Growing Panes

I marvel sometimes at how my point of view regarding things changes as as I...mature (I almost said "age"...the two words aren't necessarily synonomous). I suppose it is to be expected. Experience is supposed to teach you what to expect. So logically experience teaches you to rethink your expectations. So you look at things differently after you've been through them a few times.

This is not to say I consider myself a particularily wise man. I just look at things differently than I did when I was...less experienced (I almost said "younger").

Now looking at things differently doesn't necessarily mean I don't occasionally repeat the same mistakes even after having experienced something that one would think would make me try a different tactic. This mainly involves engaging my mouth before my brain. You'd be amazed at how much faster my mouth is than my brain. I know I am.

I've always had this uncanny ability to be able to blurt out a response to something that, although occasionally quite funny, is often inappropriate or ill timed. Why? Because my brain is usually still reviewing the pros and cons of what I am considering saying while my mouth is already dashing out the door with it like a male dog unleashed on the neighbors poodle in heat. The results are initially quite satisfying but ultimately can lead to a high degree of unanticipated ugliness when the puppies are born.

I'm not even sure where that analogy came from, but it oddly fits (or fits oddly).

Fortunately when I was a child, in addition to having a quick tongue, I also had quick feet to run when what I'd say would sink into my brother's slower brains.

When I got older (yes older) and slower, I learned to control my penchant for blurting things out by mumbling. That way only people with very keen hearing can understand what I'm blurting out. In school this often caused problems for anyone sitting next to me in class. They would burst out laughing at something inappropriate I'd interject regarding the teacher and then get the brunt of the teacher's anger for interrupting the class. I would just sit there smiling angelic-like until I found another opportunity to mumble a wisecrack.

This coping mechanism has stayed with me as an adult in the business world. I get bored easily at meetings and mumble uncontrollably at times. The unfortunate side effect is that my normal speaking voice seems to have become one big mumble. Tess is always asking me to repeat things. Depending on the topic of my mumbling I normally just say in a slightly louder voice, "Oh nothing."

Perhaps this is why I became a writer. It allows me think a bit longer before I speak and it is difficult to mumble when you write. The closest thing there is in the written word to mumbling is gibberish (and some bloggers have turned gibberish into an artform).

Unfortunately, electronic communications have chipped away at that lag time writing used to provide us between thinking and speaking. E-mail (and blog comments) allow us to type before we think. But this is where experience kicks in (I bet you were wondering if there was a caboose to this train of thought). I have learned to type my unthinking responses and then think about them before I hit send. Then in most cases I do the right thing and hit "delete."

I wish I had a delete key for my mouth.

Dark clowns

Well they're some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown when there's no one around
Oh yeah, baby baby, oh yeah baby baby
--Smokey Robinson, "Tears of a Clown"

Sometimes being a clown is no laughing matter. If you look beyond the joy buzzers, whoopee cushions, seltzer bottles and pies in the face, you just may notice that the grease paint smile cloaks a grimace.

To "send in the clowns" is a signal at a circus that a disaster has occured and the clowns must create a distraction. A rodeo clown is summoned to flirt with death to rescue the cowboy from the horns of a raging bull. Balloon animal sculpture clowns are called to hover in hospital wards to take patient's minds off pain with inflated poodles and giraffes. But who eases the pain of a clown?

It's time for all of us to take a moment and thank clowns for all they do turn our frowns upside down. Join the Save the Clown Foundation today and brighten a dark clown's life.

Call 1-800-RED-NOSE, today. The clown you save may be your own.

True colors

Flowers are Red by Harry Chapin
(Spoken)Your son marches to the beat of a different drummer, comma.
(Spoken)But don't worry,
(Spoken)We'll have him joining the parade by the end of the term

The little boy went first day of school
He got some crayons and started to draw
He put colors all over the paper
For colors was what he saw
And the teacher said.. What you doin' young man
I'm paintin' flowers he said
She said... It's not the time for art young man
And anyway flowers are green and red
There's a time for everything young man
And a way it should be done
You've got to show concern for everyone else
For you're not the only one

And she said...
Flowers are red young man
Green leaves are green
There's no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said...
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

Well the teacher said.. You're sassy
There's ways that things should be
And you'll paint flowers the way they are
So repeat after me.....

And she said...
Flowers are red young man
Green leaves are green
There's no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said...
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

The teacher put him in a corner
She said.. It's for your own good..
And you won't come out 'til you get it right
And are responding like you should
Well finally he got lonely
Frightened thoughts filled his head
And he went up to the teacher
And this is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There's no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen

Time went by like it always does
And they moved to another town
And the little boy went to another school
And this is what he found
The teacher there was smilin'
She said...Painting should be fun
And there are so many colors in a flower
So let's use every one

But that little boy painted flowers
In neat rows of green and red
And when the teacher asked him why
This is what he said.. and he said

Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There's no need to see
flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen.

But there still must be a way to have our children say . . .

There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

Thanks Harry, wherever you are!

#550-Shadows

It's hard to top Sperm whale vomit as a post topic. I mean where do you go from there (hopefully up)? I suppose I could talk about my mixed feelings about being part of a team blog -- Freedom's Place.

First I am still a bit fuzzy as to the point of a team blog if you are all randomly posting about unrelated subjects. Isn't the point for everyone to write about the same topic, like needlepoint or yak butter recipes?

Second I was never really keen on the name "Freedom's Place." It sounds like a commune out of the 60s and conjures up images of hairy-legged woman wearing Birkenstocks with purple socks.

I would have opted for something a bit more esoteric without any political overtones. For example, maybe it should have been called "Ambergris" with the subtitle, "We write about whatever irritates us and comes up."

I've also never been much of a fan of committees, nor am I a joiner. I don't like being part of clubs, organizations, religions, mailing lists, or fraternal organizations that require you to wear a fez. I am an introvert and find groups of any kind rather distressing.

Okay, we all have our own blogs anyway. What is the point of posting on a team blog what we could have posted on our own blog? Wouldn't it be easier to just have a link to our blog than posting on another blog?

Don't get me wrong. I admire THE Michael's social experiment. I think Freedom's Place will be a great outlet for some people. But personally I think it does take a village to raise an idiot and something tells me that is the niche reserved for me in Freedom's Place.

So I may occasionally visit Freedom's Place, my real place is here at Dizgraceland. I feel more comfortable in the shadows than the light.

Ambergris by any other name is still whale puke

Well, actually ambergris is Sperm whale puke. It's this fatty substance that upchucked from a Sperm whale's intestine when they are trying to get rid of an irritant they've ingested. Squid beaks are apparently the most common irritant found in Sperm whale puke (I'd suggest going easy on the calamari at parties if you are a Sperm whale).

For some inexplicable reason, ambergris has been used as a fixative in expensive perfumes. It helps keep scents from fading quickly. And even more inexplicably was a fad during the Renaissance to craft jewellery out of ambergris.

Did I mention that this is Sperm whale puke we are talking about? Who was the first person to think up the possible uses for Sperm whale puke? More importantly, why?

The weird thing is that abergris is worth a small fortune. If you find a chunk of it while you are beachcombing you are talking major bucks if you recognize it as ambergris and not just a chunk of gunk with squid beaks sticking out. Depending on the quality of the ambergis you find, is worth about $20 a gram. That's premium puke.

This proves to me that people will buy anything (which is why eBay is so successful). I'm seriously thinking of going out an find me a Sperm whale and sticking my finger down its throat.

I find it odd

I have never been a person who had lots of friends. Oh, I have work friends. You spend 40-plus hours a week at a place and survival dictates that you have a group of people you can go to coffee with or lunch. But work friends come and go as they get new jobs and move on. So you develop this attitude like a kid who moves alot growing up. You keep work friends in perspective. They come, they go. When they go, they are gone.

Anyway, most of my friends now are blogger friends. It is a bit like having imaginary friends. You never actually see them, but I'll be darned if they aren't more real than any non-virtual friend. I get involved in their lives. I get to know their quirks. We tease each other. We support each other. We get mad at each other and we forgive each other. But like my work friends., they come and they go. When they go, they are gone.

This is another aspect of aging. You get used to this pattern of friends, real or virtual, coming and going. I don't pretend to understand it. I've just grown to expect it and accept it. I can't say I ever have really gotten used to it. I have always envied people who have had life-long friends. I'm not sure whether it is just me that lacks the life-long friend gene or it is a myth that they exist.

Maybe that is why I blog. Maybe that is why Norm hung out at Cheers where everybody knows your name. Sometimes you need to be in an environment where people accept you...know you (or think they know you)...and are happy to see you. Because if there is really no meaning in life, at least you want to mean something to someone.

Match Point

I'm actually amazed at the number of phrases in the English language that contain the word "point," especially when you make a point to use them.

See!

By the way, a moot point is not one that isn't worth talking about. It means a point that is open to debate. I thought that was kind of interesting. I just wanted to point that out.

See!

One thing you may have noticed about me if you've read my blog for any length of time is my tendency towards obsessiveness about topics. Once I'm going down the path with one I have a hard time letting it go without making as many pointed remarks as possible.

See!

I think I've made my point.

Vanishing point

It does seem pointless at times to try and make a point. Points are fleeting at best. Even the sharpest points are mutable with time and experience. Case in point, the meaning of life. I think it changes depending upon what point you are in your life.

I realize I'm probably not scoring any points with those people who are used to fixed points or are expecting a thousand points of enlightenment. All I can do is point you in the right direction. At that point you are on your own.

BTW, the photo above is not an example of Pointillism.

The point of meaning...

In a recent comment, Hayden questioned the purpose of searching for meaning in life as opposed to (and I paraphrase) simply being. It is a good question. Do we need to know the meaning of our existence to exist? Or do we need simply need to exist to have meaning?

Why is it that good questions always seem to raise more questions than answers? I have been sitting here pondering whether I actual seek meaning in life or whether I simply live. I know I have admitted that I accept who I am becoming, but is that the same as accepting why I am here?

I think it is impossible to live a life that doesn't somehow intersect or impact others. Whether you believe you are a world unto your self or the world is your oyster, the very act of living is subject to cause and effect. Even if you are a lump that never moves, you breathe your share of air and produce your share of waste matter. Shit really does happen. And one man's shit is another man's fertilizer.

I'm not a big believer in randomness. Just look at Fibonacchi numbers. It is a number system modelled after the rate at which rabbits muliply (have babies, not do times tables). Fibonacchi numbers can be found throughout nature, including the spirals of pine cones. How random is that?

That old game called Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon involved trying to name any film actor in history and linking them somehow to Kevin Bacon, the actor. The game was a microcosm of that phenomenon of life that defies randomness and ties us somehow with everyone and everything else. Because like it or not, we are all connected somehow and in some way. So, I suppose a life may not have a point, but I believe it always has a meaning.

Well hell

One might believe that because I don't believe in the traditional hell and heaven that I am not a spiritual person. This is not true. I believe in karma. I believe in Quantum Physics. I believe in the power of the mind. I believe in spirits. I believe that children are our future.

Okay, you get my point. Don't assume that because someone doesn't believe in the same thing that you do that they don't believe in something. And never believe that your belief system is the only one that has any validity. That kind of arrogance will get you your own level of hell (which doesn't exist, but you'll go there anyway because you believe in it).

I believe we all create our own reality (I'm not sure who created George W. Bush, but could you give us a break and pull your head out of your ass). Everything we see, hear, say, do is sucked through that wrinkled gray matter of our own brain and then projected on the screen that is our life. That is the reality of things. If you don't like the script, toss it in the trash and open a new one.

But this time, write a happy ending.

The devil you say

I don't believe in hell. At least I don't believe in hell, the place. Well, I do believe there is a town in Grand Cayman called Hell. But you don't go there when you die. You go there when you are on a Caribbean cruise. That is an important distinction.

Not believing in hell bothers some people. One, it doesn't mean much when they tell me to go there. It's kind of like calling your parent's bluff when they say they are going to count to three when they are trying to make you do something. Though my mom generally only got to two before I caved. I never really wanted to find out what happened after she counted to three. My father never counted. He just smacked you.

But I digress.

Not believing in hell conversely means I don't believe in heaven either. So, I'm really messing with some people's punishment-reward motivation concept in controlling behaviour. But if punishment-reward motivation worked, we wouldn't have so many prisons now would we? So what good is hell and heaven in controlling morality?

I'm amazed that there are people who can't accept that heaven and hell aren't literally, physical places that people go to when they die based on which side of the moral ledger they end up on. If anything, heaven and hell are metaphors for the states of mind we can reward or damn ourselves with.

Isn't that a hell of a concept?

Happy belated birthday Elvis

Many years ago I attended an art show at Seattle's Center of Contemporary Art. In it were several artist designed shrines. I couldn't afford to buy one of the work of art shrines so I decided to create my own. So I built the one stop worship shop and shrine to the King of Rock and Roll.

I bought an old cabinet at St. Vincent's and spray painted it black on the outside and gold on the inside. The top shelf was dedicated to Elvis. The bottom shelf contained symbols of everything we hold holy: cars, cigarettes, food, alchohol, sex, science and money. There were a few religious icons thrown in as well.

I placed the shrine on top of two carved kneeling camels I'd salvaged from an old bar I bought at an auction. They were originally from Thailand. I spray painted them gold.

I maintained the shrine for more than a decade. I'd add things to it every year when the Shopping Channel had their annual Elvis sales. It eventual expanded to pretty much the entire family room of my old house.

In retrospect, it was kind of an odd thing. Fortunately I was a bachelor and very few people ever saw it. The Elvis shrine was more or less dismantled and discarded just before Tess and I got married and combined households. The King may be the King, but love is love.

January 8th was Elvis' birthday. He would have been 72. I missed the birthday. Sorry Elvis. This would never have happened when I was Tim-Elvis. But Tim-Id is getting older and forgets things now and then. Elvis, however, is still the king and shrine or no shrine still deserves some recognition. Happy Belated Birthday Elvis! You rocked dude!

Bless the beasts

The East Coast of the United States may be basking in balmy, spring-like weather, but here in the Great Pacific Northwest, our winter of discontent continues. In short, everything is frozen. But our cats remain blissfully oblivious to the frozen tundra outside the front door. They truly know how to relax.

Keliki, the big ol' boy sprawled out on his leopard print lounger (Tess' purchase) wrote the book on relaxing. Keliki was born in Jakarta, Indonesia. Tess was teaching there several years ago and found him on a golf course when he was a kitten and adopted him. He immigrated to the United States in 2001 and has grown fat and sassy in the land of milk and honey.

Lahaina, the one with the Phantom of the Opera mask, was born in Puyallup, Washington. She has 13 toes total on her front paws. This is known as polydactyl or "many toed." Her paws are like baseball mitts. Although she is laying around like a normal cat in this photo, she also spends a great deal of time sprawled out on her back with her legs stretched out. I think she picked this up from Keliki.

I like to watch the cats kick back. They don't worry about much other than where to sleep next, when to eat and where to cough up a hairball. I, on the other hand, have to worry about getting up in the morning, driving on roads that look like a Zamboni proceeded me and going to work.

Sometimes I wish I was a cat. But then again, Keliki had his testicles removed by an Indonesian Vet named Dr. Daisy.

I guess I'm good just being me.

I, Tim Id

Self-image is an odd thing. How can we look in a mirror and truly see ourselves when everything...literally everything is filtered through our mind.

Ironically, I think this is why I hate photos of myself. And ironically, this is why I think I Photoshop so many photos of myself. I want to fix those flaws my mind's eye sees.

I realize this isn't particularly entertaining or enlightening for anyone but me. But I'm really fighting this trap of blogging what you think people want to read.

What is it though that makes you read other people's blogs? Sometimes I read someone's blog and I feel like a voyeur peeping through a virtual window. But then I realize that I wouldn't be looking if they hadn't left their virtual shades up. What is the point of blogging if no one reads it? If you write a blog and no one reads it, does it still make a point? What is the sound of one hand blogging? Show me the face you had before you were blogging?

Shit. I sound like a broken record. And the full moon has waned. What do I blame it on now?

Paint by numbers

One of my father's hobbies was painting those paint-by-number kits you could buy at K-Mart. He mainly painted horses and a few landscapes He was actually pretty good at it. The framed horse paintings hung on the walls of our family room for years while I was growing up.

I suppose in the purest sense, it wasn't really art. But it made him happy.

I feel the same way about my Photoshop creations. Sure I'm simply slapping my face on someone else's painting and making a few clicks of the mouse. But damn it is kind of fun. And there is an art in doing it in a way that isn't totally obvious. Plus it fulfills my rich fantasy life of being famous or infamous (delusions of grandeur?).

I am easily pleased. But hey, some people drape fabric along a stretch of highway and call it art. At least I'm building on the classics.

We art what we art through art.

Is it unbecoming to be becoming?

Hayden wrote another one of her great, "damn now I have to think" posts called "Becoming." The post was about finding yourself versus becoming yourself (my interpretation). She did not intend it as a Meme, but she did ask all of us, "What are you becoming?"

This question makes more sense if you are middle aged and comfortable in the fact that you don't know anything than it would if you are in your 30s and a little pissed that things aren't working out the way you planned them when you were in your 20s and knew everything.

First, I have learned many things as I fade into middle age. One is that John Lennon was right when he said, "Life is what happens while you are making other plans." I have spent a lot of energy in my life wondering what my special purpose is (not the same special purpose that Steve Martin discovered in the movie "The Jerk"...I discovered that a long time ago). I'm pretty sure that the meaning of life is living it.

I know that aging does not guarantee you are becoming wiser. Some people just get old. Some try and stave it off by trying to act young and spouting cliche shit about "you are as old as you feel." If that is true then sometimes I feel like a freakin' 100-year old.

I would like to say that I am becoming better with time like a fine wine. But anyone who has drank their share of wine know that even really old wine can suck, especially if it is "corked." The best wine is the one you drink and get a mellow buzz from. Some of these wines have screw tops instead of corks.

I won't say I know what I want to be when I grow up. I do know that I more or less have always wanted to be a writer. And I write. Now granted, I write a blog read by maybe nine people on a good day, but they are good people. And I am becoming content with just writing and not caring what anybody else thinks about the quality of my writing.

You know. What I am really becoming is content. I tried religion, therapy, crystals, affirmations, anti-depressants, co-dependence, self-loathing and more self-help books than I care to shake a preverbial stick at. It wasn't until I finally got married (at aged 47 mind you) that I stopped always focusing on myself and started thinking my becoming may just be enhanced by putting something else before me.

I won't go as far as saying I am totally comfortable when I look in the mirror, but I sleep at night and I get up in the morning. So what if I'm not the president of the United States (wouldn't that be a downer). So what if I haven't written the great American novel (most of the world doesn't speak English anyway). And so what if I am not a household name. While the famous age and then fade into oblivion, screaming to be remembered for who they were, I age and simply am who I am.

I am enjoying starting to enjoy my becoming and be-going.

Field of Dreams

Tess and I went to the Seahawks first playoff game tonight against the Dallas Cowboys. We had pregame field passes and got to watch the Cowboys and the Seahawks warm up. I saw Terrell Owens up close.

And of course Shawn Alexander.

There was Drew Bledsoe:

And Matt Hassleback:

Cool.

They also won.
Priceless.

Makes me want to scream

Around Halloween a year ago, I wrote a post called "I ain't afraid of no ghost." It was my typical tongue in cheek post about ghostly orbs in a photograph I took in Salt Lake City. I Photoshopped Brigham Young's face into the photo. It was obviously a fake. Today I got this anonymous comment on that post from some twit who had stumbled in via a Google search:

"this shit is FAKE!!!i went to scool at marchman tech,for commercial art and we did that crap all the time!!u guys are NUTSACKS"

First I hate anonymous comments. Second I hate the fact that people aren't required to take an IQ test before they are allowed on the Internet. Here was my reply to the twit:

"Dear Anonymous,
Really? Fake? You think so? You got me there. Who said cousins mating can't produce a freakin genius? And Marchman Tech must be one hell of a "scool" to have have trained such a sharp tool such as you.

But do me a favor. Next time you call someone a nutsack, at least have the balls not to remain anonymous you dimwitted ass."

I just wish the mental midget actually could find their way back to read the reply. But something tells me this piece of crap isn't smart enough to find his ass in the dark with both hands.

Lunatic

Another full moon. Once again I felt it before I saw the damned thing. I swear the gravity of it sucks all of the blood into my brain and aggitates the heck out of me. It seems logical, doesn't it? The moon causes the tides. Why wouldn't it have the same effect on my brain?

Great. That Kia commercial where they sing the song from the Sound of Music just came on. Now it is floating around in my moon sucked brain singing over and over again, "So long, fair well, aufweidersehen, good bye. Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you." Khaki wearing, car selling bastards! Make them stop!

Sorry. Ignore me. I'm not myself. It's the moon talking. I'll be fine tomorrow. The moon will wane. I'll be back to normal.

Whatever that is. How can anyone be normal in a world where something called El Nino is messing with the weather everywhere. I wouldn't be suprised if it starts raining bullfrogs and iquanas.

That would actually be kind of cool. It would be hard to clean up the driveway though. I wonder if the leaf sucker works on bullfrogs and iquanas.

Oh well, adieu, adieu, to you and you and you.

Bastards.

Eye of the beholder

"I see," said the blindman as he picked up his hammer and saw.

I'm of the opinion that most people look at the world but don't see very much. Ironically, that is an observation.

I'm probably just as guilty of not seeing as everyone else. I work in downtown Seattle. Although not a big city by New York standards, it is a city. And I am able to walk by a homeless person sitting on the sidewalk without seeing them just as well as any New Yorker.

It is a defense mechanism. If I see poverty and suffering I will feel this twinge of guilt that I should be doing something about it. Handing the homeless person the 73 cents change from my Grande Americano with room I had at Starbucks never seems to be enough of a payment to keep the guilt at bay.

But this blog entry wasn't really intended be about my liberal anst over poverty in America. It is about not seeing. It is about looking in the mirror, sucking in the belly and imagining you aren't really overweight. It's about wearing plaid or a pink tuxedo and thinking you are styling. It's about lipstick applied a few too many hairs above the lip line and thinking you are ready for Vogue. It's about baggy pants hanging way too far below the crotch level exposing boxers that were never intended to see the light of day and thinking you are fly.

Open your eyes people! The emperor really isn't wearing any clothes. No one looks good in a Speedo and men look like idiots in kilts.

Eye there's the rub.

Flights of fancy

Despite many of your attempts to do an Icarus on my buzz (a reference to a Greek myth that may require some of you to do some Googling) about thinking young thoughts and staving off the ravages of Father Time, I'm holding fast to my resolve. And even if I do say so myself, my young self is looking pretty hot...at least in my mind.

Even when I was at the gym this evening, fighting to get a machine in the madness of the post New Year's resolution rush, I was thinking young and slim thoughts. Even my profuse sweating seemed to be that of a younger, sweaty man.

Go ahead and scoff. Think your old thoughts in your same old way. But I'm getting younger as we speak. Even as I prepare to face my last year in my 40s I'm not daunted by 50 wagging it's wrinkled old behind at me.

But shoot me if I ever tell people I'm almost 49 years young.

Father Time

"Time keeps on slippin, slippin
Into the future."
--Steve Miller

I realize the passing of a year is an artificial event. Our current calendars are based on the whimsey of Pope Gregory who messed with creating a new one a few centuries ago. I guess he had too much time on his hands.

But the point is, time doesn't really pass. We do.

Still, every new year is an opportunity to reflect on the flow of time. I just wish I could ride on the river of time instead of letting it wash over me, bleaching my beard and hair.

I am not really an old man. But sometimes I think old thoughts. And that is what truly ages us. We age ourselves with our wrinkled thoughts.

So I am going to walk into 2007 with a resolution of thinking young thoughts. And the mirror can go to hell.

Out with the old year...

It is time once again to do my annual Dizgraceland year in review. It was an interesting year for me. I shed my Tim-Elvis personae and became Tim Id. I hosted Egyptian Week and Circus Week. I hosted Wild West Week. Fun was had by all. Okay fun was had by some. But here are some random highlights of the year.

January 30, 2006
My Monkey Myself It was the year of the dog, but the Monkey Playing Cymbals was still on my back.

February 5, 2006
Stuporbowl
The Seahawks went to the Superbowl for the first time in history. And they were history.

March 3, 2006
Self-indulgence

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

April 3, 2006
A match made in heaven
I celebrated my first wedding anniversary.

May 25, 2006
Free us from torpid heaviness
I got lost in blogdom.

June 15, 2006
Victoria's Secret
I took on royal airs...or heirs...or hairs.

July 24, 2006
Don't try this at home
I proved that happiness is a warm gun.

August 21, 2006
Looking for a good mime

:(

September 7, 2006
Shiek Tim Flash
I introduced Fine Ass Tim Sweetness.

October 20, 2006
Monsters
I helped create a monster.

November 16, 2006
Don't hate me because I'm beautiful
I discover that beauty is more than skin deep.

December 14, 2006
Blown away

I survive the curse of Seattle's winter.

So that's it for another year of Dizgraceland. Let's just hope I find some new things to Photoshop my face on or 2007 is going to be pretty dismal for me. Regardless, I wish all of you a Happy New Year!

I just flew in yesterday...

....and boy are my arms tired.

Tess and I were out of town for the holidays. We flew at the busiest as worst time of the year to fly. And once again I am baffled as to why, in this day of computers, the airlines seem incapable of determining how many people their airplanes can hold.

I may be naive. I may not understand the airline industry or the nuances of selling seats on an airplane. But it would seem to me a simple thing to figure out how to do without being totally f-'d up when it comes time for the plane to take off.

Maybe the airlines could commission educators to design a story problem that would help them sell seats on an airplane. It could be something like:

Joe has an airplane that is leaving Houston at 5:30 p.m. bound for Seattle. Joe has 150 seats to sell on the airplane before the plane takes off. How many seats should Joe sell?

Uh...150?

WRONG! Joe must sell more seats than the airplane has. That way, Joe can have more people show up than he has seats so that he can offer free flights and cash to people to give up their seats to make up for him selling more seats than he has on a his airplane. While he does this, he can make everyone on the airplane wait wondering why the plane won't take off even though it seems more than full.

Maybe I am stupid. Maybe there is some financial formula that explains why selling more seats than you have on a flight actually makes you more money, even if you do have to pay off the ones you bump from the overfull flight. Maybe I'm the only one who pays for a ticket that he is told that is non-refundable with the assumption that the airline gets paid regardless of whether a person shows up or not. Maybe I'm the only one who finds it odd that it is legal to sell more of a product than you have.

I've expressed this confusion before. And I'm still waiting for anyone to explain it to me. I really want to understand. So this is an open plea to the airlines. Please, just tell me why you never know how many seats you have on an airline that, as far as I know, is subject to the same laws of physics as the rest of the world.

Merry Christmas!

Okay, maybe cannons aren't Christmasy in the true sense of the word. But Santa has Christmas written all over him. Especially this giant one we saw in Cozumel years ago on another cruise.

Maybe not.

Anyway, I hope all of you out there in Blogville are liking Christmas a lot (even THE Michael...because all the bloggers down in Blogville liked Christmas a lot...but THE Michael, who lived in Florida, did not).

Oh, and here's another cannon shot for Kristy from St. Thomas.

I bring you tidings of great joy!

Christmas Cannon

A couple of years ago, Tess and I were on a Caribbean cruise for Christmas. I got a kick out of how, even in a tropical setting, people did their best to decorate and keep in the spirit of the season. This cannon decked out in lights was in front of an old fort on St. Thomas.

Hey, nothing says Christmas like a cannon. You have to admit it takes balls.

Ho, ho, ho...

Fragile

There were an estimated 1 million people in the Puget Sound region who lost power in last Thursday's storm. Some are still without power and another storm is supposed to be on its way. As I drove around this last week, I marveled at how fragile our world is. In one day, all of those things we take for granted -- lights, heat, fuel, food -- were suddenly scarce.

I can only imagine what the poor victims of Katrina experienced. Theirs wasn't just a temporary loss of power.

But all this seems to be an appropriate topic right on the heels of my temporary panic at the thought of losing my computer files. Jane Poe pointed out to me that it was symbolic of "the ultimate impermanency of everything" and that "life is a series of lessons in loss and change."

Truer words were ever typed.

But Seattle's recent series of minor disasters drove home that feeling that everything is subject to the whims (or design) of nature and that we should be less smug when we take our surroundings for granted. It would only take one meteorite hit to send us all the way of the dinosaurs.

At least then we wouldn't have to worry about global warming.

Does not compute

I was one of the first people to work on a personal computer at our office back in the early 80s. It was pretty basic. You ran software from a big floppy disk that sometimes required you to turn it over to access more commands. It seemed pretty amazing at the time. We mainly used them for word processing and spreadsheets.

Now we have gigabytes of memory that allows us to store music, photos, journals and basically our lives in an electronic box. Computers have come a long way, but what hasn't changed is the frustration of losing tons of stuff when the piece of crap PCs crash.

My desktop computer automatically updated yesterday. This morning it automatically stopped working. I did the logic thing. I tried rebooting. Nothing. I turned it off and turned it back on. It sits there with the blue HP Invent screen and does nothing.

I have my laptop, and I've got backups of most of my photos and family tree information, but I discovered that you iPod can only be synced with one computer at a time. All of my music was on my iTunes on my desktop. And you can't export from you iPod to another computer. So I am screwed. If I want to continue to add songs to my iPod I have to resync it with my laptop but it will wipe off all of the songs currently on my iPod. This means I will have to recopy all of my CDs to my laptop and reload them on my iPod.

Besides a lesson in backing up everything several times, I've learned a valuable lesson. Nothing is permanent. You can create CDs, but they only last a few years. Portable hard drives are fragile and even your primary PC is only a temporary repository for your life's work.

Sigh, I'm going to start keeping everything in shoeboxes again.

Blown away

It wasn't bad enough we had floods and record rain fall in November followed by freezing temperatures and snow. Now we are having rain and wind storms with 65 mph wind gusts. We went to the Seahawks game against the San Francisco 49ers tonight. It was interesting watching Hasselbeck pass into a 65 mph headwind while the stadium flooded.

They lost.


The real bummer about weather in Seattle is that no matter what it is, it somehow manages to knock a tree down onto power lines. Nothing like a power outage in the dead of winter. The lights in Qwest Field were evening flickering.

I think someone is trying to tell the residents of the Puget Sound Region something (like we are cursed).

The truth about toys

As much as I loved Christmas as a child, it did teach me an important lesson about truth in advertising. There is none. Or at least there wasn't when it came to ads for toys.

I think it was 1968 when I finally saw the light. It was one of those transitional years. My oldest brother Ted was a hunter and asked for duck decoys and a duck call. My other brother Dan asked for a telescope.

I was 10. I was convinced that what I really needed to be happy that Christmas was this Mars lander spaceship that from what I could judge from the television commercials was a fully operational space ship that I could control. It would take off and land based on my piloting skills. I had to have it.

As you can almost see from the photo, we all got what we asked for. Ted got his duck decoys. Dan got his telescope (you can see one leg of it on the right of the photo) and I got my Mars spaceship.

The problem was the spaceship turned out to be a stinking balloon you taped onto a plastic gondola. The remote control turned out to be a cheap fan you controlled with a handle. If you moved it at the right angle, you could make the balloon float around the room.

Even at 10 I knew it sucked and I'd been lied to. It was fun to play with for about five minutes. Even the underwear and socks my mother always managed to slip under the tree as a Christmas present were more interesting in comparison.

Okay, you can slip into your lectures now about commercialism and toys not being the true meaning of Christmas. BS. The reality is that we all want things. And it is the wanting that is sometimes more satisfying than the getting. The bummer is that I fell for the dream and got sideswiped by the reality. It was one of those Sea Monkey moments.

But I learned my lesson. Apparently all of those people who fall for the Nigerian spam scams didn't.

Who said there isn't magic in Christmas?