants another banana.

I know the point of the NaNo is to write as if to get to that 50,000 word count and that goal is supposed to motivate me to push beyond conventional critical barriers. I know, but in a backwards way, not thinking about the goal has freed me to enjoy writing again which encourages me to write more which is the only way I'm going to have any hope of finishing this thing. In other words, I'm still hoping to get there, I'm just not thinking about it all the time.

Anyway, I wanted to write and say that I've finally written a part of this novel thing that I'm happy with. The chapter is called "Domestic" and it's the first time since I started Anonycity that I felt like I was chasing down the story instead of dragging it out of my ass (see blog 117). It's not a pretty subject and I'm not sure where I'm going with it yet...but I like it and I need to gloat a bit because I'm tired of all the complaining I've been doing.

So head over to anonycity.blogspot.com and check out "Domestic" because I think it's pretty good. And damn, it feels nice to be able to say that.

And if you don't like it then read this.

Tee hee...

117. the NaNoWriMo is stupid (caution, potty mouth).

I'm groggy, depressed, frustrated, lonely, despondent. And I blame it all on this stupid NaNoWriMo nonsense. Most of the moody crap comes from not getting enough sleep. Now it's not like I'm up at all hours of the night writing, it's all the time I spend doing something else so that I don't have to write, all the while believing that the other thing I'm doing is being done so that I can write.

Here's what I mean. The other day I get to thinking, "gee, I'm going to be doing a lot of writing for this thing so I should really work on my computer workspace in my room." See, before this, the desk where I kept my iBook was cluttered, messy, chaos. So I get the bright idea to re-do the desktop. I go as far as buying a new keyboard so that I can elevate my iBook so that I'm more ergonomically correct. I clear out an entire shelf so that I can put my laptop up at eye level.

All the while I'm doing thins, in the back of my mind I'm thinking that I did perfectly well writing all kinds of blogs with the old setup. Why should this novel thing be any different? And the fact of the matter is, it's not different at all, and there was no reason for the desktop makeover except to keep myself from having to face the horror of my novel - I don't mean that I'm writing a horror novel, it's that I'm horrified at the thought of adding more to the steaming shit-pile of work that's supposed to be my novel at the end of the month.

See, here's the thing. I hate what I'm writing. More accurately, I really fucking hate what I'm writing. When I'm writing this stupid novel thing, all I can think of is what a fraud I am and how lame everything I'm coming up with is and how far behind I am. The NaNo has not been kind to my self-esteem because not only am I not hitting my word-count targets (not even getting close), I'm also hating just about everything I'm writing.

To be fair, when I go back and read what I've done, it's not as bad as I thought it was when I was writing it, but it's still far from any of the story things that I've posted here, and that's humbling and frustrating and it makes me feel like I don't know what the fuck I'm doing...which makes sense because I truly don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

See, when I've posted stories here, it's because I had some spark of inspiration that I wanted to chase down - and the best writing feels like that for me, like a chase. It's like there's this story dangling in front of me like a carrot and I chase after it by writing about where it leads me. And the faster I write, the faster the words come, and I just keep on writing until I either fall off my chair in exhaustion or I get the carrot.

The novel thing I'm writing? I'm trying to manufacture inspiration because I can't wait for it. And so even if I have no clue as to what I'm going to write about, I sit at the keyboard and throw down the first thing that comes. And then I go from there. Unfortunately, instead of chasing an elusive carrot, I feel like I'm dragging an elephant. Words don't come easy and so I pretty much just throw words on the page like some mad chimpanzee trying to crank out Shakespeare.

I can see why writers (and other artists) take to drink and drugs. It's not easy to quiet that nagging critical voice that tells you every word you write is lame, every sentence illiterate, every paragraph is shit and the overall work is something that should have stayed in the back of your useless, pathetic, talentless brain.

It's not good for my self-esteem. It's not good for my health. It's not good for my love life (your what?). But I'm pressing on. I may not make it to 50,000 but I'm also not going to give up on the effort until time runs out.

There's a part of me that believes that a crazy stunt like this has to have something to teach me. Successful writers always talk about the need to write something everyday. They say that writing is a discipline and that routine is the only thing that helps them get work done. And so I write. Even if I'm falling far short of my target word counts, I write. Even if a fucking illiterate third grader could come up with better material, I write. Even if the girl of my dreams is calling me on my cell phone longing to talk about culture and art and ideas and the problems of the Christian subculture over a lovely Italian dinner - even then, I write...fuck that, I'd dump the novel in the trash and grab dinner if that happened.

Maybe breakthrough will happen. Maybe at the end of it all, the discipline will mold me into something more like a writer than I was before the attempt. Maybe I'll catch pneumonia because the lack of sleep has weakened my immune system. Maybe vampire butterflies will crawl out of my arse.

And speaking of sleep...

116. screw the rules (caution, small kine potty mouth)

Okay, the NaNo is kicking my ass and so it's time to take the gloves off, throw the referee out of the ring, and go from civilized match to no-holes-bared street brawl.

See, here's the thing. When confronted with the word, "novel," I think of something grand, noble, sophisticated. I also think of something whole, a large body of words about one thing. With these thoughts in mind, I set about the NaNo with high hopes and lofty aspirations. "Delusions of grandeur" would not be an inappropriate or inaccurate accusation.

From the beginning I had this idea to write little short story things like I've posted here (blog 43, 57, 61, 64, 67, 71, and 95), only these stories would all interconnect and they would make up pieces of a larger structure, a meta-narrative. I also had this crazy (aka stupid) idea about writing without names, creating a world where characters were known only by their pronouns. It was supposed to symbolize the anonymous world we live in, it was supposed to make the characters more accessible, more relatable. Instead, it made them...well, anonymous, impersonal, and hard to latch onto.

Well no more. I don't give a shit anymore about the lofty term, "novel." I'm ditching the connected-short-stories idea and just writing these damn stories - if they connect, they'll have to do that on their own, I'm not helping them along. I'm also ditching the only-pronouns rule and using names where/when I want. Also, I'm not above using my characters as soap-boxes to rant about topics that I'm mad about (see the last entry in my novel's blog titled, "Church"), even if that's all they ever do.

In short, I'm writing as if reaching 50,000 words by the end of November is the only thing that matters, as if ending up with the first draft of a "novel" is optional, as if nothing matters but reaching that arbitrary word count.

I'm getting desperate here, and maybe that's part of the point of joining the NaNo. Worst case scenario (actually, second-worst case...worst case scenario is me not reaching 50,000 words): I successfully complete NaNoWriMo and the stories don't connect at all and for all intents and purposes, I've written a short story collection, not a novel. Well, so the hell what? On November 30th, I'll write a new first chapter that reads, "a guy sat down to write a bunch of stories, and they went like this." and then I'll write a new last chapter that reads, "and then the guy stopped writing." And that will tie everything else together and that will make it a novel about a guy writing a bunch of stories.

And if I make it that far, I'm probably going to be suffering from lack of sleep which will make me a twitchy, pissy individual so you probably don't want to be the one accusing me of not really writing a novel. I've fired a shot gun before and I can do it again (of course, most of the clay pigeons I was firing at made a clean getaway, but I'm deadly accurate at close range...say, two feet).

"Hey, um, Randall? This is a nice blog and all, but shouldn't you be writing your novel?"

BLAM!!!

"Never mind."

115. drowning in words

Someone throw me a lifeline, I'm drowning in a sea of unwritten words!

According to the typical NaNoWriMo schedule, I should have been somewhere around 10,000 words on Sunday. Well, it's Sunday and I'm at the 4500 mark.

I feel like I'm captain of a sinking ship and I just can't bail water fast enough. I know the reason is I'm looking at every bucket-full of water to see if it's free of impurities instead of just throwing it all overboard, quality be damned (that's what editing is for).

It's not easy turning off the internal critic and just writing like a banshee, but if I'm to have any hope of getting anywhere near 50,000 words, I'm going to have to tie that bastard critic to the mast like his sailors did to Odysseus when sailing past the Sirens. (what's up with all the boating imagery?)

Blah, writing is dumb.

(My (not so) novel attempt.)

114. good news for my NaNoWriMo attempt!

I finally reached my daily quota of words...

for Tuesday...

today (that would be Thursday).

113. life goes on

And so it goes -
over and over again
we lash out at the obstacles
between us
and what we desire.

We bruise
and we burn
and the walls mock us,
taunt us, ultimately
disregard us.

But life goes on,
and on,
and on. . .
and so on.

112. it's begun

Okay, so the National Novel Writing Month has begun.

My daily word quota? 1700 words. Today's count? Barely cracked the 850 mark.

The night before, I only had about three hours of sleep so that's my excuse.

Anyway, if you want to see the dreck I've been producing, you can see it at http://anonycity.blogspot.com/

...I am so screwed.

111. on Halloween...

I'm not a fan of Halloween. I mean I think it's an interesting holiday. I don't do the Christian boycot thing because...well, I won't go there.

I know Halloween is some people's favorite time of year. Most of these people say they like the holiday because they can dress up as something they've always wanted to be or they can put aside their everyday personality and be someone/something completely different.

None of those reasons appeal to me. Even back when I was a kid.

See, here's the deal. I have a hard enough time figuring out who I am when I'm just trying to be myself. Trying to think of someone else to be sounds like far too much work.

...although there is one thing I'd like to be for Halloween if I could figure out how to pull it off: a boyfriend.

110. humble pie

I don't know if you've noticed, but if you click on the "Blog" link up at the top of the MySpace menu, there's a new feature called, "View Top 8 Blogs."

My blog gets about 100 or so hits per week so I click on the link to see if I rank. Turns out one of the blogs has over 250 COMMENTS on a post that he put up YESTERDAY!

Makes me feel pretty stupid for even thinking I make a dent. Maybe if I had a hot body and a sexy, topless profile pic, I'd have more hits. What do you think, should I go hoochie to up my hit count?

109. what have I done?

Oh crap. So as for the NaNoWriMo thing (see blog 102, 106-108), I was thinking that I could write during my lunch break. And so today I tried an experiment. I wanted to see how much I could come up with in an hour (actually less, once I finish my sandwich).

(Now for those of you who know the rules of this NaNoWriMo, I'm not trying to get a head start on my novel. I was writing something else.)

Anyway, I tried to turn critical-mind off and just write but it ain't easy. Words come in like a bad cell phone connection. The ideas are trying to get through but they're all broken up and incomplete and the only way to make sense of the fragments is to stop typing and piece them together.

And then there are those words. Maybe only other writers can relate to this, but you get to a critical point in a sentence and you need a word to plug in but none of the ones your brain is picking out fit. And it sucks because you know what the rest of the sentence is supposed to say and you might even have the next sentence ready to go but the word just won't come and then the idea/inspiration you were riding starts to leave you behind like a train that won't wait and you can see it running off into the distance.

Of course I know I should just throw some boring, cliche word in as a filler and get on with it, but it's like pushing a turd into the space where a diamond should go. It feels like a betrayal.

So sometimes the right word appears, sometimes you push in the turd and hope you can catch up to the inspiration train. Sometimes you can, sometimes you have to wait for the next one to come along and hope it's as good as the one you let get away.

ANYWAY...

Anyway, my little lunch-break practice session netted a little story thing that weighed in around 480 words. The pace I need to maintain to reach 50,000 words by the end of the month is around 1,700 words per day. My little 480 word thing isn't even a third of the way there. If that pace keeps up, that means another two hours at home to make up for the rest of the 1,220 defecit.

Blah.

I didn't get to finish the story thing I was working on, I'll take a look at it after I get home and if it's worth working on, I'll finish it up and post it here...but don't hold your breath.

Anyway, four days until the madness begins.

108. my characters

Yeah, I'm still grooving about the new novel idea. And then this morning, I figured out what kind of characters I want to populate my fictional world with. I call them "people on the rise and fall of the bell curve."

The bell curve is a statistical representation that appears over and over again in various social groupings (my definition, you like?). Think of a classroom. For any given test or assignment, there will probably be a small number of people who fail, a small number of people who ace out, and a bunch of people in the middle who get a C+ or B-. If you plot these numbers on a graph, you'll end up with something that looks like a bell - low on the ends, big in the middle - thus the term, "bell curve."

Anyway, it's my contention that this bell curve can be found in all areas of life. I mean think about your workplace. There are probably a few people who are on the verge of getting fired and then there are a few who are on the verge of getting promoted, and then there are the average workers in the middle.

I don't know, it works for me.

So this morning I'm thinking about what kind of people I want to write about, and then it hits me. I want to write about characters located on the rise and fall of the bell curve. By this, I mean characters who are better than the worst but not good enough to be a part of the norm - this would be a character on the rise of the bell curve. A character on the fall of the bell curve would be one who is smarter than most but not smart enough to be considered one of the elites.

Think of the movie "Good Will Hunting." Remember that math teacher who was trying to encourage Will to make something of his math talent? There's a scene where Will is in this teacher's office and he shoves a sheet of paper full of arcane math insights in his face saying, "do you have any idea how easy this is for me?" Will then lights the sheet on fire (or maybe he throws it in a fireplace, I can't remember). The teacher, horrified, retrieves the burning piece of paper, stamps out the flame and you can see the moment when he realizes what a fool Will has made of him.

This teacher is on the fall of the bell curve. He does math at a much higher level than most people, but he's not one of the elites.

I'm thinking this is a frustrating, humbling place to be. To go far but to know that the end will forever be out of reach. Or on the rise of the bell curve - to strive towards normalcy but to fall short for whatever reason.

I don't know, it's hard to find examples because they kind of fall between the cracks of character choices. And this is kind of a conceptual distinction of mine. I have a pretty good idea of what I mean, but I'm not sure exactly how to put it into words. Maybe it'll be clearer once the novel is done.

Well, this is me brainstorming about my book.

Welcome to my world.

107. see the lightbulb over my head?

I've got it!

I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to write about for National Novel Writing Month. I've been hemming and hawing, weighing various story ideas but none have had that electric buzz of genuine inspiration (most only had the dull throb of desperation).

But this morning on my way back to the office after picking up kleenex from Longs, it hit me. And now I'm chomping at the bit to get started because whereas all the other ideas were based around a more traditional three-act novel structure, the idea I have kind of abandons that framework.

In the end, it may have a kind of meta-narrative or some other kind of broad story arc but for the most part, it's going to be a mass of the kind of tiny, short story things that I've been posting here.

"But that's a short story collection, not a novel."

Yeah, it seems that way but what makes this a novel is the way the stories are connected. It's like I'm painting a portrait of a small city, randomly picking people out of the crowd and following them around for a while, documenting a bit of their day.

"But that still sounds like a short story collection."

Okay, I guess there's going to have to be some kind of meta-narrative to hold the whole thing together, but I'm not going to worry about that. I'm trusting that it will organically appear as I start documenting these fictional lives.

In addition, characters will make cameo appearances in one another's vignettes - sometimes in passing, sometimes in instrumental ways. To me, that ties everything together enough to qualify it as something more than a short story collection.

"I don't know, that still sounds a bit fishy..."

Yeah, well then sign up and write your own novel. Besides the official NaNoWriMo FAQ section contains the following:

We define a novel as "a lengthy work of fiction." Beyond that, we let you decide whether what you're writing falls under the heading of "novel." In short: If you believe you're writing a novel, we believe you're writing a novel too.

So there.

I'm thinking this is going to be the literary equivalent of a movie like "Magnolia," or "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing," or the more recent "Crash."

Yahoo! I can't wait to get started.

"So do you have a title yet?"

Yup. It's called Leave Me Alone and Let Me Write!

"What's up with the attitude? You're the one writing these questions."

....

Sometimes it sucks to be me.

106. me in three weeks...

So I signed up for National Novel Writers Month. I know I haven't been posting a lot here. Maybe I'm trying to save up my words for my novel.

I need to come up with at least 50,000 words by the end of November to "win."

"So what do you win?"

Um..well, they send you a certificate and I think I get a mention on their website. Oh, and I have the first draft of a novel to work with.

"That's it?"

Okay, this is going to be hard enough w/o your sarcasm.

"Psh. Whatever."

Anyway, saw this gif file on the NaNoWriMo message board and was cracking up because I'm sure it's a prophetic glimpse into the next four weeks of my life.

...wish me luck.

105. another borrowed (stolen) blog entry

unabridged version found here: gapingvoid

How To Be Creative

So you want to be more creative, in art, in business, whatever. Here are some tips that have worked for me over the years:

1. Ignore everybody.

2. The idea doesn't have to be big. It just has to change the world.

3. Put the hours in.

4. If your biz plan depends on you suddenly being "discovered" by some big shot, your plan will probably fail.

5. You are responsible for your own experience.

6. Everyone is born creative; everyone is given a box of crayons in kindergarten.

7. Keep your day job.

8. Companies that squelch creativity can no longer compete with companies that champion creativity.

9. Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb.

10. The more talented somebody is, the less they need the props.

11. Don't try to stand out from the crowd; avoid crowds altogether.

12. If you accept the pain, it cannot hurt you.

13. Never compare your inside with somebody else's outside.

14. Dying young is overrated.

15. The most important thing a creative person can learn professionally is where to draw the red line that separates what you are willing to do, and what you are not.

16. The world is changing.

17. Merit can be bought. Passion can't.

18. Avoid the Watercooler Gang.

19. Sing in your own voice.

20. The choice of media is irrelevant.

21. Selling out is harder than it looks.

22. Nobody cares. Do it for yourself.

23. Worrying about "Commercial vs. Artistic" is a complete waste of time.

24. Don’t worry about finding inspiration. It comes eventually.

25. You have to find your own schtick.

26. Write from the heart.

27. The best way to get approval is not to need it.

28. Power is never given. Power is taken.

29. Whatever choice you make, The Devil gets his due eventually.

30. The hardest part of being creative is getting used to it.

104. brilliant blog entry (borrowed)

Found this at dissonant bible. Loved it so much I wanted to share.

what must I do?
As the Church was going on its way, a young man ran up to it and fell on his knees before it. "Good teacher, "he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"

The Church smiled down at him. "How about joining an Alpha course or Emmaus or one of our weekly study groups? Or maybe you'd like to train as a chalice-bearer or sidesman?"

The man was puzzled. Very few of the words the Church had used meant anything to him at all.

So, the Church looked at the man and assessed his needs. "One thing you lack," it said. "A decent middle class education. Go, get some A-levels and then come back. You'll be at home here, then. We'll make a good Christian of you yet..."

At this the man's face fell. He went away sad, for he had no time or money to go to college.

The Church looked around and said to its clergy, "How hard it is for the poorly educated to enter the kingdom of God." It shrugged. "Oh well, you can't win them all. Now, who's interested in joining a committee to look at possible liturgical revisions for the season of Epiphany?"

(Mark 10.17-23)

103. un petit miracle

So this past Sunday I tell Rodney, the worship band leader, that I'm only going to be playing with him two more Sundays. After that I'm joining up with my friend Blake (aka Clone A) to start up an old school (we're talking about early church, Book of Acts) home church. I knew this was going to be a blow to Rodney because the church had just gone to three Sunday services (up from two services) and he only has two drummers (including me).

He took the news well (what else could he do?) but I could tell he was worried. So anyway, we're going through sound check and who should walk in the door but Stan (a great drummer Rodney and I both know from another church we used to attend). I turn to look at Rodney and he has the same I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter grin on his face as I do. Turns out Stan and familiy are kinda-sorta looking for a new church.

Stan didn't make any commitments, but I think the message is that God's going to take care of his church. I mean...he's God, you know?

102. love and the power of imagination

So I'm planning on signing up for this writing project (National Novel Writing Month) and I'm tossing around a couple ideas with which to write this novel. A couple of them (of course) center around love. Which makes me wonder - having never really been in a relationship, how well can I write about love? Imagination takes one so far, but at some point seams of inexperience are bound to appear, fracturing any fragile sense of verisimilitude that had been constructed. No?

I touched on this before (see blog 51 and 52).

I'm not saying you have to be a former drug user to write a character who abuses drugs...but I'm sure it helps.

The way I see it, lacking experience, I can only rely on things I've read or seen or heard about love. But to me, great writing is about pulling out the details that normally get missed in the rush of everyday life. It's the messy details that sell the story, gets you to buy into the fabricated world. It's one of the things that separates pop fiction from literature (not that I'm under the delusion that I'm about to write the great American novel, but still I want to write something that has mass, substance, weight).

(I'm thinking that the hardest part is going to be the dialogue.)

But if my writing has taught me anything, it's taught me that it's a leap of faith. I mean it literally feels, sometimes, like leaping off a cliff. I start with an idea, a sentence, a word and I put it on the page and from there it's a free-fall - I'm trusting that words are going to be there to keep me afloat. And if I get really lucky I find a strong up-draft and the words start coming faster than I can get them down.

Anyway, here's to writing and to imagination and to a really fast, really intense relationship to come my way in the week and a half before this writing project starts.

101. Ming

So I'm hanging out at Ryan's talking with my friend, Ming. We get to talking about this art project thing that I'm working on with a friend and Ming is just picking at every little nit he can find and it starts driving me nuts because he just doesn't let up. And so finally I can't take it anymore and I say, "geeze Ming, what the fuck?" which is quite an accomplishment on his part because it's not easy to get me that worked up.

He seemed to dial it back a bit after that. But I know why he did what he did, and it was all good in the end. I was talking ivory tower, high concept ideas and he was bringing up practical, real world concerns and that's good because the rubber has to meet the road somewhere and you'd better make sure you have enough gas to get where you want to go.

But I think of the movie, Apollo 13.

There's a scene where the crew of the damaged spacecraft get into an argument when Jack Swigert (Kevin Bacon) brings up a point about their re-entry angle being too shallow which would cause them to bounce off the atmosphere, back out into space with no way to turn around. Jim Lovell (Tom Hanks...always Tom Hanks to the rescue) defuses the situation by saying, "Now listen, there's a thousand things that have to happen in order to get us back home. We're on number eight. You're talking about number six hundred and ninety-two."

And that's how I felt about all the things Ming was bringing up. Yeah, there are problems galore, but let's take it bit by bit. Now to be fair, in this analogy Swigert was bringing up a problem that could have potentially made steps 8 - 691 irrelevant, but they made it back to earth so I win.

Geeze Ming, I think you're going to make one kick ass lawyer. The way you were grilling me there, if I were a defendant and you were a prosecutor, I bet you could have gotten me to confess to dressing up a as a woman and committing lewd, unnatural acts with poodles. (objection, badgering the witness)

100. the fall of man

I think of Adam and Eve and of the fall they caused. I wonder if they could have known the vast consequences of their little meal of forbidden fruit - from the wars, the tsunamis, genocide, and corrupt leaders who bask in wealth while their subjects die slow, hungry deaths to everyday tragedies like affairs, muggings, stolen property, broken hearts.

And then I think of Jesus Christ, who took the weight of the fall and all of its consequences upon himself, all to reconcile us to the Father.

"Yes, Adam's one sin brought condemnation upon everyone, but Christ's one act of righteousness makes all people right in God's sight and gives them life. Because one person disobeyed God, many people became sinners. But because one other person obeyed God, many people will be made right in God's sight." Romans 5:18-19 (NLT)

Thanks be to God.

99 ". . . like a lip print on her shirt"

(The title comes from this lyric: "maybe I was washed out like a lip print on her shirt," from the song God Give Me Strength by Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello. Now on with the blog.)

Life is all about new experiences. And I just had a brand new experience tonight. I had a girl call me up and say, "I don't think things are going to work out between us." Which might be sad and more tragic if it weren't for the fact that we only went out once for tea. With that in mind, it's more funny and confusing...at least that's how I'm processing it.

Back-story (also see blog 90 and 92). So a week after sharing tea with this girl (aka Apples for those in the know), I call her and ask if she wants to go see a movie. Don't get in touch with her, I leave her voicemail. I get a call a couple days later and she says she's busy. So the next week (this week) rolls around and on the advice of a friend, I decide to ask her out one more time (I was initially going to just not call her at all). Don't get her again so leave another voicemail. Which brings us to tonight and the conversation above.

Now before you feel bad for me (you, uh, were going to feel bad for me right?), let me say that I'm not crushed or anything. See, back in blog 90, I shared how the tea-date went okay, but just okay. So I'm doing fine, really. I mean I'm not diving for the bottom of a liquor bottle or anything...that's overstating it. I'm fine, really.

See, here's another thing. There are mood swings, and then there are need swings. Mood swings, everybody understands. Need swings? They're related but not the same. See, I can bee in a good mood but still feel needy or vice versa. Back when I was writing blog 90-92, I was in the worst combination - in a bad mood and needy at the same time. I think that's why I was so...well...needy and pathetic then.

Now, today? Well, I'm not in the best mood ever but for the most part, the neediness has gone away and so getting "dumped" (can you call it being dumped after only one psuedo-date?) isn't throwing me down a flight of stairs.

Anyway, I got tons of advice from the Apples and Oranges blogs and I promised I'd keep everybody updated so there's one part of it.

Oranges? I'm supposed to be working with her on a project soon and so I'm holding off on anything until then. And I have other things I need to focus on right now (see blog 98).

You know, I suppose there's a possibility that Apples heard or maybe even read what I wrote in those blogs. She's not on MySpace but I know she knows people who are. And Oranges? She's on MySpace but I'm 95 percent sure that she doesn't bother with my blog. All of which brings up a question about my writing here - if/when I end up in a relationship with someone, what's going to happen to this blog?

I like writing here, and I like being able to be open and honest about what's going on in my life. I mean there are parts that I keep to myself, but for the most part I kind of lay it all out for everyone to see.

Why? Well, I'm not entirely sure because I haven't given it a lot of thought...well, that's not true, here's a bit from blog 50:

I like the voice that emerges when I write. It's eloquent and sturdy in a way that my speech never is. When I'm writing, I feel ten feet tall and tan and handsome and able to woo women with a wink and a nod. No one tells me how to write. I bend the rules of grammar as I want and I follow them when I choose (which is actually most of the time because the rules are there for a reason). I exercise blatant disregard for spelling (though I try to clean up the typos afterwards because spelling errors are just embarrassing). In short, when I'm writing I just don't give a shit. I run through the world with my balls flapping in the wind for all to see (in real life, this is NOT a pretty picture but when I'm writing, it's Playgirl centerfold material).

See, but there I'm more talking about the little short fiction things I write (see blog 43, 57, 61, 64, 67, 71 and there are a few others). But why do I write all the confessional stuff? And why where anyone can see?

I suppose in part it's because people are reading it (blog counter reads 63 hits this week so far) and that makes me feel needed/useful/entertaining/noticed. But it's not something I do just to stroke my ego. I also like the advice I get. And writing where everyone can see kind of keeps me writing...what I mean is, I feel like I there are people reading this thing and I don't want to keep them waiting. And that's a boon for me because I need to write, it makes me feel better and it's something that God's gifted me with. And writing is craft ("you call this silly blog of yours, craft?") and craft must be honed through the process of pressing words to page. Left to my own devices, I probably wouldn't write a tenth of what I write here and that would be sad because I feel like I've learned a lot and even grown a bit from this crazy, dysfunctional blog.

Okay, I've done it again. I always tell myself I'm going to write something small and then an hour goes by and I'm still at it and then I think, "I really do need a girlfriend."

98. reconstruction

Last week I wrote about a message series by Greg Koukl (see blog 94). This message series has completely blown my mind, blown apart the old, broken image of God that I used to have and has replaced it with...well, that's the thing...these days it feels like the world I was familiar with has been blown apart and now I'm left to see the world anew.

I admit that I'm feeling a bit lost these days - at least when it comes to my faith. All these years I was listening for something that wasn't there to be heard. I think of those scientists who invested time and intellect into theories that were competing with the big bang theory. At the time, both ideas were new and untested and both seemed promising. But little by little, experiment after experiment, one theory edged ahead of the other. Finally, after the launch of the COBE satelite, it's findings led even the most vocal champion of the alternate theory to throw in the towel.

And then what does he do? He's spent half his life chasing something that wasn't there. I'm sure he felt a mixture of frustration and joy - joy because even though his view did not win out, at least now there was certainty as to how the universe worked. But what of all his published papers? All his hard-won equations? Chaff.

That's where I'm at. For years I tried to make something work, something that was fundamentally flawed. And I'm glad now because I'm not banging my head against a wall that won't give. But now comes the task of reconstruction, reorienting my view, finding new landmarks, new signposts, new guides to help me along. And it's not easy, and it won't be fast, but it will be true.

97. book whore

Part 1

I'm still as single as ever. Maybe I'm using books to make up the difference, but if that's the case then I'm a bookish slut. I'm literally in the middle of three...no, make that four books. One (on the bedstand) I read before going to bed: Man Walks Into A Room by Nicole Kraus. One (next to the toilet) I read while taking a dump: The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. Another (in my bag) I read during my lunch breaks: On Intelligence by Jeff Hawkins. The last one (in my car...don't ask why) is one that I started reading when I was waiting for something and happened to have this book handy: Everyday Apocalypse by David Dark.

All the books are very different so it's not very hard to juggle them in my mind. And I like reading this way because I have a wide variety of interests and I get bored easily. But this last book, Everyday Apocalypse, is really stirring my noodle.

Do you ever run across a book and it's like the author is hinting at answers to thorny questions that you've been wrestling with but not making any progress on? And you start thinking to yourself, "holy shit, THIS is what I've been searching for!" That's the kind of kick in the brain that this book is giving me.

I've only just started it and so I don't want to write too much about what I'm getting out of it, but it's exciting, challenging, powerful stuff. Stay tuned for updates.