/ thepenismightier \

/ Instead of Posting

2008-05-13T18:56:00.000-07:00

/ Fission Accomplished

2008-05-13T00:06:00.000-07:00

PRE-SCRIPT : I should probably warn people that I am not really well adjusted at the moment, so what I may be offering for consumption is a veritable quandary. OH MY GOD I KNOW WHAT WILL FIX IT ALL, too, but self-denial also refers to what you do not put into your body, and not just willful ignorance of what comes out, kind of.

Anyway, I am pretending that it is earlier in the afternoon, on my way home from work. I am in my car, as I am wont to be on my drive home from work, afternoons or otherwise, or you know, when I was a mad drunk, and driving home with the Tacoma Aroma still fresh in my hair.

I am in my car, as I said. It is 4 in the afternoon. I don’t have any props for this scene. Well, I’ve got my camera.

I am in my car.

Up ahead there is a wreck, must be, because all the cars have crawled to a stop and the wind has stopped blowing and it’s impossibly dark outside, but when you roll down the window, it’s unseasonably warm, and you can just feel yourself coming out of sorts.

And when you roll it back up, you see your reflection, how screwed up you are, how many wrecks line the lines in your eyes and the lines in your repertoire and the lines and lines and lines, oh like regrets in single file lines. Elementary school behaved. Crisp uniforms and yellow oversized buttons. No idea what you are in for, kiddies, run!

Traffic picks up, incrementally at first, but as the novelty wears off, exponentially, until you are foot to the floor past 55, just trying to make up time and the tremors are either seismic or sobriety bound. Goddamn! you say. I cannot keep pace with all this traffic, ebb and flow. This modern living, they ain’t kiddin. We work more than our ancestors and by rights that means less than our children, whose own descendants will be sleepin’ on the job, by default.

I don’t remember the last time I tried philosophy.

I remember acknowledging my own existence, saying out loud, I know, I am alive, this is who I am, because I was so tired of forgetting and not thinking, but I cannot remember falling in love and subsequently busting that relationship. I see me. I am smitten with myself. I run when I look the other way. I’m sure there was mad, passionate lovin’ somewhere in between. I might have even called, breathed heavy and hung up, then spent the rest of the night paranoid that the caller was in the house, because Caller ID don’t take into consideration my multitude of personality quirks.

It won’t bother me to die in one of those wrecks, as long as I don’t bleed out regretting my own obscurity, practicing an acceptance speech for an award that someone else worked so much harder to actually earn. Or it will, in some terribly pathetic way, but christ, I got that call that every kid secretly desires, the one where the estranged parent says, I AM SO PROUD, SO, SO PROUD, and I didn’t want it. I turned down pride, of all things. Got plenty of sin, apparently, pallets and pallets of cheap merchandise-like mortality.

And then I turned right around and showered affection on my own clan, and thought, ALL THE ANSWERS, RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. ALL THIS TIME.

Oh, it just isn’t though, and it’s not for a want of desire, because, I know ignorance is bliss, and I am blissfully practiced, I am tellin’ you, but it isn’t about looking at your pretty girl and your growing kids and saying, THAT IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT. THAT’S WHAT MADE IT ALL WORTHWHILE.

At least I hope. I mean, I've been wrong about these things before. It's what it's.

/ I Taked Some Pictures

2008-05-11T10:48:00.000-07:00

In southeast missouri, where i done growed up, nothin hollers PROVIDER MATERIAL like driving real slow-like down main street with a deer carcass in the bed of your pickup, so metaphorically speaking, that's what i did o'er the weekend. Trotted around the house like I had big game in my trunk, instead of actually puttin' food on the table. That is to say, I gave it one shot, then drove everyone around me mad with blood lust.

There's just no extra effort in me lately, not enough to fill the square footage of my big ideas, anyhow. I am using optical illusions to make it seem as though my potential is cozy and warm. There is only so much you can do with forced perspective, and there are whole parts of the landscape I cannot begin to cover with the outline of my thumb, no matter how close I press it up against my eyeball. If I could just get my projected output to make nice with my actual input, I might just experience peace in my time.

I have had just ONE thing I needed to accomplish since Friday, and I guess the good news is that means I only have ONE thing I need to accomplish before midnight but lord I am easily distracted. My Friday and Saturday did not make the world a better place, and I apologize to the entire Generation of Y, because I know they are not the least bit interested in wish postponement.

Writing in this journal and takin pictures does not count against my time management, though, because it is the one product out of my factory where the public is bound to get its money's worth.

/ Scrubland

2008-05-10T18:31:00.000-07:00

In the morning, I woke and she kissed my shoulder, said, 'I want you to know that if you need anything, I am here for you.' The moment came between dreaming, and I was uncertain in asking about it later.

If you cannot tell how much I love this place by listening to me, then I am no good for words. But I can't believe you can't see it. I tape the top of the styrofoam cooler and carry it with me into the water, where it rises until my feet lose contact with the lake bed. She doesn't answer, because she is remembering a near drowning as a child, and concentrates on staying afloat. When her chin dips, she involuntarily reaches for the cooler, but we are nearly to the other side, where the beach is protected from livestock, and the occasional passing truck.

She turns her back, takes off her shirt, wrings out tea-colored water. I found this spot working in college, pushing irrigation wheels through the ruddy fields. I carried an old .223, because they would pay me for every coyote shot, more than what I was making in an entire day. I only ever shot one time, hitting the dirt in front of it by a good 15 feet. I walked up over the hill, saw it disappear again into a grove of trees.

I don't know if it was an abandoned tank or a part of the creek cut off years ago, but it was the size of a small park lake, and way out in the middle was a little island. He told me it was technically state forest land, but no one ever came out because it was so hard to get to, surrounded mostly by private farmland. Even when the county put a summer road in, I never saw anyone out there.

Anyway, one day at school, there was this accident in shop, some kid got waylaid by a broken drill bit. It was no one's fault but shoddy equipment, and the shard that got him had to travel through safety glasses to even get to the meat of the poor guy, but good christ it was all over. And it was too much, the yelling and the panic of the adults, the sirens and kids coming out of language arts and home ec. alike, mindless of the commands to get back to their seats, because they were the half-hearted orders of teachers who had filled these halls with small town sons and daughters, nieces and nephews of their own. I slipped away to civics and caught her by the elbow as she came out the door. We drove off to go swimming.

It's only recently I got to thinking about this, probably because I was out past that park running not long ago. It got discovered by some reporter at the Times. They have a section just on hiking public lands. You see a few cars out there now. More so now that some of that private farmland was developed into residential neighborhoods, pieces of paradise before gas prices got so high. You hear a few complaints about farm kids shooting their guns. That's what they do.

It was with one of those shots that I started remembering that coyote. I dreamed for a week that the roof in our house was full of water and leaking through every fixture, god knows why.

I am not sure where she went after college.

You have got me mixed up again. I never suggested you leave. I know how much you like it here.

She will stay for as long as I ask, and it's the kind of information you try to keep hidden from yourself, so as not to either take it for granted or take it for a long walk through the winding woods, right after emptying your pockets of bread crumbs.

I hide my own secrets so poorly from myself, though, it's a constant issue. I have a file marked Names, it's passwords and old addresses, mostly, but occasionally I will find something even more vital, like, 'She can't stand coriander,' or 'L-shaped scar, left shoulder blade, gentle.'

She puts her shirt back on and ties her hair up behind her head, doesn't let me see the least bit of her face, save a hint of her nose and chin, like that old drawing of the young lady and the old woman, but her shoulders make the whole illusion impossible to hold.

When you are this young, you rarely say anything you'd want to remember, so the memories are mostly images, maybe a random sensation, especially pain, rolling over onto a sharp blade of slate, but we were luckier than most. I wonder if I knew going in it was temporary.

It's the vividness of my memories, not some nostalgic longing, that disorients me into the suspicion that out the backdoor it's 80 degrees and 800 miles away. There's a lot to hate about that seeming clarity, when the words from those exchanges no longer match up so well with current sentiment.

She kissed me when I needed it, in the evening when she came in, other shoulder this time, true to her word.

/ Barkless Friday

2008-05-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

The sound I hate most working home on Friday, the cerebral cortex of the week if that old 10% brain myth is true, is the neighbor looking for her dog, who she has anthropomorphically named Gabriel. The first time it happened, I was convinced a curious toddler had scaled his safety gate, and was wandering the side streets trying to pick out the trench coated stranger who most closely resembled Clifford the Big Red Dog. And the increasing panic in her voice seemed far too maternally urgent for a Basenji, the African Barkless which in hindsight was such a poor choice of pet for both she and her home-bound neighbors.

All the best science fiction stories have an android that can be deactivated by simply pressing a button somewhere above the hairline on the backside of the head. For me, that button can be activated by making me wait for a telephone call. I am absolutely worthless today and in dire need of a tune up.

The post it notes on my screen bear the following important messages: “DO NOT LOSE THE PHONE” “WASH YOUR HANDS” “FLOSS BEFORE TAKING A NAP”

I made three girls cry yesterday. Not even close to my personal best.

/ DEAR DAIRY: JUST STOP IT

2008-05-06T22:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary, please stop asking me to write things you KNOW I am not supposed to be writin’ about, that is no way to delve into my psyche. Start small, you know, ask me about my day (NOT THIS ONE THOUGH. ASK ME ABOUT TOMORROW AT THE END OF THAT DAY. FOR NOW JUST BUGGER OFF.)

Tomorrow I will write about random interactions with people who could not be more different. Or is it could be more different? I can’t remember the rule of I couldn’t care less/I could care less…

One. We had some booths. With swag. And we asked an assistant to man the booth, and as the President would be by, TO PLEASE NOT WEAR THE TRUCKER CAP. He pulled off the hat, and, oh, god, don’t you hate turning into a monster when the sun is otherwise shining? Because there is a reason he wears a hat, and that reason is a sad tale of illness and injury, and, fuck, really, we do not like to be unkind. And we say, ‘God, you know, just don’t mind us. We are insensitive, except when it comes to our own feelings, and then we more than make up for the apathy shown to others. Please wear the hat.’ But being as how he is so polite (I HATE HIM) he buys a brand new hat with money the government surely had to lend him, and when the President walked by, he bit that last bit of vainful pride hard, and set the hat on the table, turned to shake the President’s hand, and GODDAMNIT SOME PUNK MISTOOK HIS HAT FOR SWAG.

Later, I said, "Look, don’t worry. This will be a funny story. He will look back on this day and laugh."

She said, and I really wish I were joking, “HE JUST FOUND OUT HIS WIFE HAS CANCER.”

* * *

I hung out with a math whiz today and we talked about the books we’ve published and pre-presentation rituals and all the babies we’ve made (HIS WERE MADE WITH A DIFFERENT INDIVIDUAL, WE JUST MET) and then he impressed me with some pretty good understanding about financial aid, and so I thought I would impress him with Don’s sum-of-consecutive-integers puzzle, but before I even said PERIOD, he was all like, 1024. As I tweeted earlier, I saved face by teaching him to set the radio clock in the van, which was an hour behind, but 12 minutes ahead, and I did so condescendingly. And then I told him about a great idea for an invention I have which involves an alarm clock that is randomly off every single morning, to cater to those of us who set our clocks ahead by 10 minutes or so (45 minutes) but eventually catch on to the fact that we just set our clocks ahead 10 minutes or so.

“So you would have a clock that is randomly some minutes ahead…?”

“OR BEHIND,” I interjected. “Every now and then the clock has got to be behind, so that you remember why you are doing this in the first place.”

I am all about rememberin your roots.

Later on he squared a 5 digit number randomly offered by the audience IN HIS HEAD and that is putting a severe strain on our friendship, because he is obviously bringing more to the table.

* * *

“Whatcha lookin for?”

There is a trail around our lake that is surprisingly barren of people, save a few older gentlepersons, and while the women will politely nod, the men will not so lightly prod. They have been around this trail, have seen the California transplants wither like crook in a Chinook, and they know a thing or two about what you think you know, too.

“Morels.”

“Little late in the year.”

“Had a bit of a cold spell. No harm in seein’.”

“No harm in wastin’ time, I reckon.”

I think about the morel in my pocket, one I just found up the trail a bit, but it was only one. It is like half an argument when you can’t remember why you’re fightin’ in the first place.

“My grandfather always said I was like a blister, never showed up til all the work was done.”

“That sounds about right!” he laughed and walked on.

My grandfather never said that, as far as I know.

/ tuck

2008-05-05T21:07:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I stop along the trail and run roughshod through the grass, when you can feel the most eyes upon you, and flush the wild animals from their hiding spots. I am honing my pre-sapien skills, and could take the little eggs, I suppose, but pictures are just fine for now, because I am married to Whole Foods and ain't no need to flirt with the fat of the land.

This is the same law of natural selection I am so eager to skirt, 'cause I am about to re-affirm my oaths to my career, and am wondering if I will still be allowed to flirt with life, run roughshod through that part of the trail clearly marked NO TRESPASSIN' VI-O-LATORS WILL BE PERSECUTED.

Oh, what I wouldn't give right now for a bad influence with a heart full of god, but I seem to burn through my vicarious proxies, who used to come up like cheatgrass from a wildfire, but we are turning old growth. I am down to my last unhealthy relationship, taking slow, easy tokes; it is like a glowing ember upon my tongue. Goddamn, it rains, it pours.

What I am telling myself is that I may need a little help letting go. So if you are standing on the ledge, and I ask you to stomp on those fingers, please don't try to talk me out of it, because we have been down that slow, easy road. My one underqualification all this time has been my youth, but I am tellin you I've got a plan for that.

I didn't live enough way back when, and I admit to stealing a few of those eggs, with no regard for the empty nests or mother hens. I have watched enough landings to know when to tuck and when to roll. I will nail that landing with flying colors.

/ TequilaKAHNNNN!

2008-05-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Some days I am supremely grateful for the flashes of cowardice that blind me from locating my phone, unfortunately set to vibrate, and fortunately unfortunately set to OFF, because hearing the words WHY AREN’T YOU HERE??? is such a heavy weight to carry when you are already trying to outrun the gun. Oh, Jenny, 8675309 would not have been a good time call.

But WHY AREN’T YOU HERE??? seemed to be exactly what I needed to hear, because I have been smiling ear to ear on a weekend when I predicted no such forecast, and thank the baby jesus for twitter and flickr and statcounter and voicemail. Thank mother nature, too, for endless miles of trails that allow me to put expensive shoes on all this running I have in me.

Mostly, thanks to all your boys who kept your bread buttered and your event smooth. Not being there is to appreciate what it is to be there. It is a rare gift to enjoy friends defacing your head from thousands of miles away.

photos courtesy of the indomitable jenny of runjenrun and tequilacon fame.

/ No means not now not never

2008-05-02T14:10:00.000-07:00

- You must know that I would get a secret thrill if you ever asked me to identify random birds and trees.

- Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry! I will from now on!

- No. It wouldn’t be the same now.

* * *

- Hey, guess what name I am thinking of!

- No.

- Oh, come on! Guess!

- No.

- Come ooonnnnn, guess!

- There are like a million names. No.

- I’ll give you a hint: J

- Jay?

- No. I’ll give you another hint: J-A

- Jay?

- Noooo! J-A-M

- Jam?

- Gawwwd!

* * *

- Maybe you should try asking, 'HAVE YOU EVER FELT _x_ WAY BEFORE?'

- No.

- Why not?

- Because no one can possibly ever know how I feel.

- OMG that is EXACTLY how I feel! How are you so intuitive like that?

- I said no.

/ Creeps

2008-05-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

i really should be a professional job interviewee, because regardless of my actual success, i am awfully entertaining. i sincerely enjoy the sort of professional/casual banter where you balance I AM SUPREMELY PROFESSIONAL AND QUALIFIED with YOU WOULD ENJOY HAVING A DRINK WITH ME AFTER WORK.

the part i enjoy the most, though, is the part where the someone who was recruited against her will begins the post-interview tour, so that you can fall in love with the place where you will never set foot again. i even said as much (MY ONLY REAL SLIP UP OF THE DAY) and somehow got through the awkward silence, and then somehow really got on well with my erstwhile host. i am purposefully misusing the word erstwhile, because i like the way it sounds in this sentence.

in my head, the word i used most often was fetching.

and then for some reason in the middle of a conversation it felt as though a bug had gotten into my shirt, a moth or spider, and it tickled all the way down to my belly and i squirmed and tried to carry on the conversation, and when she looked a way, i smashed the spot where i thought it was, but felt nothing and realized that it was probably a brain tumor. i have always prided myself on knowing that when the imaginary bugs started crawling, i would recognize them as imaginary immediately, no matter how annoying the realism. i would simply say, 'they're not real. they are only real in your tumor infested brain.'

unless someone points at an insect on my face and asks OH MY GOD HOW COME YOU ARE NOT SCREAMING? i will maintain my calm.

hey, you know the best thing about a new job? the new people, the pay raise, the bigger office??? NOPE. the best part about a new job is ALL THE SHIT DUE LAST WEEK AT YOUR OLD ONE.

i am both ecstatic and ex-static today, having finally resolved to sell my soul to someone who will not love me back. the dream died hard, and i am fresh out of reincarnation. i am lacking for intimate touch this week, but making up for it in creepy crawlies and firm handshakes.

/ Gallantly Fleeting

2008-04-30T10:13:00.000-07:00

Do you say artsy or arty?

Dang these pretty girls, I prefer artistic, but I say, ‘um, artsy.’

I am not lacking for invitations these days, but am sorely in need of the will to say, ‘LOOK! OVER THERE!’ and runrunrun. My calendar is a bullet-ridden ramparts, pock marked and refilled with red clay mortar. My checking account is teeming with the blood money of broken dates and rendezvous. I am afraid to open my inbox, I just know it has been rigged for my displeasure.

That said, I cannot deny the excitement around me at the moment, and if karma is to intervene in my personal affairs, at least it has seen fit to put me up in nice accommodations. I am booking flights for Denver and Salt Lake City, the latter muchly appreciated for its blue laws and mild alcoholic content.

/ National Lurking Day

2008-04-28T23:12:00.000-07:00

I occasionally get the most enigmatic messages from someone who doesn't read this site (Hi Mary!) because in spite of all her PhDs and JDs and various other Ds hasn't figured out that I know how to haunt the internet like nobody's home. And my response is typical what-comes-after-beta male behavior: pen an equally enigmatic post about bar napkins or the burn of sunlight on bloodshot eyes or how to survive a sudden reversal of the Earth's gravity.

I swear to god, if the way to my heart isn't shameless flattery, by god it must be purposeful bewilderment. I can't tell you how many women have busted my will simply by virtue of their poor grammar or woefully misheard song lyrics or just plain, flat-out dementia. Not to mention the really hot ones. With or without the aforementioned qualities. Mercy!

That said, I am in a fragile, vulnerable state and must hereby declare National LURKING Day. I am requesting those of you who visit this site NOT to leave any comments, because, seriously, who doesn't NOT like to see a full comment box every now and then? I equate it to working as a speech pathologist and after a long day of dealing with pathological speakers, you get home to a house full of people who want to, you guessed it, speak to you. This is why you don't want to be married to, what is it? A Chef? A Marriage Counselor? Contortionist? I forget the joke.

Seriously, would it hurt you to NOT leave a comment? Shhh!

/ Give Pizza Chants

2008-04-27T17:38:00.000-07:00

Last night we gorged on pizza and chips to celebrate the culmination of a successful SAVE THE FISH campaign. In the past, we have always failed in our efforts and one or two trout invariably became casualties in our long-standing conflict (CAN MAN AND FISH EVER CO-EXIST PEACEFULLY???).

But this year, we had sheer numbers on our side. And for the first time, women were actively engaged in the front line. Although I am sure they are too humble to assume any sort of trailblazing credit, the fact is, fish have ALWAYS died when there were NO WOMEN present. And this year, NO fish came to harm. Clearly, victory falls along gender lines, and I am a big enough man to admit I had no part in previous year failures to save the fish.

Not to say that there weren’t some close calls. Early on, a rather large triploid got tangled in our warning lines, and jumped straight into the air, causing an osprey to swoop down and try to rescue the poor fish. But there was no danger. We applied years of NOT CATCHING FISH expertise and freed the creature before any permanent harm was done. We shed tears of joy, and still are.

Sadly, we would have SAVED EVEN MORE FISH, but one of our soldiers was overcome with urinary intractability ALMOST AS SOON AS I SET ANCHOR, to the point where she was reduced to babbling, “DADDY, I WANT TO GO HOME RIGHT NOW!” The $200 of medical chocolate, palliative potato chips, soothing submarine sandwiches and various other sundries I bought the night before notwithstanding, no first aid could ease this weary soldier’s pain.

Still, even in our momentary setback, there was no doubting the courage we showed in NOT CATCHING A SINGLE GODDAMNED FISH. FOR INSTANCE, I THINK IT WAS SINGULARLY HEROIC OF ME NOT TO OPEN THAT BOTTLE OF WINE ON THE TABLE THAT HAS BEEN TORMENTING MY PACIFISM FOR THE LAST 45 MOTHERFUCKING DAYS.

Right now, I am working on how I can possibly save even more fish next year. I'm pretty sure it will involve playing golf.

/Rainbow SLAUGHTER

2008-04-25T09:11:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is opening day, and there is a raging debate going on right now about how young is too young for joining in the ritualized slaughter of fish named rather ironically after rainbows. But if I have learned anything this year (AND I ASSURE YOU THAT IS NOT THE CASE) it is that members of both sexes are equally capable of suffering at an early age. So sobriety be damned, tomorrow morning at 3 AM, god willing, I will have two miserable children in the boat with me, and each will likely learn what it means to work together for a common cause, and that cause will be taking turns whining, “CAN WE GO HOME NOW, BRANDON?”

They cannot call me ‘DAD’ because it would be embarrassing for the other fishermen to realize that I don’t have any friends and must rely on my children for forced companionship. For all of Alex’s wonderful features and shiny buttons, she has still not warmed to the prospect of murdering god’s creatures, not even those that were clearly bred for that very purpose (MISSION FULFILLMENT).

One tradition that will be cast by the wayside this year, sadly, is massive amounts of alcoholic consumption. Tomorrow is 45 days liquor free, which is probably the sentence I would have been serving had I done like the officer said and blew harder. THAT’S WHAT HE SAID. It really is what he said.

Do you know pathetic it is to be bent over sucking on a breathalyzer and trying not to giggle with a big, burly man looming over you shouting “COME ON, BLOW! HARDER! BLOW HARDER!”

Well, now you do.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t joke about this, but that was ages ago when I thought it was a moot promise being as how alcohol was the source of my humor. But I attended a banquet yesterday, where I interacted with strangers, including a very lovely young communications specialist, and I realized I HAVE STILL GOT IT. She was handing me the rolls, and then the little packets of margarine, which I promptly dropped onto the floor. But without missing a beat, I looked at her and said, ‘OOOPS….BUTTERFINGERS.”

Her long silence clearly proved that…oh never mind.

/ Fixative

2008-04-24T08:32:00.000-07:00

There is a young fella walking past my door lately, and on occasion he gets the jump on me in our race to the restroom, and he walks like the inside of his head is the secret location to that rave you suspect is in your neighborhood, like it is as obvious that he is grooving as it is obvious that he doesn't want you to know.

It is as if, and maybe I am projecting here, good things are happening and he is the type of person who does not believe good things should be happening, or he is the type of person who believes that if good things are happening you should be very quiet about it, in a superstitious sort of way.

I'm tired of feeling like I do not deserve the good as well as the bad, not because I am tired of guilt or reward, but I am just tired of thinking about the passing of time in those terms. Not angry tired. Sleepy tired. Thinking about karma makes me drowsy.

Personality wise, I am still like tofu, my tastes pretty much like my surroundings. Emotionally, though, I am corrugated cardboard, thin and sturdy. I laugh so much quieter than ever before. And my face has returned to the stoniness of its firefighter days. My face is ready to shine its indifference on whatever trauma may come.

We could hear him struggling to cough, then the tight whistle of air, like a faraway storybook train. We watched the hallway and knew he would come to us, panicky and desperate. I stood up and put my arm around his shoulder, more to keep Alex from slapping him on the back, one of those instinctual reactions that marks an unintended mistake. There was so little air, but not enough to carve lines into the granite face of my newfound indifference. When his knees buckled and he fell, Alex ran to the phone, but I caught him, could feel the rapidly beating heart. I said, 'No, no, stand up.' Briefly, I tried to remember where my old EMT kit was, a pair of Magill forceps inside. He stood, and coughed, forcefully this time. He was still holding onto the book he was reading. I breathed in the top of his head. 'You need a haircut.'

There is not much to do when the wind is blowing hard and fierce like that, other than to wait out the storm and, maybe if the lights go out, you can spend that time wondering whether or not this is deserved or random, or predictable like weather.

/ Drawn

2008-04-23T08:19:00.000-07:00

For a time, the Drawbridge Exercise raged like wildfire among college moralists, and a new teacher each semester would hand out the scenario and look with wide, ticking-clock eyes upon his subjects, laid out in their desk chairs lounging couch-like as could be. I hated the Drawbridge Exercise, and got to the point where I would give different answers each time, my subsequent responses growing increasingly obnoxious, my only means of striking out against this awful fad.

This is the exercise as I can best remember it:

A Baron departs from his castle and warns his wife, the Baroness, not to leave under any circumstances or there will be severe consequences. After a time, the Baroness grows lonely, and leaves the castle against her husband’s wishes, joining her Lover. Upon returning to the castle, however, there is a knife-wielding Madman who blocks her path and threatens to kill her if she tries to cross the gate. Panicked, the Baroness goes to the Boatman who offers to ferry her across the moat for 5 ducats (or shillings or sous or sovereigns, I can’t remember), but as she has no money, he says, ‘No money, no service!’ Desperate, the Baroness returns to her Lover and asks for money to cross the moat, but the Lover refuses, saying that their relationship is only physical and he doesn’t wish to be involved any deeper. Nearly out of time, the Baroness rushes to a Friend and confesses her situation, before pleading for the money. The Friend, shocked at the Baroness’ sins, proclaims that this is divine retribution and will not assist the Baroness. With no other options, the Baroness returns to the gate and makes an attempt to get past the Madman, but fails. The Madman slays the Baroness.

In order from 1 to 6, rank the 6 characters in this story (the Baron, the Baroness, the Lover, the Madman, the Boatman and the Friend) by their responsibility in the death of the Baroness, with 1 being ‘Most Responsible.’ Share your responses with the other students in your group, and then come to a consensus, and present this to the class.

This is how it often plays out:

The Madman 1 (BECAUSE HE ACTUALLY DID THE KILLING, TWINKIES BE DAMNED)

The Baron 2 (ABUSIVE SOB)

The Lover 3 (MOTHERFUCKER)

The Friend 4 (THE WHAT???)

The Baroness 5 (KARMIC RETRIBUTION)

The Boatman 6 (JUST DIDDLY-DOIN' HIS JOB)

I don’t know why I have always reacted so strongly against being forced to participate in this exercise, almost always with unfamiliar students. But there have been times when I have ranked them all 6, times when I half-heartedly ranked them how I think the others would do so. This invariably means that the Boatman is rated LEAST RESPONSIBLE, because he is just DOING HIS JOB.

So once, out of annoyance, I scored the Boatman a 1, and everyone rolled their eyes, because this was 13 years ago and I was a young, pompous know-it-all. FINE, BRANDON (YAWN), THE BOATMAN IS MOSSST RESPONSIBLE, OF COURSE. PLEASE TELL US WHY….

The teacher at that time asked me to explain my thinking, since no one in my group would allow the Boatman to take the lion’s share of the blame, and I stood and in my most obnoxiously hurtful tone, quietly recounted Martin Niemoller’s famous parable, you know, that story about how 'first they came for the communists, then they came for the unionists, then they came for the jews, etc.’ By the time I get to the ending and with a dramatic head flair, say, no, accuse ‘…AND BY THE TIME THEY CAME FOR ME, THERE WAS NO ONE LEFT TO STAND!,’ the other students are a bit quiet, like, WHAT JUST HAPPENED HERE? IS THIS BEING FILMED? ARE WE GOING TO HAVE TO START DELIVERING ELECTRIC SHOCKS TO EACH OTHER?

The teacher was orgasmic as all be-all, and it was agreed, that yes, yes, you see, that is what I am talking about, AIN’T NO RIGHT ANSWER WHEN IT COMES TO MORALITY, SHEEPLE.

And then I knew for certain that I wasn’t getting invited to any parties that semester. And I was right, which is why vindication is such a harsh-sounding word.

/ Sumptuaries

2008-04-21T20:54:00.000-07:00

A former colleague of mine once noted that the only reason I kept a certain book in plain view on my desk was to impress the girls, and as was befitting such an offensive slight against my impeccable character I quickly but firmly denied it even though it was nearly completely true. I say nearly completely because 10% of the reason it was still on my desk was that it had a lovely little note written inside that I could access every time my self-esteem dipped below the level at which I was no longer able to function as a contributing member of society. Obviously, this was well before the age of uploading self-portraits to flickr, marking them private, adjusting the contrast levels appropriately in photoshop and opening up the really hot ones for public comment. Ain't no sumptuary laws on the world wide web.

I came across this book today while searching for moths in the garage, and thought briefly about restoring it to its rightful place, atop my desk, right next to the chair that visitors use when they want to discuss how I can help them do their jobs better or what Cindy from Accounting said that Marge from Facilities said about JoAnn from Economic Development. But that prime piece of real estate is now occupied by an overexposed picture printed on the wrong side of budget photo printer paper, housed in a cheap frame probably picked up accidentally while searching for clearance rack bath towels. Replacing family photographs with anything other than more family photographs in a loose-lipped workplace is no remedy for ringing ears.

So I simply read the little note a final time and my faith in myself momentarily restored, crumpled it and tossed it in with the recycling. I am in a sorry state when I can measure my growth in destruction of mementos. Big things are happening. In very little ways.

It has been _41_ days since I last apologized without meaning it.

/ Banal Pleasures

2008-04-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

THURSDAY
Nothing is happening now worth noting, not even in a that is so banal I am helpless to look away sort of way. This is what happened today: On the way to work I tried to remember applying anti-perspirant. And not being able to do so, I panicked. I am not ashamed to admit I keep an emergency hygiene kit in the top left drawer of my desk. Also, a PLAN B EMERGENCY hygiene kit in the bottom right drawer. This kit contains everything in the emergency kit, only in mini-travel size, with the exception of tweezers. I’m kidding. Ahem.

Mile 1 – Think cool thoughts. Be the coolness.
Mile 2 – Lift your arms a little as you drive. 10 and 2. 10 aaaand 2.
Mile 3 – AVOID HEAVY LIFTING.
Mile 4 – NO SEX WITH GAS STATION ATTENDANTS.
Mile 5 – Loosen your collar. Think 70s.
Mile 6 – And so forth and so on.

I never thought, of course, to simply wipe the underside of my arm with an index finger and test for residue, because that would have required too much exertion before getting to the office to reach my emergency hygiene kit, which as I must reiterate, I am only kidding about.

* * *

FRIDAY
One of the things I do, as in What do you do for a living, Brandon, besides live so close to the edge but not too far away from your emergency hygiene kit?, is write grant proposals.

People who don’t realize this often come to me shortly after finding out and ask one of two questions:

1. Can you hook me up with some Degree Absolute Protection?
2. Hey, I hear you write grants. Can you write me a grant for x?

X is generally one of 4 things, none related to our reason for employment or close enough to ethical that my immediate reaction is to point to the new sign above my desk that reads:

"IT HAS BEEN _17_ MINUTES SINCE I LAST MENTIONED TO A CO-WORKER THAT I AM NO LONGER DRINKING."

Those 4 things are:

1. Can you write me a grant for STARTING MY OWN MILLION DOLLAR BUSINESS WHILE USING COMPANY PROPERTY AND YOUR TIME?

2. Can you write me a grant for GETTING MY COLLEGE DEGREE BUT PLEASE DO NOT TELL ANYONE WHO HAS USED MY RESUME AS A BASIS FOR MY HIRING?

3. Can you write me a grant for A TRIP THAT I WOULD LIKE TO TAKE MY FAMILY ON BECAUSE FAMILY IS IMPORTANT?

4. Can you write me a grant for A LAPTOP COMPUTER?

The only one that makes me angry is the laptop computer because funders hate requests for laptop computers and it makes me look like a noob.

Still, here is a sampling of my typical response:

1. I want to write a grant to see why you are still here.
2. I want to write a grant to help determine why mayonnaise tastes so good. And for those of you who do not think mayonnaise is sooo good, I want to write an additional grant to figure out what is wrong with you.
3. I want to write a grant to the National You Are Looking Fine Foundation (RARE).

* * *

SATURDAY
I will write more seriously about today’s trip to Deception Pass State Park later on, because I am getting all my paintball gear ready to see how long I would last in an actual combat situation. Last time I proved that I could last nearly a full half-day and would take at least one pre-teen to hell with me, glory hallelujah. The trick, my friends, is not to die for your country, but to make the other son-of-a-bitch die for his. An alternate trick, one which works better for someone with my own particular skill set (CAN PIECE TOGETHER MULTIPLE HYGIENE KITS ON SHORT NOTICE, WITH LITTLE TRAINING) is to PRETEND to die for your country by staying in a well-heated car until the enemy breaks for Michelobs and then open fire through the crack in your driver’s side window.

And what were parks called before there were cars, anyway?

Aww, I know what you are thinking. It must be awful to live with someone so constantly funny. It’s like, WHY CAN’T YOU SHUT IT OFF FOR A MINUTE? I’M GONNA NEED TO GO IN FOR SIDE REPLACEMENT!

/ my bike is a handbasket

2008-04-16T23:44:00.000-07:00

I am not thinking clearly these days but I swear to god I am going on a self-hate hiatus because I cannot help but get the feeling that if you hate yourself ALL THE TIME then it no longer qualifies as hate due to a lack of comparison, and the lack of hate is defined as love, so if you hate yourself constantly what you are really saying is that you looove yourself.

Let me get one out of my system, though. It will be like smoking an entire pack of smokes in one sitting and saying, 'OKAY, COLD TURKEY NOW, BABY.'

Just the other day I went for a 14 mile run (crazy) and halfway through, I saw a bird fly off into the deep, deep brush and decided to follow it well off the trail (not thinking clearly, see above) with the great big digital SLR camera I decided to hold in my hand while I ran 14 miles (CRAZY) and of course, there was no bird, there probably never was a bird, and suddenly half-lost and unable to find the trail (this is an exaggeration, but for effect) I stumbled across what looked like the remains of a flannel shirt and an old, rusted out bicycle.

(Damn! Just a week after purchasing a bicycle, too!) Of course, it was eerily silent, and remember, this was last weekend when I was still in my self-hate (really self-love) state of consciousness, so my moral compass was broke ass. I cupped my mouth and whispered, “is this anybody's bike?” and in a moment of weakness, picked up the bike and hurried through the brambles, actually cutting myself twice on the scotchbroom because I have to make this as dramatic as possible. One branch even knocked my hat off, and there was that tense scene where I debate leaving it, and stall, but wonder if MY ABANDONED HAT WILL LEAD THEM TO ME!!! (I don't know who THEM are, either.) I compromised by standing as far away as possible from my hat and leaning over to reach it with my finger tips, even going so far as to knock it away a few inches while perspiration gathered in slow motion on my brow.

This is the state I was in: no sooner had I started walking the old, abandoned bicycle down the trail that I thought, “WHAT IF THIS WAS STOLEN GOODS AND THE ONLY REASON IT WAS LYING THERE WAS BECAUSE TWO COMPETING MEXICAN GANGS SHOT THEIRSELVES OVER IT???”

I am ashamed to admit I gave the bike a good pat-down just in case it was hiding a tracking device underneath the seat, how valuable these Schwinn Worlds from 1984 (VINTAGE) were.

THEN (because I couldn't just drop the bicycle and run, now could I?) I started pushing it down the trail in a more frantic pace (ONLY 7 PARANOID MILES TO GO) and of course, a couple of cyclists rounded the turn, and I didn't want to look like the guy who can't make it up the hill, so, god, I am so embarrassed to admit this, BUT I ACTUALLY MOUNTED THE RUSTY BIKE AND STARTED PEDALING.

After a humiliatingly loud SQUERAWWWK as the utterly oxidized cassette bent to the power of fight or flight, I actually made forward progress on two completely flat tires. Oh, god, the looks on those faces as they passed me. I swear to god one of them mouthed, 'DO YOU THINK IT'S ART?'

This was unsustainable. I got back off the bike, which was a wise move being as how the thing had no brake or shift cables, braking primarily a function of the aforementioned FLAT TIRES, and started pushing. 6.5 miles to go.

Please do not think I am lying when I tell you that my next sadistic bicycle scenario was that the goddamned thing was cursed. This bears repeating, because I am trying to make a point. I IMAGINED THAT I WAS PUSHING A CURSED BICYCLE. And no matter how ridiculous I told myself this concept was, there was nothing I could do to get it out of my head.

So two miles down the path, I gave in and rolled the bike into the brush. Not the brush where I removed it, of course, BECAUSE THAT IS SURELY WHERE ALL THE BODIES ARE.

And then I ran. And at one point, I looked behind me and I saw a man riding a bicycle. And I thought, 'HOW COME HE IS THE ONLY CYCLIST NOT WEARING A HELMET I'VE SEEN? WHAT CAN THAT MEAN? HE KNOWS!' And the man, who obviously didn't know anything, didn't make things any easier by deciding to ride just slow enough so that he would be behind me for something like 4 miles. Gah.

Did I mention that I was running with a giant camera in my hand? I played out multiple scenarios by which I could use it as a weapon (MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST SHOW HIM YOUR RECENT PHOTOGRAPHS! ZING!). I even imagined being all cleverly non-violent and discharging the flash in the man's eyes just before he bashed my gourd in, but then remembered I am one of those snobby photogs who is adamantly against using flash under any circumstances, which apparently includes self-defense.

Ugh. This story is already too long, although it got funnier, trust me, and you should trust me about what is funny (THOUGH NOT WHAT IS CURSED) because I have completely lost my sense of humor, and that which tickles a humorless man must be funny, indeed.

Wow, I'm just re-reading this, and yes, apparently I HAVE lost my sense of humor, but at least my libido is gone as well. They went hand in hand, apparently. I guess it was a package deal.

It shames me to hit publish tonight. I won't do it.

Curses.

/ zipperina

2008-04-15T23:31:00.000-07:00

This isn’t considered waiting, it’s not. Not when you are perfectly occupied with counting the heads of those in line behind you, matching hats with coats, and styles you thought went out years and years ago, and you have got warm hands in your back pockets.

There is no malice in my bite, these days, there isn’t. Not when the strength has been sapped by toothpicks and fingernails and sitting in the backseat taking pictures of cars following along the curves of Bald Hill Road, one light out more often than not. Got those same hands around the wheel. One tickles the Maginot line down the center of my back beyond which I will break easy and surrender. Got no bite at all.

It can’t be called recovery, because it is not. Because there is as much regret in clarity of mind as there is in hazy details. I have photographs like forgotten childhood homes sitting in drawers and digitized, and what technology can do is feed some new kind of addiction, of being preoccupied with retracing all these missteps. I have taped footprints onto the tile, and I can dance along to the tinnitus. Got those hands in mine, now that I can lead again.

These are pictures I guess I took. I guess I was sort of relegated to the back seat. I guess I was two bottles of wine into the afternoon, as it was a workday. I guess it was on our way to my daughter’s birthday party. I don’t remember any bargaining. It doesn’t feel like begging when it’s you. What wouldn’t you give yourself if you needed it, no less kindness than you’d show to strangers. You certainly wouldn’t bare your teeth or mince words. I remember cars full of laughter, old Chevrolets with vent windows.

I remember trying to find an unfamiliar songbird in a Pacific Yew, searching every branch until the only reasonable conclusion was that it was the tree singing. That’s what I miss.

/ tret

2008-04-14T21:15:00.000-07:00

His answer to the question begins to fade into the background noise but comes back into focus when he says, '...MY LIFE WAS EMPTY, BUT NOW IT IS FULL.' Of course, OF COURSE I am forced to ponder this physical nature of human existence, because apparently it can be defined in terms of volume.

How full or empty is my own life? I wouldn't begin to know how I am supposed to measure this. What is the capacity of my vessel? Am I supposed to leave a little space towards the top for when it's freezing?

Can it be considered full regardless of the contents, or are some liquids more filling than others? Are we measuring by weight or by volume?

I am much faster and much more light-footed on the trail when my life is empty, all that excess weight unburdened from my jug of contentment, no longer swishing around when I face a sudden stop or have to jump because a deadly creature lunges from beyond the looking grass. California quails, mostly.

My life is over-full, now, I say to the radio, and it is spilling all over the seat. My life used to be empty and I had something to strive for, something beyond clearance rack painkillers and single-use cameras. Now my main objective is not splashing my contents all over unworthy strangers who need to work for theirs. I have no interest in trading up for a new container, in fact, I'm thinking of downsizing to a paper cup, it will be so much easier to fill. I want to pour it out when no one is watching, fill it up again and pour it out where everyone can see.

I want to spend entire summers filling that emptiness, then douse the wildfires that last into the fall.

/ Karma-lized

2008-04-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

To be aware that you are slowly losing your mind as you are slowly losing your mind must be maddening, but only if you have tied your happiness to your sanity with a Gordian Knot. Otherwise, there is no reason for you to come undone, even in the face of cognitive collapse.

A bit of a reprieve from the slow march of dementia, the weather broke and suddenly there we were, all four of us, in for $10,000 each to fund the war in Iraq (I suppose I am good for it, but the kids haven't earned their shoe-factory papers, yet), but still insane enough to pop down the debit card for more bicycle equipment and give the finger to big oil.

I fully admit to letting my bike fall kick-stand first when I saw the stranger pointing two fancy monocles joined together in some odd fashion towards the top of a cone bearing tree.

Only bird watching could ever match alcohol for disinhibiting my social inhibitions. “WHATCHA SEE? HMM?”

“TWO CROSSBILLS! DO YOU WANT TO LOOK THROUGH MY BIRD GOGGLES?”

“DO I!”

And yes, I realized two things, 1. that crossbills do in fact nest along the bike path. And 2. THIS IS HOW I MUST APPEAR TO OTHER PEOPLE.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, losing your mind. But before I get to that, let me tell you about the 4 hours I spent on my last day of vacation taking close-up photographs of skunk cabbage.

* * *

Today, me and the boys hit the links and, what the hell, I thought, as long as I am giving up on everything new again, let's pull out my old clubs from college. They were the loneliest set of clubs across the whole of middle Missouri, and they were my only friends for how many years I am too ashamed to recount.

They were bitter that I had forgotten their contribution to my life for so long, and I was duly karma-lized until we got out of the rough on hole 8. I shot a 38 the last 9 holes, and realized, my god, I must be losing my mind to have neglected friends like these.

Me and my partner won the match, and the defeated party had to buy the first round. Two Bitburgers and a, “UM, WHAT'LL IT BE, BRANDON???”

“I think I'll have, uh let's see, waitress, do you have any diet coke..on tap?”

/groan

God. They won't even tell dirty jokes around me any more!

Later, Alex and I went back to that very same restaurant and sat at the very same table, and after she ordered her mocha-tini, I thought, to hell with it all. I'm having a drink.

And I did.

A goddamned club soda.

“DO YOU WANT A SIP OF MY MOCHA-TINI?”

“I think I just want to sit here very quietly for a moment.”

And then she pushed her drink aside and she put her hand on mine and she said, “I am so proud of you.”

It is day 32.

/ Upland Game

2008-04-09T20:14:00.000-07:00

We only quieted down when we got to the letter U.

“Unicorn?” he offered.

“That's good. But there has to be a real animal.”

“Tiger?” she said.

“That's good, too, sweetie, but we just did T.”

“Lion?”

“That's good, too, sweetie, but we need one for U.”

* * *

I am on a vacation of sorts. Last week, I just said, 'ENOUGH.' And I stopped working, and I started spending. Our garage is full of bicycles and bicycle trailers and maps and nonperishable food and cameras and sketch pads and elbow pads and frisbees and oil change receipts and exhortations.

If I cannot run, then I will rebel by riding, and each day's major event seems to augur a bigger spring than our expectations allow. On Monday we were chased by a dog. On Tuesday, we spied a pair of otters on the dock. Today we saw a couple of crows wrestling in the grass.

“They're not wrestling!”

“Lion?”

* * *

There is a bird in one of my books that has 'upland' in its name, but I can't think of it.

Unbelievably, I have nearly cut off my left index finger again, because when I try to relax I only succeed in testing my warranty.

“Back when I used to do this, I would immediately down a tumbler of whiskey, and oh, the pain disappeared. I could wash that wound out without flinching.”

“Now, I have to probe it and see and feel and understand at the same time, that it doesn't hurt, but it hurts. I don't want to think about it, mostly.”

“I have to jump up and down and clench my muscles and swear and be cognizant at the same time how I must appear.”

* * *

“When Mommy gets home she has to a*pol*o*gize to me. That means say sorry.”

This is a lesson I taught yesterday, without even referring to my user's manual, and I am sorry for it.

“I am sorry, sweetie. I am sorry you had to learn that.”

* * *

This was the week I was supposed to neglect responsibilities and loved ones and my health, and instead they have selfishly taken the lion's share of my time, especially these little urchins, with their easy-access buttons and sugary appetites and disarming forgiveness, anesthetized curiosities.

By the time my fuel runs out, I realize I am by myself for the first time in a week. Normally, it is like drowning, trying to get on so close to other people, and it is the vastness of this place that makes it impossible to leave. It is not their fault, in fact, it has been bearable these few days. It is not their fault, that they are so lifelike, that they wake us and demand to be fed, and I am kissed on the shoulder when I delay, even on my very own vacation.

/ Get it?

2008-04-08T11:57:00.000-07:00

I realize that laughter is the best medicine if only because it's free and yet here I have been going on and on about recovery and addiction and religion and herpes and politics and none of that is remotely funny except for herpes. Unfortunately, I am spending most of my days lately with a 5 year old, and the only appropriate punchlines are:

1. no, it's SNOT
2. hannah BANANA
3. PARROT teacher conference
4. I WILL BUY YOU A BICYCLE IF YOU PROMISE TO STOP CRYING
5. you don't want daddy to start drinking again, DO YOU?!? (requires a sort of desperate stare to elicit laughter)
6. GOD, JESUS GOD ALMIGHTY, why? (the 'why' should be whispered as softly as possible)
7. (simply sitting on the floor with one sock on and staring at your hands usually works)
8. (calling people who clearly recognize your voice and saying, “I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong number”)
9. a COOKIE monster!

There are two side effects I am dealing with that concern me. One is that I am eating inordinate amounts of candy in an attempt to identify the world's sweetest. The other (TOTALLY UNRELATED I'M SURE) is an obsession with reading about the symptoms of hyperglycemia (while checking my carotid pulse for emphasis):

Polyuria – Frequent bathroom 'breaks': CHECK
Polydipsia – Unquenchable thirst: CHECK
Weight Loss – CHECK
Impotence – CHECK MATE BITCH
Coma – I STOPPED CARING AFTER IMPOTENCE

Still, I think I will have a couple more Fun Dips and practice my ADVANCED DECREASED CONSCIOUSNESS AND CONFUSION EXERCISES, because, um, well, uh. Because. HAHAHAHAHA

FAIL