#metoo

I generally stay away from posting my opinion on my facebook wall, but I do try to engage in ongoing discussions that appear on my feed, especially when I feel the need to explicitly call out injustice, misguidedness, or flat out assholery (as you can imagine, I've been busy). As most of you may already know, there is a current movement via social media that began to bring awareness to the prevalence of misogyny, sexual harassment, sexual assault, and inequality towards women. The outpouring of responses from female friends and family members has begun to underscore the severity and breadth of the issue, and hopefully enlighten men to not only be more mindful of their actions, but to be more active in the plight to change the status quo.

In reality, you'd probably be hard pressed to find a woman who hasn't been sexually harassed or assaulted ...and if you do, it's only a matter of time before they are. In fact, I've been wanting to respond to the call with my personal experience after many had encouraged men to do so, but I didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention, nor potentially belittle anyone's experience(s). I worried that it would be like holding up a white lives matter sign at a black lives matter event, which by the way, falls under the assholery category and entirely misses the point (cue Lewis Black’s aggressive pointing and heated rhetorical diatribe). However, the benefit of owning a few gigabytes in the internet's infinite landscape...is the ability to be as poignant, rebellious, humble, crass, or as civilized as I please. 

A small, albeit clandestine, part of my response to the #metoo movement, was to include the raising of my own hand in order to bring awareness to the fact that sexual harassment and assault, while rampant and primarily towards women, can also be, and often is towards boys and men. Again, including my voice in the larger discussion was not to highlight my own personal experience (as traumatic as it may have been), nor for any personal admiration or applause, so let me be clear, I am not innocent. 

While I may not have intentionally hurt or sexually assaulted a woman, I am guilty of not policing other men and of going along with objectifying and demeaning behavior, which in some contexts can be just as bad. Even in the context of being playful, these actions are not funny, and I now realize how they could have made someone feel uncomfortable, or even unsafe. Allowing someone to be bullied, raped, or murdered whilst having the power to prevent it, in the eyes of the law can get you convicted of aiding and abetting, or in other words, sharing the criminal's intent. 

All I can do, is apologize, recognize that I am not perfect, have the humility to realize my contributions to the issue, and change my own actions. I am not proud of it, and while my unique upbringing in a culture that perpetuates this behavior is not an excuse, I recognize how this exposure helped to influence me as a younger man. In any event, my goal is to stand alongside women, to bring to light an issue that merits more scrutiny, support, and awareness, to highlight the magnitude of the problem, and more importantly, to be a part of the solution.   

For those who have not seen the facebook post, I’ve posted it below.

I'm sorry that we can be pigs, that we objectify you, ogle you, lust after you and degrade you. I'm sorry that you have to put on armor every day, and carry a shield...I imagine the weight becomes exhausting. I'm sorry that you've had to learn how to give certain looks, how to decipher intentions, to constantly be aware of everyone around you, and that men can possibly misunderstand the meaning of the word no, or that more importantly, there should ever be circumstances we put you in where you feel the need to say it. I'm sorry that comfort is fleeting and so few places exist where absolute safety is a certainty. I'm sorry we live in a world where self expression can be misconstrued, where little girls have to learn the hard way, and where you have to always consider traveling in numbers to avoid being a victim. I'm sorry that I make more than you, that I'm considered less of a risk from employers and insurers because I cannot bear children, and that I've never once had to worry about workplace sexual harassment or unwanted advances. I'm sorry that we live in a society with an unhealthy attitude towards sexuality, where boys think porn is the norm, and that women have to incessantly worry about how they, their behavior or words are perceived in the presence of every man. I'm sorry that you often determine what you'll wear on any given day by the amount of energy you have to defend your choices. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable, if my flirtations teetered on harassment, or if my compliments triggered a previous trauma. I'm sorry for him, for them, and even me. I'm grateful for you, I'm embarrassed for my kind, and I'm so deeply saddened that you've had to endure what you have, and that we have to launch social media campaigns in order to open the eyes of men who still may never see. 

Butterfly Effect

I love movies. The visual art of story telling. The depiction of raw emotion, life, and circumstance. The quintessential portrayal of detailed, human expression. I immerse myself entirely...feeling the weight of despair, the weightlessness of space, a tree's leaves being gently carried across the screen, a pencil's scratching upon the surface of paper, a freckled smile, the sound of lips. Details, which in and of themselves, can hurl atoms through space, causing worlds to collide.

I saw two great movies this weekend. Gravity and Blue is the Warmest Color. While I normally would write an entire blog post dedicated to a single film, both of these movies, which are polar opposites, evoke similar feelings. Thus, I am compelled to address them together. One was a film about an engineer's experience in space, as well as her personal struggle, the inability to let go of a past trauma. I found it poignant and simultaneously fascinating that her experience was so traumatic and indelible, that she was unable to let go of it even in the most remote, quiet and vast locales imaginable. To carry a weight so heavy that even in the vacuum of space's weightlessness you cannot wiggle from underneath it, is a powerful thought.

Conversely, Blue carried with it a weight we've all had to bear, and with which we are intimately familiar....that of breaking up, or losing our first love. The parallel of helplessness in both movies was palpable and salient, even though the path of each female protagonist was, for lack of a better description, on entirely different tangents. One, a young woman gripping with the harsh realities and intricacies of maturation, sexuality, and the dynamic of relationships while navigating the emotional oceans of life. The other, of a woman who's life has lost all meaning and is devoid of feeling, except for one that blinds her to even the magnificence of a bird's eye view of our amazing planet. Both characters faced the eminent danger of losing air or being eternally lost in the cosmos at any moment.

Both movies were fantastic, equally moving, and powerful. Admittedly, however, they are a little stressful, but entirely worth it. Just be warned that Blue is a French film with subtitles, and has a few scenes of graphic nudity that can only be found on Cinemax or HBO. Also, it's just shy of being 3 hours long.

Although I've never been in space to watch a sunset, to witness the glow of Aurora Borealis hovering over the North Pole, or to bask in the radiance of infinite stars and the blue shimmering brilliance of Earth...I hope that if given the chance, I shall choose to stop and appreciate the view.

Coastal Musings

Surreal indeed... a body part to the ethos of those inexplicable moments of pure heaven in which life overwhelms us; inspires us, cleanses, and melts away worry and angst. Those moments we commune with nature...inhaling atoms that once traversed the bloodstreams of our kin, whose feet tred before ours leaving both imprints in the earth, and in the pool of the universe whose ripples have now returned from whence they started. 

I sit above the ocean as do seagulls floating upon a wind's capricious breath; a feather at the mercy of vicissitude  and chance. Below, the waves' frothy fingers pour over the jagged rock, winding and weaving through the contours of time; cavernous wrinkles upon a swarthy, weathered face caressed and soothed by every breath the ocean exhales. 

I feel lucky in these moments...blessed even. As stressful and as difficult life can be to navigate and comprehend, what is always effortless is the soul's inherent ability and desire to do what it craves most, to be. The sound of waves are soothing, calming, and comforting...pleasant reminders that life, the world, the universe and everything in it is part of something greater, whether by design or accident, that has already been set in motion on an indiscernible direction and path. All we know is that we are an inextricable part of this harmony, residents of the same pool in which all of our actions create ripples that in time, will return to those who set them in motion. Which, logically, leads me to believe that God exists...waiting for us to return.

But this isn't what should concern us...when we create art, when we make love, when we run or cry, or laugh as we splash in water, or when we are tickled...we do not care why. Our souls are expressing themselves as they were intended to; unbridled, naked, unrestrained and without boundaries. In turn, we should not worry about where or when we shall return from whence we came, but let our hearts sing when they are compelled to do so, and enjoy every wave, every gust of wind, every kiss, every caress and let the feather fall where it may. 

Um, Your Bush is on Fire...

I recently read an article about some of the challenges that are preventing ebooks from becoming more widespread. In the article there was a side caption that mentioned cell phones being increasingly used as e-readers, a little nugget of information I find slightly harder to swallow than a Volkswagen beetle. One of the things that ultimately contributed to my purchasing an Evo (droid), over an iPhone was the substantially larger screen. 

Not only do I like the idea of being able to see more of pictures, movies, and text, but I also have large hands, which make navigating through screens of compressed text and icons increasingly difficult. However, even with considerable more putting green, I’m not inclined to nestle into bed or lounge on a couch to read fiction on tiny digital text.

Another attribute of smart phones that make it difficult for me to believe that droves of people are using them as e-readers, is their inappropriately short battery life. Even with animation disabled, screen brightness on its lowest possible setting, and all unnecessary applications closed, I find that battery life alone make using a smart phone as an e-reader pretty unrealistic. 

Don’t get me wrong, if I need to pull up directions on how to do something on the fly, read an article, prove someone wrong, or read reviews to a business or product I’m interested in, then using my smart phone to do so is not only prudent, but obviously better than the alternative. However, the last thing I want to do is replace a magazine, newspaper, or book with my phone. I’m generally not one to jump on a bandwagon on mere principle, but this is a trend I don’t see myself following even if a burning bush told me to do it.  

Double-edged Pen

One of the things I love about writing is that I get ample time to choose the right words and combination of words that most accurately express how I feel or what I’m thinking. In school, when a teacher mentions an essay, I smile confidently while most of the class responds with grunts and whines of disapproval at their unfortunate luck. I relish in the opportunity to write, while those with the gift of gab would prefer extemporaneous speech.

When you’re speaking, there’s no reset button, no redo’s, or take backs. Once it’s out, it’s out. (More painfully so of that almost invisible spray of saliva that somehow escapes us on rare occasion) Sometimes, you can clarify, elaborate, or elucidate, but once the vibrations of your initial utterance take form, there’s no going back. Since there is a greater degree for misinterpretation and poor selection in regards to words that are spoken on the fly, I often choose to write to someone instead, particularly, if there are feelings involved. However, there is a lot to be said about verbal and non-verbal feedback that you miss out on, like the telling nuances of facial expression and body language. Also, not being there to explain something they might have misconstrued, and not finding out immediately how they feel about what you wrote is a part of the trade off. In either case, choosing your words wisely is an understatement.

For as far back as I can remember, I’ve always written poetry. Eventually, it became a form of catharsis, a way to release emotions. Over the years, it stuck with me and was my solace in times of emotional uncertainty or turmoil. When I am inspired or passionate about something, I am compelled to write. Words are how I interpret my own sensory data about the world around me, and a way to share that information. Interestingly, there is an aura of vulnerability, a window to the soul that is opened when pen meets paper, and stays that way long after the candlelight is extinguished, or the glow from the monitor fades.

Writers are an interesting lot. We write for many reasons, and while many of us write for ourselves, there is still a desire for reassurance, admittedly or not. Just as with any other art, writers want to elicit emotion, persuade thought, inform, or to know, even in the smallest way, that they are appreciated. We want to know that our toil was worth it. We want validation; a modicum of recognition, whether a knowing nod or a pat on the back. It isn’t easy to get in front of a group of people to talk, but with practice, you can master all the little skills that come naturally to us during regular conversation. When you speak, you can be whoever you want. You are the gatekeeper and can choose to reveal as much or as little of your true identity, peeling back the layers with slow and deliberate action, or ripping them off like a band-aid. However, written words provide a direct portal to your essence, a window to your being...they are a giant aquarium that passersby can look through and point with wonder.

Pinocchio's Wish

For the majority of my adult life I can honestly say that I’ve never really known what I wanted. Well, with the exception of a few things like wanting to fall in love, obtain wisdom, and become a ninja, I have always known that I want to go back in time and be seven again, when there was never a doubt about what I wanted.


At seven, I wanted to build forts, climb trees, ride my bike, pretend I was a soldier, an eagle, or a cheetah. I was really fast. As a matter of fact, the only person faster than me was my best friend Robert. We had Big Wheels and would pretend we were the motorcycle cops in that show CHIPS. We would spend hours setting up hundreds of plastic army soldiers, and then take turns shooting at each other’s forces with rubber bands. I used to love the soldier with a parachute, and the one who was thrusting his rifle forward with the bayonet attached. I thought the flamethrower guy was pretty cool too. You have to be incredibly brave to strap canisters filled with gas to your back. My curfew was when it got dark. Sometimes I would realize that it was getting late, and I would race the darkness home on my bike. Sometimes I won, sometimes my Mother would have to remind me that I needed to win more often.

I always wanted chocolate milk, my Dad’s grilled cheese sandwiches, his pancakes, and pumpkin pie. I enjoyed travelling with him too. We had a game we would play in airports where we would try to guess where people were from and what language they spoke. He would make me practice signing my name. On the way to school, I would read the newspaper to him while he drove, and we would listen to Paul Harvey on the radio. We used to go to the local swimming pool where they played 80’s music and my dad knew all the people who worked there. They all admired him and it made me admire him too. I loved swimming and I wanted to be a dolphin. I wanted water not to go up my nose when I swam upside down. I wanted to find buried treasure, and turn cardboard boxes into space ships that would take me to the moon so I could walk on it. I wanted to watch my dad coach sports, take me to ball games, and have him unfog my snorkeling mask at the beach.

I wanted to be next to my mom every breathing moment. I wanted her to tell me things would be okay when I came home with fresh wounds. I wanted to hear her voice, whether it was reading me a story, or just talking. I wanted to go with her to church, or the orphanage where she found me, to bring things for the children who hadn’t found their angel yet. I wanted to cry when she left, I wanted to feel like she could rearrange the cosmos, which she could. I wanted her not to die. I wanted to take her place. I wanted to see her one last time.

Unfortunately, I’ve had to let go of all these things. In their place, there is one thing that I know I currently want. I celebrate these moments, because they do not come often. I hold onto them like a child does his first sea shell, and I pursue them relentlessly. Now, what I want more than anything is to be able to write great stories. I want to be able to breathe life into characters who laugh and cry, tell bad jokes, and dress badly. I want people to believe in their causes, worry for their safety, and hate the villains who thwart their success. I want them to hate their parents, want children of their own, have their hearts broken, and find true, unconditional, unbridled, and unceasing love. I want them to have dreams, missions, dates, sex, and high school reunions. Most of all, I want them to know what they want. 

Secondhand Lions

On the recommendations of a couple of fellow bloggers, I went to Barnes & Noble to pick up a few summer reads, because everyone knows that my only passion in life that compares to my adoration of breasts, is books. They both can come hard or soft, they both can nurture you, entertain you, and even educate you. Books however will never sag. At least not for a very very long time.

Lolita and the Time Traveler's Wife were in my sights, among some other ones I've been meaning to pick up. The first, by Nabakov, I found with relative ease. I have two others of his already on my to read book shelf. The latter, however, was nowhere to be seen or found. Unfortunately, as it turned out, everywhere I went was also completely sold out!

As I was walking my dog this morning, I noticed a little garage sale in the neighborhood. Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. Upon closer scrutiny, my eyes fell upon the most beautiful treasure I had ever seen.....a table, as though the broad shoulders of Atlas supporting the Earth, was holding the weight of a hundred books upon its back. My eyes widened, my heart's pace quickened, my mind began furiously deliberating the possibilities; how many books were there? What kind could they be? Could there be anything good in that mountainous heap of paper and print?

As if compelled by a force not my own, my legs carried me directly to where Atlas knelt, with my dog in a similar trance as he locked in on a box of stuffed animals. Trying to remain calm and not appear too desperate, I quickly began my investigative probe. As I scanned the titles of books, I quickly came to 2 major conclusions: 1) Whoever was selling these books has amazing taste. 2) they must either be an idiot, or have lost their mind for selling them for only 50 cents a piece. We were both drooling noticeably.

The Namesake, White Oleander, Drowning Ruth, What the Dead Know, and Atonement were my final choices. Can you believe that? For $2.50 I managed to snag these stupendous books for a fraction of what I spent at the store. I know what you're thinking, why didn't I buy more? Well, the truth is, not only is my to read shelf growing exponentially out of control, but I would't have had anywhere to put them.

As I was guiltlessly ripping my neighbor's off, and my dog the head of a lion, the owner came down and we began discussing our passion for literature and how this table of books barely put a dent in what she had upstairs. For a moment, I imagined a vast library of books in her home, shelves upon shelves of awesomeness, countless stacks as high as the ceiling, books consuming every open space and covering furniture like wild Ivy. The thought made me smile. We talked for about twenty minutes before my dog was like, dude the lion's dead and you're boring the shit out of me, can we go? The book lady asked which ones I had purchased, and as I went down the list I said, "Oh, yes, and apparently that decapitated lion as well."

I never did find the Time Traveler's Wife, but I found so much more instead. Just goes to show you that you don't always get what you want.......sometimes you get more! Oh, and the city's no place for a lion.

Smart People

I read an article the other day about the concerns of proper grammar usage and spelling in everyday life in relation to texting. The main theme of the article was sort of rhetorical, but did pose the question of whether or not we, society in general, were becoming stupider more stupid due to the frequency in which we use slang, acronyms, abbreviations, and phonetics to communicate through text messaging.

The author of the article interviewed a few experts, one being in language and communication, who ultimately believed that our intelligence would go on unaffected and that the proficiency of our written and spoken language would not be ill fated. [using a pretentious British accent] I, however, vehemently disagree with that assessment. As a matter of fact, I think that stupidity has become pandemic and the ever growing popularity of hip techno devices is eventually going to create generations of dimwitted morons. Uh, did I say eventually?

Look, I like texting for a myriad of reasons (it's more challenging to drive that way) Mainly, because making a phone call requires very specific protocols, which ultimately take up valuable time. Customary salutation, determining if current moment is appropriate to continue verbal communication or if another time would be preferred, transfer of meaningless data, polite responses, possible awkward silences, promises and/or excuses, exit strategy, and termination of transmission.

Now, since time is such a precious commodity and because I am such a thoughtful person, I figure it's faster (and more polite) to just send someone a text. This process is even more poignant if all you have is a quick question, or are unable to talk. This way, the person can determine the importance of the correspondence, and respond accordingly, or as time permits. Furthermore, I like to be even more efficient, by shortening words,and leaving out some punctuations. Otherwise, if I have to spend too much time texting, it becomes self defeating.

Being that this is the case, my two most aggravating pet peeves as of late, are people who despise improper grammar in text messages and people who speak as though they are text messaging. To address the former, as long as you are intelligent enough to understand what I am texting you, then the process through which I send the information is irrelevant. If I shorten words or leave them out entirely, I'm doing so for the sake of time, not because I can't spell. God forbid you have to use your brain for a moment.

The latter is much more frustrating because once this form of communication has infected your speech, it's quite difficult to overcome. For instance, I don't mind when my sister texts me a word like "whatevs", "latr", or "cuz". However, what I can't stand is when people start chopping words in half or fusing words together whilst speaking. One of my friends does this so incessantly that if you were eavesdropping you would think he was a "motard". (moron + retard = motard) See how that works? Yeah, I think it's stupid too. He'll say things like, "Damn she's hidi!" As if adding a third syllable would expend too much energy. Dude, you're 40 years old, don't be an idiot.

Many people see this as a process of social evolution, where I think it's more indicative of a nation that will continue to lose its competitive potential in the global market. We are breeding fatter and dumber offspring and people think this isn't a problem. Most European kids speak multiple languages, are well traveled, and know where Papua New Guinea is on a map. I bet if you ask an American kid, he'd probably think Papua New Guinea is a rapper. Damn shame.

Cellular

Apparently, cellphones are the bane of my existence. If I'm not getting bitched out by some disgruntled cashier over one, I'm putting my phone through the most rigorous high velocity impact tests known to man. I'm not quite certain how some of this shit happens, but I've managed to drop my phone in a toilet and accidentally kick it across a parking lot a few times. It's been stepped on, bounced off the bed into the wall, and more times than I can count. . . . . I've forgotten that it's in my lap when I get out of the car, but am quickly reminded as I hear the familiar sound of metal and plastic crashing and scraping along unrelenting cement.

I used to drive a big truck and one day after coming home from buying a brand new phone, as I was exiting this mammoth vehicle, I managed to drop my two hour old phone which literally shattered into thousands of unrecognizable pieces. Buttons flew in every direction, the LCD display was obliterated, and I had to use the voice recognition key for a week before I was sent a replacement. All I can remember is how thankful I was that I had had the foresight to purchase the insurance.

Years later, and I'm still pushing my phones to the limits of their structural engineering fortitude. The interesting part is that I take amazingly good care of everything else I own. I treat my DVD's so gingerly you would think I was a mad scientist handling explosive materials, I avoid vigorous driving to reduce wear and tear on my car, and I still dust off my Playstation 2 that's probably older than most of your kids. I know what you're thinking, How can someone so assiduously protective of his belongings allow for such atrocities to happen? I wish I knew. I drop kicked my phone in the throat just last night.

My friends call me the Text Master. I don't have one of those nifty miniature keyboard touch pads, oh no. I have the old school model which you can operate with one thumb. You've never seen a phalanx move with such precision and blinding speed. I text multiple people at the same time, I text while I eat, while I drive, while I watch T.V., and when I'm shopping. I text at the gym, in between clients, during my lunch break, and while I walk the dog. As a matter of fact, I'm texting right now. In retaliation to my pervasive texting, my phone's 9 key has decided to stop functioning. I think it's sprained. It works sometimes, other times I have to think of another word to use that doesn't need a W, X, Y, or Z. You'd be surprised how often you use a "W" or "Y".

This isn't the first time my phone's suffered a Repetitive Stress Injury (RSI). A few months ago, it was the number 3 key. It's virtually impossible to text without the letters D,E, or F. Trust me, I've tried, and I possess a rather impressive lexicon. A few months before that, various directions on my select key would give out from time to time, making navigating through menus more difficult than threading a needle in the dark with lotion on your hands. (I don't know, I'm guessing that's tough) At the very least, as equally frustrating.

Why don't I get a new phone you ask, well, not only do I feel a special kinship with my phone, but I've invested more money in that damn thing than my car. I've had to buy multiple batteries (one on account of the toilet debacle), blue teeth, (plural for blue tooth?) car chargers, and home chargers. I'm also not too keen on parting with my current phone, because I like to text while I drive. You can't do that with one hand on the majority of these new phones. I'm not ready to part with that facet of my communicative repertoire. I see countless nimrods texting with two hands as they drive. That's just a little risky, and not to mention, down right stupid.

I suppose it's time to say good bye to this phone and turn it in for a newer model. Who knows, after getting to know the new one, I might really like her. I just hope they can transfer all the naked pictures I've collected.

The Zodiac

It's infinitely amazing to me how our souls are like prisms that filter the light of the world and project powerful tapestries of colors that do more than just describe who we are through a revelation of intricate hues. Our colors, indicative of our true identities, also harness unfathomable quantities of potential energy that can propel planets or even ignite entire galaxies into existence.

My father used to always say that every person you meet potentially carries various nuggets of knowledge and/or experience from which you can draw to dramatically improve your life. Sort of like if you were a jigsaw puzzle, and as time passed you continued to add pieces to your puzzle. You would also collect pieces that maybe wouldn't fit your current puzzle's configuration, but might be the right pieces for people whom you come across in life, (arguably by design) and who could conversely possess pieces to which would fit yours.

Personally, one of the most fascinating things I find in life are the unique experiences we share with other people. These interactions can be as short as an exchange on a train, or a manifestation of an eternal bond. In either case, these experiences imprint an indelible mark in our memories that serve a multitude of possibilities, the greatest two of which is learning and providing. Whether we learn about ourselves, other people, a song, a book, or the meaning of a word, with every encounter with another person lies the possibility of discovery, or contribution.

Being as gregarious as I am, I've always enjoyed meeting new people. However, in my youth, too much emphasis was placed on embracing these experiences and not enough was placed on cultivating existing ones. With the passing of time and the expansion of family, I have a greater appreciation for the things that truly matter in life and am trying to put more effort into developing current relationships. However, I've never quite lost the fascination with meeting new people and discovering what they might have to offer. I truly believe that the people we meet represent an important facet of our lives and although they may not always provide necessary puzzle pieces, it doesn't mean they can't influence the colors of your puzzle, or even change the very image your canvas portrays.

Field of Dreams

Oftentimes, the best lessons in life we learn without even knowing it. Mr. Miyagi began teaching Daniel Karate by making him wax his cars, paint his house and fence, and sand the floors. Similarly, my Father taught me some of life's most valuable lessons by teaching me how to play baseball.

 

My Dad taught me how to properly oil and shape a new baseball glove; carefully and meticulously working the oil into the new leather, forming a perfect pocket for the ball. Many hours were devoted to punching my fist into the cradles of new gloves to ensure the perfect feel and wear. Life is eerily similar. If you work hard enough at something, life can bend to your will. I learned that the most rewarding things in life need to time to be cultivated.

He showed me how to wait for the perfect pitch, how to hit curveballs, throw a sinker, and 3 different types of fastballs. He showed me how to cut off a throw from the outfield, cover a base, sacrifice bunt, and steal bases. He also stressed that you don't always have to try and smash the ball, just make contact. You'd be surprised how far it goes when you just make contact with the sweet spot of a bat.

Timing is everything. Sometimes showing restraint in the present will produce the perfect set of circumstances in the future. Life inevitably throws you curveballs, I know how to wait them out. Life comes with its hitting slumps, I know how to keep swinging through them. When one strategy isn't working, have two other fastballs you can throw. There are moments when you have to step in and take over a situation, cover your buddy's back, sacrifice yourself for others, or take a risk. When I'm trying too hard to make something work, I know that sometimes just the right amount of effort or finesse, will garner the desired results, often exceeding expectations.

 

I remember my Dad liked to say that there will ALWAYS be somebody faster, stronger, and better than you. You have to work harder, work smarter, and although you might not always beat him, eventually you will. I learned that I didn't like losing, but that it's very much a part of life, and the smart ones learn from it.

He instilled discipline, work ethic, commitment, and courage. Being the coach's son, I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I learned the value and responsibility of working hard to hone skills. It takes courage to stand in front of an 85 mph fastball. I learned that occasionally you get hit, and although it's painful, you can capitalize on misfortune. Life too can sting, but you have to dust yourself off and get back in the batter's box no matter what. And sometimes, you have to take one for the team.

 

From watching my Dad trek across the baseball diamond to argue a call with an umpire, I learned that you have to stand up for justice, fairness, and equality. I learned that there are times you have to question authority/government and that you have a voice. If nothing else, every time he got in an umpire's face, it demonstrated the quintessential example of commitment and loyalty. In life you have to be fully committed to your cause, your family, and what you believe in, others will loyally follow.

 

He conditioned me to be coachable. I remember he would also say that everyone you come in contact with in your life, potentially has knowledge or insight that could be useful and applicable to your situation. Different people have different vantage points, experiences, skill sets, and knowledge. Stay open minded, listen to what they have to say, consider their experiences and learn from them.

We played catch, pepper, hit batting practice, caught fly balls, and threw countless pitches. It still baffles me to this day, how after all of that, he was simultaneously molding my character and preparing me for life. I had to work hard at some things, while others just came naturally. As I get older and reflect upon these memories with greater frequency, I begin to understand the importance of the bond between Father and Son, and more importantly, how monumentally significant even the most trivial of activities spent with your Father can influence and shape your life.

I'll leave you with lyrics from a Kenny Rogers song that my Dad sent me one day. I think they sum things up rather well. You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you're sittin at the table. There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

What Women Want

I often think that I possess extraordinary knowledge when it comes to women. After all, I have five sisters who made it their personal endeavor to "groom" me into a man that had all of the characteristics they deemed necessary for the perfect gentleman. Having been exposed to this kind of torture environment during my impressionable years has also provided me with invaluable insight into the female psyche. Harboring this knowledge has granted me countless advantages and there is very little that a woman can do that will leave me entirely perplexed. One of those things, however, I witness everyday, and it's beginning to drive me to the point where I'm experiencing overwhelming desires to extract my eyeballs with rusty utensils.

Why do women who are driving with the windows down, find it necessary to fluff, fiddle, manipulate, and incessantly adjust their hair when as soon as they accelerate, its only going to return into disheveled mess again anyway? Makes no sense. Wear a hat, tie it up, or roll your freakn' windows up. I happened to be in a little bit of traffic the other day, and I had the comical fortune of being behind the same lady through 4 traffic lights and a good stretch of highway. Never failed, at every single stop their was excessive primping and poking of bangs. You would have thought she was preparing a poodle for Best In Show.

I've seen some retarded acts of humanity in my day, (many of them my own) and even though it shouldn't boggle my mind as much as it does, I find it absolutely incomprehensible that so many of these things I see while driving. For instance, reading. Why people think this is any smarter than swimming amongst sharks with a bludgeoned sea lion around their neck, I will never know. And I'm not talking about the casual glance at printed directions either, I mean the full on I didn't finish reading this chapter last night for my presentation, or the I will sacrifice my life to find out how this article on cross-pollination of orchids ends. Generally, I'm all about encouraging a strong reading regiment. Personally, I don't think people do enough of it. But seriously, put down the literature while you drive. I doubt anyone is reading anything on the highway that's worth dying for.

Which leads me to my next observation of feet in the windshield. I've witnessed many accidents during my motor vehicle conducting career, and let me tell you, people that like to stick their feet out the window or think it's cute to display them on the dashboard, are playing with fire. It's one thing to survive a horrible accident. It's quite another for paramedics to have to search for your foot to reattach it, or for doctors to surgically remove your kneecaps from your face. Not so cute anymore is it? Well, if you're going to continue to defy the traffic gods, tempt fate, and subject me to the sight of your crusty-ass feet, for heaven's sake, (and mine) at least put some damn lotion on.

Interview With A Vampire

Well, against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to my sister's relentless pleading to read Twilight. I hope that she doesn't read this, (I feel that my honesty might crush her entirely) but here is what I thought about it in a nutshell; it was okay.

I feel that the story took entirely way too long to develop, and when the suspense had finally peaked, reaching the long awaited climax, much was left to be desired. Kind of like when you finally get to kiss your beautiful date at the end of a exquisite night, you disappointingly discover that a vacuum cleaner, or a Saint Bernard would be a better kisser. The story ended pretty much as ordinarily as it had begun, which after all that had transpired was a bit disappointing and left me with no overwhelming desire to want to read the other three that follow. Granted, I'm not a pubescent female teen, I still feel that a love story with dangerous vampires would have left me a little more satisfied. Of course, the allure of vampires being the only reason I even agreed to read a love story to begin with. And to pacify my sister's groveling pleas, obviously.

I don't mean to be entirely nit picky, but I think the writing wasn't that impressive either. I mean, if I'm going to spend my time reading 500 pages of anything, especially a book that has received as much praise as this one has, I generally prefer for the author to have superior writing skills to mine. Call me old fashioned, but I like authors to either spark my imagination, elicit thought, or keep me entranced with intrigue or suspense. And from time to time, I'm not against a chuckle or two. Not that I think I'm some great writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I suspect that I could have possibly written something comparable, at the very least, a little juicier.

Anyway, it wasn't a bad book by any means. It was a relatively fresh perspective on a subject that Ann Rice has had her fangs sunk into for as long as I can remember. I suppose I just expected more considering how popular the series has become, and how much my 39 year old sister insisted that I read them. I did have to take into consideration that all of her previous reading recommendations up to this point have been more than solid. So, I won't be holding this one against her. After all, unlike Edward . . . . . . . she's only human.

Billy Madison

I looked over to the lane next to mine as I was driving yesterday, to witness one of the more baffling traffic sights one can encounter. (besides motorcyclists being scraped off the pavement of course) I saw this tiny Filipino woman literally compressed between the driver seat and her dangerously encroaching steering wheel like a grilled cheese sandwich. The steering wheel appeared to have the circumference of a hoola hoop in her tiny grasp and she was so tightly packed in the car she looked like a midget in the cockpit of a fighter jet. If that poor woman so much as bumped another car while parking, causing the air bag to deploy, she would undeniably be decapitated. I looked on with a combination of horror, amusement, and surprise, as she drove away, her face literally centimeters from the horn, steering the mammoth wheel as if the captain of an old Spanish sailing ship. I guess sights like these should never really surprise me anymore, it's just that they sort of creep up on you when you're least expecting it. You know, one moment you're riding the subway, momentarily scanning the random crowd of faces, and the next moment a guy's clipping his toe nails . . . . . . . with his teeth. Or you're at the park with your dog and some dude is suspiciously looking around before he takes his underwear off and discards them into the bushes.

Months ago, I was coming home from work taking a back route through a quiet little neighborhood, when I saw a man and his boy exiting a large truck that had just parked in front of a house that I assumed was theirs. As if they had just pulled up to a giant aluminum trough in a public restroom, the little boy, around 3 or so, pulled his pants down and started taking a piss on the street, in front of the truck, his dad, a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom townhouse, me, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood! When the boy was finished, his dad (if you can call him that), came over and practically congratulated the kid before they disappeared into the house. Yes, the house with at least two bathrooms. I mean, they didn't look like they were in a hurry. Their faces carried no signs of desperation, necessity, or worry, akin to people who can't wait a second longer before their bladder explodes. As nonchalant as their emergence on the scene, the public display of urinary transgression was as equally of no concern or consequence. They acted completely normal, as if this were a daily occurrence, (which probably was) as if this were just another trip to the bathroom by a Father and Son at half time, during a Sunday football game. Right when you think you've seen it all.

I began to wonder about my childhood and all the questionable places I had peed. (once on my own leg to quell a jelly fish sting) Hell, I began to sift through all of the adult files as well, including all the accounts of inebriated, piss-poor decision making at sporting events, BBQ's, parties, nightclubs, and tail gaters; not even leaving out any testosterone fueled Dares from intoxicated peers. I'm a guy, after all, my plumbing allows me the freedom to take advantage of certain bladder relieving discretions if you will. If they can be avoided, of course we'd rather not pee in this alley, behind that car, or in the corner of this parking garage, or in the Gatorade bottle I'll have to stare at for the next few hours of our road trip. (So warm in your lap) But if it can't, well as they say, when Nature calls . . . . . you best be answering, because she doesn't like to leave long, detailed messages that take up a lot of space on your answering machine and everybody knows that's rude and inconsiderate and God help you if you haven't called her back in 3 days after you took her to dinner the last time and she invited you in for a night cap, which ended up with you in her bed, making awesome drunk marathon sex sweet love to her for two hours, but you felt a little weirded out because afterward you noticed she had My Little Ponies every where in her room, the walls adorned with stuffed animals and glitter posters, and you had to stare at the ceiling covered in glowing stars until she fell asleep so you could escape, but you're an asshole for not calling her after the amazing fulfillment of destiny your souls had just shared. Okay, well maybe I'm the only one who says that. Anyway, then I wondered if this is the path that people take who eventually grow up to do some R. Kelly type shit. Just sayin', makes you wonder.

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Haven't felt much like writing lately, so I've been dedicating that time to reading instead. Besides, there are a few books I need to knock out before I'm ready to take on that new Twilight series. I just hope it's as good as I've heard.

On a similar note, I have mixed emotions about reading books before watching the movie, or vice versa. Movies will inevitably leave out chunks of important storyline or will simply fail to live up to the world painted by the imagination. And if you see the movie first, you already know what's going to happen while you read, making intricate endings hollow or anticlimactic. Movie or Book? I'm generally more inclined to read the book first, primarily because after I've seen the movie, there's no way in hell I'm going to be motivated enough to read the book. Especially, if there is more than one. Perfect example, Lord of the Rings. Sure, I had read the Hobbit as a kid, but after watching the three Ring movies, I don't think the books could top it. Particularly since the movie is probably how I would have imagined it anyway. Although, I wouldn't have made Gandolf such a sissy in the movie.

Fightclub was an awesome movie. I thought that reading the book afterwards would be a good idea as well, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Great book, but it's exactly like the movie and no matter how extraordinary your imagination might be, there's no way it would have created a better performance than what the movie and its actors delivered. And for those of you who haven't experienced either, the narrator and Tyler Durden are the same person. Yeah, I'm in that kind of a mood.

I wish I would have read the Harry Potter books before watching the movies, none of which I liked too much by the way. Here is one instance that I think my imagination would have done a way better job of things. I can already hear the grumbles of disagreement, but I found them to be a little too juvenile for my tastes. Not to mention, anyone standing in line dressed up in anything other than normal clothes, waiting for stores to open so they can purchase the next book in the series, isn't typically an indication of anything I want to be a part of. I'm not one to follow the masses anyway. Notably those fanatically adorned with capes and wielding magic wands. Don't get me wrong though, I'd bang a hot sorceress in a heartbeat. I'm just sayin'.

The Twilight movie might be good, but it has just as much potential, if not more, to suck. It's difficult to make movies with the element of flying in them. You either have to stick entirely with the thought of fantasy, or make it seem realistic enough to correspond with a story that you want people to believe can be real. In either case, the actual physics of flying has to closely mimic the laws that govern flight in our world, otherwise viewers will automatically see the flaws and lose interest. Once you have attained seamlessness in physical action, then you have to look at the acting. There are going to be a slew of teenage actors, and if one of them isn't pulling his or her own weight, then that performance can discredit the entire movie. Happens all the time. Difficult balance I know, but whenever movies depend too much on computer graphics, things generally take a turn for the worse, because in those instances, little attention, if any, is given to actual acting.

Anyway, I could continue this rhetoric for days properly schooling you on movies, but like I said earlier . . . . . . . I'd rather be reading. That is, until I go see Quantum of Solace tonight. And who knows, I just might have to stand in line for a while too, but I'll be sure to leave the tux at home. Of course, only after I crush that shaken martini.

Cuss-o-Matic

Warning: The following entry contains a significant amount of foul language, and although not primarily intended to offend anyone, certainly harnesses the inherent capability of doing so. With that said, if you have delicate sensibilities, are underage, or suffer from a heart condition, then you definitely should not read this. As a matter of fact you came to the wrong place altogether. . .

As you may have noticed, there is a brand new, shiny Cuss-o-meter that decorates my little space in the blogosphere! I stumbled upon this lovely contraption a little while ago and instantly knew that we were destined to be together. Now, I know that using expletives in writing can usually indicate a lack of intelligence or literary imagination, but this device is was too fucking brilliant to pass up! In seconds, it can analyze thousands of pages and count how many times you used a bad word, instantly giving you a cuss-rating to warn your readers of how often a fuck, shit, or motherfucker appear in your writing. Completely fascinated by this new discovery, I was determined to find out how I ranked amongst my peers.

I began to wonder how discriminatory the Cuss-o-Meter might be, what criterion he might use to determine my cuss-rating, and ultimately how accurate it really is. I mean, if your reiterating something somebody else said, does that cuss word count? Or what if you were telling your readers about something you read? For instance, if I tell you that I had a wallet that read, "Bad Motherfucker" on it, would that count? Does goddammit count? Surely "goddammit, I lost my motherfucking wallet" would have to be considered. More over, words like "asshole" can easily be used to depict some body's demeanor, or refer to their actual rectum depending on connotation, and would my cuss-o-meter know the difference? I had to know the answers to these burning questions.

"Bitch, although originally meant to define a female dog, has become a swearing staple generally used to characterize a woman, (usually one of strong personality) "She's such a bitch", or even a group of women, "Look at these bitches". It can be applied to your current location, "You have anything to eat in this bitch?", or when trying to pursuade someone into action as in "C'mon, don't be a bitch". Ironically, it can possess positive implications when you want to illustrate how wonderful something might be, "This party is bitch'n", or to portray an unfortunate event, "Aint this a bitch". People will even use it to report an extraordinarily challenging task, "It was a bitch to get these jeans on", or "climbing those stairs was a bitch".

It's well known that "fuck" is the most versatile word in the English language. It can be a noun, verb, adjective, or even an adverb as in "absofuckinglutely". Regularly used as an exclamation, "Fuck, I stubbed my toe", or even more predominately to insinuate sex, "Let's fuck", "They're in there fucking", and "She's already fucked the whole office". Routinely used as a vociferous retort "Fuck you", to tell someone where you'd like for them to go "Fuck off", or what you'd like for them to do when they get there "Go fuck yourself". "Don't fuck me" and "Don't fuck me over", are customarily utilized when you are trying to convey that you are strictly against having your trust broken, (usually uttered before loaning someone money) and "Don't fuck around" when discouraging shenanigans. When at a loss of words to describe a situation, (like this post for instance) or to express disbelief, one could say "unfuckingbelievable" or "no fucking way".

Which leads me to another observation about how different levels of exclamation can be achieved by either adding other seemingly innocuous words in front of, or behind, these grammatical gems like "Holy shit" (I think indicating the highest level of shit). Shithead, Fuckface, and Fuckwad, are enigmatically used to either describe undesirables, or people we actually care about dearly. Your deepest adoration can also be projected by saying, "I fucking love you man". The most obscure of these phrases may very well be "Shit-eating grin" (for obvious reasons) and "Fucking-A". The latter, although a relic in most contemporary social circles, can still be heard, but is often followed by "man" or "dude" to express your disapproval with another person's behavior. "Clusterfuck" (a military favorite) is commonly used to indicate a situation that is hopelessly in chaos or disarray, where as "We are so fucked" and/or "Fuck me", is widely accepted as the last thing a person would say right before being obliterated by explosive materials.

Finally, combinations using three or more of these words can create a colorful tongue twisting language all it's own like, "Bitch ass motherfucking asshole" or "Punk ass motherfucker". Please keep in mind that using words like "suck", "lick", "eat", "hell", "balls", and "ass", are essential in creating the flow necessary to pull off the desired effect. Again, I warn against trying to use these combinations before you're ready, because you could sound like a fucking idiot in the presence of seasoned professionals. However, with enough diligent practice and an experienced mentor, you may one day join forces with the elite cussers of our time. Me? Well, I have other shit to worry about. . . . . Peace the fuck out.

Out of Time

I suppose when it's your time to go, it's your time to go. I often wonder if there's somebody in heaven who's job is dedicated solely to monitoring an enormous room with billions of shelves full of clocks with every one's name on it, and when your clock indicates that your time is up, he picks up the receiver on the red phone with a one way line directly to the angel of death, (or he might even send an email) informing him of the people who need to be neutralized for the day.

I bring this up because a couple of months ago a man was virtually sawed in half by a great white shark about 150 yards off the coast of a popular beach in California, a tragedy that hasn't happened in 50 years. Apparently, the man was swimming with a group of athletes training for a triathlon, and he began lagging behind. A great white patrolling the waters for food was probably alerted to the presence of the swimmers splashing about on the surface and noticed the weak one in the group. Evolutionary behavior that has kept the shark alive for thousands of years, prompted the animal to investigate by taking a bite to check if this particular prey was edible. As with most great white attacks, the the warm blooded shark realized that it was a bony human and not a fat sea lion (which it prefers), so he let him go. Unfortunately, a 15 foot great white produces so much force by his bite and extremely sharp serrated teeth, that usually we bleed to death before we can be medically treated. Both this man's legs were fatally shredded and he died of blood loss well before his buddies could get him ashore. Although I think that this could have been prevented had he stayed with the group, this next story certainly proves that there's no denying when your card is pulled, even if you're safely on board.

I'm sure you guys heard about the lady who was killed in Florida by a 75 lb sting ray with a 5 ft wing span, while sunbathing in a boat yes? Well, if you didn't, I'll summarize the freakish accident for you. She was chillin' in her boat soaking up the sun, when a sting ray leaped in and bitch slapped her in the face impaled her in the neck with it's venomous barb, delivering her to an extremely bloody demise. They say that sting rays do not attack people, however I'm convinced that this particular creature was gunning precisely for her. This assassin of the sea surely had orders and there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. Case closed, welcome to heaven, the line on the left is for your linens during your stay and the line on the right is for your name tag and meal card. Trash is taken out on Tuesdays, recycle on Thursdays and your favorite TV shows are on every night.

Lightning strikes, broken elevators, derailed trains, rogue sting rays and any other totally random and outlandish method of death is only the creativity of the death dealer and nothing more than the result of an alarm clock going off. However, just for clarification, if you happen to be mauled by a bear while training it for a part in a movie, then you were definitely asking for it.

Alice in Wonderland

I worked on a client today who we shall name Mike, because quite frankly, his name is Mike and making up names for people is almost as disrespectful as calling their mother a whore. Almost. 

Mike has many tattoos. And when I say many, I mean that I have worked on him at least 6 times and I still continue to find details in his tattoos that I hadn't noticed before. On one shoulder he has a gigantic Bald Eagle that is dramatically falling out of the sky and on the other side he has an entire sleeve that encompasses every inch of skin from his wrist to his sternum. It's one of the most astonishing pieces of artwork I have ever seen. I don't really remember what he said it represented, but it's some sort of jungle scene with Aztec warriors and conquistadors battling dragons sent from the heavens by demon gods with volcanoes, tigers, and medieval knights all beautifully incorporated into the piece. His lower legs have equally incredible ink, but my favorite is this samurai with a drawn sword, on his calf. The detail is so flawless that if you look close enough you'll notice that the pattern on the warrior's kimono is actually marijuana leaves. Brilliant! I didn't know Samurais smoked the ganja. I suppose their ponytails should have given it away, because everyone knows that men with pony tails are either pot smoking hippies, or maniacally sinister warlocks with erratic tendencies to eat thousands of pistachios in one sitting. 

As far as tattoos are concerned, I routinely notice the same familiar ensemble of designs that weren't given much thought and more often than not, were taken right off the wall at your local ink shop. I mostly see the ever present "tramp stamp" (tribal of course), some baby daddy's name, or a retarded dolphin. Then there's the panther made to look like it's climbing, (very popular with the sisters), or the classy rose that always seems to find its way onto a droopy breast. Let's not forget the the Asian writing or the butterfly, however there are so many variations that these don't tend to bother me as much. It would be refreshing to witness tattoos that transcended the more commonplace observance however, like flying farm animals, cartoon super heroes, or scene from a movie. 

From elaborate Japanese dragons to lotus leaves in the wind encompassing a woman's entire back, to intricate snowflakes with vibrant hues of icy blue, I've seen some pretty masterful artwork on my clients over the years. And yet others that convince me to believe that both the artist and the client must have been blindingly inebriated. I do wish that more of my clients had captivating ink adorning their bodies though, it definitely makes the time go by a little faster, even if I spend that time thinking about what would possess a person to put the Cheshire cat on their ass.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit

I hope everybody had a wonderful Easter. More appropriately, I hope you enjoyed your day off gorging on ham, potato salad, and fountains of endlessly flowing chocolate. Although I'm a little too old for egg hunting, I did chase a bunch of hoodlums through the neighborhood with a BB-gun. Baby Jesus would have been proud, since I had originally given it up for lent.

Over the past few years I've become one of those Holiday Catholics. You know, the people that only go to church on Christmas, Easter, Ash Wednesday, and so forth. The thing is, I sort of slipped away from Catholicism many years ago and started going to a non denominational church where they sing happy music and every one's always so happy to see you, and they have a happy choir, and a happy band, and the Pastor smiles, and people talk, and there are no paintings of Jesus, or Mary, but if there were any, I'm sure they'd be happy too. I was shocked when I first walked into one of these brightly lit, so called churches to see people talking, smiling, clapping, and singing. What the hell is going on here, I remember thinking. Why aren't these heathens spontaneously combusting into flames for these acts of sacrilege? And where is Jesus? Who stole Jesus?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Catholic churches and ceremonies, it is quite the opposite, particularly if you are from Latin America. Let me explain, I'm sure you've all heard of the infamous Catholic Guilt. Well, Hispanics are infamous for adding a little flare to things, as I'm sure you are aware (Who do you think invented spinning rims?). When you go to a Hispanic mass, you are made to feel that you were the one who just killed Jesus. The churches are large cathedrals decorated with somber remembrances of Christ. Every depiction is of him either on his way to crucifixion, or the brutal sanguinary act itself. Jesus is almost always bleeding, and there's always a good one, or two, of Mary holding his lifeless body after he had just died and been stabbed in the side with a spear for good measure. It is always extremely quiet and hundreds of candles adorn the entire church, but mostly at the feet of statues or in designated areas where people are encouraged to light more candles and pray. Usually the only uplifting paintings are symbolically on the ceiling or stained glass windows high along the towering walls. The artwork in these places is out of this world, but so are the attempts to instill copious amounts of guilt and fear. Also, there is never any air conditioning, so you go in your Sunday best to sweat like a whore in church (how convenient). I often wonder if that effect had more to do with strategy than economy.

With all these practices, images, and traditions so intimately interwoven into my religious upbringing and branded to memory, it's no wonder my affair with another religion didn't last very long. I suppose I either became too guilty, or became increasingly suspicious of all the damn happiness. Surely, something was awry, nobody can be happy all the time. And electric guitars? Gimme a break, a dead giveaway of Satan's work. I never did get to the bottom of why lightning bolts didn't rain from the sky to disintegrate all those happy do gooders, but I'm sure they'll get theirs eventually.

My issues with the Catholic Church are probably similar to most people's, like confession, praying to saints, and priests not being able to marry. I have to admit though, I never really believed in those things anyway (well, confession yes, but not to strangers). I guess I've always known that your relationship with God isn't dependent upon those traditions, so following them was never a necessity for me.

Needless to say, I'm still looking for a cult a church with the right combination of good natured people with common sense and an understanding that faith is not defined by anyone other than yourself, and certainly not by tradition, sex deprived pedophiliacs, or a bunch of dudes in funny hats who are more concerned with politics (or who has a bigger hat). Whether you call it salvation or enlightenment, we all have an innate and undeniable desire for our spirits to want a connection with their origin and each other. And I believe that that origin is Love, which many people refer to as God. It's really funny to me that people spend so much time looking for God when he already resides in all of us. When asked if he had found Jesus, Forrest Gump replied, "I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for him". I couldn't have put it any better Forrest, funny how the mind can get in the way sometimes.

Point Of No Return

I had six clients on Sunday, following a night of sleeplessness and as I was elbow deep in my last slab of flesh, watching the minutes going by slower than a turtle on heroin wading through molasses, I got to thinking that I should probably share a little nugget of priceless info; turtles would never ever ever, be wading through molasses and if you want to get the best a masseuse has to offer, I recommend that you don't schedule your appointment at the end of the day. Particularly if you want deep tissue work and the therapist you are choosing has previously worked on an entire baseball team earlier that day. It's not brain science my insightful followers, people get tired.

We all have limits, and although I do know a couple of psychotic therapists who do 8 or more in a day, I don't like to do more than 6. Although I'm very physically fit and strong enough to crush your skull, (with my biceps) or bench a mini cooper, I also have some seriously dainty wrists. Yeah, you read correctly. I said it. I have girly wrists and if I did 8 massages every day, my hands would fall the fuck off.

I am capable of doing more, but I feel that when I exceed six, I'm no longer working at optimum levels. Body work is not only physically demanding, but it also drains you mentally and being mentally sharp has many more benefits than just being able to remember what you had for breakfast. Of course if you're getting a great therapist, you're going to get great work regardless of when the appointment is. But to get that person's absolute best, you may want to consider that your service provider will be properly warmed up after their first and a little fatigued by their last.

Although we try to avoid not being prepared, we are only human and invariably suffer the same pitfalls you do at your job. We can come to work late, hungover, sleep deprived, or having missed breakfast. Some of us are early risers, and some of us need a jack and coke caffeine I.V. to get going. There are weekend warriors, and those of us who work 5 or 6 days a week. All of us have different strengths and weaknesses, backgrounds, personalities, and skill levels. Choosing wisely may mean the difference between a wonderful massage . . . . . . . and the perfect one.

So, as convenient and tempting as it may be to grab that last spot of the day, ask yourself exactly what your looking for and if you'll get there with someone, who to say the least, can't wait to get the hell home.