Misty watercolored memories

I have always prided myself on having a pretty good memory. Well, at least I have always had a pretty good memory for things I want to remember. I am not one of those people who keeps lists of things I need to do or have to do. I just make a mental note of what I need to do.

I don't know whether it is a byproduct of aging or the result of lots of things on my mind, but some of those mental notes have begun to become illegible. Lately I find myself sitting in meetings listening to some of my staff rattle off information I have asked them for while I stare at them blankly. Then I calmly ask, "Does anyone happen to recall why I asked you for this information." Then it is their turn to stare at me blankly.

Fortunately there are just minor things I am forgetting at this point. If I start forgetting to wear pants to work, it could start to become a problem. But then again, Albert Einstein was absentminded and did stuff like forget where he lived. And he was a freaking genius. So perhaps my becoming more absentminded could be perceived as the downside of me being a genius.

Well it's possible.

What was I talking about?

Curses, meme'd again

Jane Poe was kind enough to list me in her top five blogs that make her think. The downside was that I was tagged to list mine. Here goes:

Olive Juice: Shandi was almost my first blog visitor. Her humor, art and insightful take on life has always sparked my synapses and made them fire more than once. Her blog is by invitation only now, but it's worth tipping the doorman to get on the list.

Mickey Ripped: Mickey has gone walkabout Down Under, but in his day he waxed brilliance. Of course he is also Jesus, so he's got that going for him.

Lyric Flight: Hayden and Jake team up to provide lots of food for thought. Her cooking posts will particular whet your appetite for more.

Eats, shoots and leaves: Kristy makes me wonder. I'll leave it at that. But watch your grammar and spelling.

Finally, whether it is against the rules or not I nominate Jane Poe, Nevermore: JP combines poetry and prose to inspire many. Her positive thinking is also a model for us all. Plus, I think she needs to come up with yet another five blogs that make her think.

Touche JP.

Late for Wonderland

As a boy, I was a dreamer. I would read constantly and get lost in other worlds on a regular basis. So it wasn't difficult for me to imagine a white rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch and chase him down the rabbit hole in search of Wonderland.

I don't get there much anymore.

I'm sure the White Rabbit is still out there but the older you get, the harder he is too see and there is less likelyhood you would follow him if you did.

Actually, I can now relate more to being the White Rabbit than the one who chases him down the hole. My pocketwatch, however, has been replaced by a Blackberry constantly beeping to tell me I'm late for a very important date. And most of the meetings I'm late for are just as surreal as the Mad Hatter's tea party.

Maybe it's because I don't read books as much anymore. The good ol' Blackberry is partially at fault for that, too. I spend the time I used to spend reading on my commute, frantically responding to e-mails or playing video games.

I miss Wonderland, though (or at least a Wonderland that doesn't involve a crackhead screaming while sheparding a Shop Vac down the sidewalk). I miss climbing an apple tree and imagining I am an astronaut or turning a card table and a quilt into a castle. I miss picking up a book and reading it from cover to cover in one sitting. And I miss a life of mystery and adventure spread out in front of me like one of those books waiting to be devoured.

I think I've come up with a solution for my dilemma. I'm going to put a new meeting notice in my Outlook. It will be one of those reoccuring meetings. Everyday it will pop up on my Blackberry and tell me it is time to go to Wonderland. And when I jump up and run out the door and someone asks me what the hurry is I'm going to tell them, "I'm late for Wonderland."

Mad Hatter

Just for the record, the Mad Hatter is never actually referred to as the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland. He is simply the Hatter. In today's politically correct world, he would probably be referred to as the Mentally-challenged Hatter anyway.

The phrase "mad as a hatter" existed before Alice in Wonderland disparaged the hatter anyway. It probably stemmed from that fact that hatters (people who made and sold hats) used to use mercury to cure the felt some hats were made of. During that process they inhaled lots of mercury fumes which caused brain damage and eventually progressed to having hallucinations and the random psychotic episode.

This fascinates me because I have often wondered if you were "mad" would you actually know you were "mad." The hatters probably assumed they were simply engaged in cutting edge marketing as they paraded up and down in front of their shops naked (except for a hat) screaming "Twinkle, twinkle little bat."

I suppose there are various levels of crazy (a bit off, touched, crazy as a bedbug and major whackjob). And I suppose there are socially acceptable levels of crazy (wacky, zany, and eccentric). But how do you know you are crazy? Oh sure, you can be examined by a psychologist or psychiatrist. But most of the mental health professionals I have met are pretty much major whackjobs themselves and are no ones to judge (a rash generalization I know, but it is my blog).

I've also never really bought off on the "not guilty by reason of insanity" defense for murder. In my opinion anyone who kills someone is a psycho and needs to be culled from the herd anyway. I feel the same way about "temporary insanity" arguements. Give me a break. That could just about give you license to do anything you want say you weren't at fault because you were "temporarily insane." A lapse of judgement does not make you insane.

I suppose this post stems in part from my most recent post about the whacked out crack heads and in particular the screamer on the sidewalk with the Shop Vac. It also stems from a news story I saw yesterday about a nutcase that was on trial for attacking a woman in Washington. Five guards had to subdue him and wheel him into the courtroom shackled and masked like Hannibal Lector. He still shouted obscenities until the judge had him removed from the court. The reporter said he had been examined and some doctors said he was competent to stand trial. Others said he was faking it.

So isnt' that a paradox? Are you sane for faking you are insane and insane for trying to pretend that you are sane? The guy attacked someone. Having to be trussed up to a chair while you howl like a Gibbon in heat is crazy even if you are faking it. It also doesn't excuse him from the crime he committed (I don't have to say allegedly committed because this is my blog).

We live in an insane world and sometimes it drives me crazy.

But only temporarily (and I'm faking it).

Grin and ignore it or just bear it?

One thing about working downtown in a relatively large city is that after awhile not much fazes you. My office is located in a marginal part of downtown Seattle. We occasionally have narcotics police in our stairwell with binoculars watching for drug deals on the adjacent streets. So suffice to say encountering a whacked out crack head when I'm going out for coffee or lunch is pretty much part of my average day.

Today was no different. I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for my friend who has quit smoking to finish his cigarette before we went into our favorite Chinese restaurant that serves Korean, Japanese, Thai and Vietnamese food. Suddenly a crackhead walks by pulling a Shop Vac by the hose and screaming that the Mexicans are stopping him on the street asking him to give them a blowjob and he is an American. He seemed pretty passionate about it.

I resisted shouting out, "That sucks," even though the Shop Vac gave me the perfect excuse for the pun. But one thing you learn about working downtown is not to make eye contact with screaming crack heads and definitely don't engage them in conversations. Instead my friend and I just continued chatting until he finished his cigarette and we went into the restaurant. The orange beef was very good by the way.

It dawned on me later though that being around that crap all the time has made me numb. I walk by people passed out in doorways or relieving themselves on sidewalks and don't blink an eye. Oh occasionally I will hand a dollar to the guy sitting next to the train station entrance with his three dogs. But wonder if I'm more compassionate about the dogs than the poor man.

I suppose it is emotional survival. I walk along with my mindless grin and ignore the fact that the street is home to hundreds if not thousands of lost souls in my city. It is survival because I know there is really nothing I can do to save any of them. All I can hope is not to become one of them.

Wishes

I survived my birthday and am now on the other side of 49 staring at 50. But it isn't so bad. Even when I hit 50, I still have ten more years until I have to worry about turning 60. So I've got that to look forward to.

I remember that time as a child when I couldn't age quick enough. When I was five I couldn't wait to be six and start school. When I was 12 I couldn't wait to be 13 so I could be a teenager. When I was 17 I couldn't wait to be 18 so I could vote. When I was 18 I couldn't wait to be 19 so I could get into bars (Idaho's drinking age was 19 at the time). When I was 20 I couldn't wait to be 21 so I could get into casinos and drink in any state.

It was turning 25 that made me think I wanted the aging thing to slow down. I didn't want to turn 30. And 40, well, no one wants to turn 40. I never really thought about 50 until I started spiralling towards it.

So here I am. And I honestly don't feel any older inside than I did in my 20s. My 82-year old mother says the same thing. But we both look in the mirror and know otherwise.

Despite how this sounds, I am fine with my age. I feel calmer than I did in my youth. My career no longer drives me. I have found love in my wife. We are comfortable and have a nice home.

So, maybe those wishes you make when you blow out your birthday candles really do come true.

You can run but you can't Ides: Redieux

Bloggers note: I originally wrote this on March 16, 2006, but it still seemed relevant and I didn't feel like being redundant so I am reposting it. It is kind of like regifting, I know. But it is, after all, my birthday and I feel like you can cut me some slack. I will say I am having a very nice birthday and that Tess made me a cake from scratch. I can't remember anyone doing that for me since I was a kid. I am a lucky man despite my advanced years.

March 15ths was the Ides of March. It was the day Julius Ceasar was assassinated by the Roman Senate. The phrase, "Beware the Ides of March," was made famous by William Shakespeare in his play about Julius Ceasar. It now tends to have a connotation of doom. But as with many of those types of phrases, I doubt many people know or care where it came from or even know what it means anymore.

This would probably explain why I got odd looks yesterday when I randomly went around saying, "Beware the Ides of March." It really freaked out these Girl Scouts selling cookies outside the Safeway. I thought for a moment their mother was going to dial 9-1-1. That's what I get for trying to interject a little sophisticated humor in people's lives.

I was born near the Ides of March on March 18. I try not to read anything prophetic in that. But I usually do have a feeling of impending doom as my birthday nears. I used to celebrate it on St. Patrick's Day until I started doing my family tree and made the horrific discovery that it is highly unlikely that any of my ancesters originated in Ireland. So I'm back to celebrating on March 18 (which is just as well since that green body paint is a pain to wash off).

It's not an age thing, either. I stopped fretting about becoming middle aged after hitting 40 (which was celebrated by my friends taking me to a Hooters restaurant where I had to stand on a table while the waitresses threw chicken wings at me...it's a long story). I just have never really liked my birthday. For one, my mom wasn't big on us celebrating birthdays. Her interpretation of Christian Scientist teachings was that, since our material body didn't exist, birth and death were an illusion and birthdays didn't make sense (try explaining that to a five year old who really just wants cake and presents). Oh, she still made us a birthday cake and we did get presents, but each year she tried to tone it down a bit. By the time I turned 13 she just wrapped up a package of jockey briefs and tossed it to me on the morning of my birthday.

I have since switched to boxers (too much information, I know).

Another thing I've never really liked about birthdays is being the center of attention. I know this is very difficult to believe about a man who has superimposed his face on quesadillas, kalamata olives and more recently a Timber Wolf, but I am really quite shy. I never know how to react in a restaurant when the servers run out with a cake, slap a lobster bib around your neck, pop a bedpan on your head and sing happy birthday while beating a bass drum. It's even more embarrassing when it is your birthday.

Okay, maybe the whole age thing does tweak me a bit. I just think that whole "walk into the light" thing they associate with your soul leaving your body is very likely the candles on your last birthday cake. That makes it very hard to make a wish.

On that happy note, I'll leave you with Ceasar's last words on the Ides of March, "Etu, Brutus?"

Saints preserve us!

St. Patrick wasn't Irish. He was kidnapped by Irish raiders from Roman Britain when he was 16 and forced to herd sheep for six years before he escaped and returned to England. He entered the church and returned to Ireland as a missionary. He died around the year 493.

Legend states that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and taught the holy trinity to the masses with a shamrock. There were no snakes in Ireland so the snakes he drove out were probably of the symbolic kind that represented the pagan relgions in Ireland at the time. And there is no real proof that he did anything with the shamrock. But that is the way of history. There is generally more sham than rock about it.

St. Patrick's religious feast day is March 17. It has escalated into a major American celebration of sorts that centers around frat boys painting themselves green, dressing like demented leprechans and drinking green beer until they hurl. You have to love religious holidays.

I don't really celebrate St. Patrick's Day anymore. Although my name is H****, as with St. Patrick I'm not technically Irish. My father was adopted and the name H**** he assumed originally stemmed from Hele, an old English name. Plus corned beef and cabbage gives me gas.

But not being Irish doesn't mean I can't respect the St. Patrick's Day phenomenon. One of my most memorable St. Patrick's Day was spent in New Orleans eight years ago the day before my 41st birthday. New Orleans has a reputation for knowing how to party and St. Patrick's Day is no exception. There is a huge St. Patrick's Day parade there. Since the police force there used to be predominately of Irish descent, much of the parade is made up of police cars and presumebly off duty police officers.

As with most parades in New Orleans, you spend much of your time standing in huge crowds shouting at the people on floats to throw you something. I remember clutching my green beer on Bourbon Street as the Irish Parade Princesses pelted me with green condums and heads of cabbage. Then a very large police officer marching in the parade, stopped, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and told me I was blessed amongst men. He handed me an Irish wool tie and moved on to his next blessed victim.

I love New Orleans.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone and remember that Irish phrase I taught you last year: Whale Oil Beef Hooked!

Cheers!

Silence of the blogs

The irony of getting as many if not more comments by writing nothing has not escaped me. I do not take this personally. I am touched that anyone stops by at all (which would indicate that some of you are more touched than me).

I have waxed poetic on the art of writing about nothing before so I won't beat that dead horse (one of those idioms that is kind of repulsive if you think of it literally). I won't be beating any dead baby seals, whales or puppies either, so we can all breath a sigh of relief.

Not that I'm breathing that well lately. My sinuses are still angry after my long bout of travel exacerbated illness. I am taking antibiotics that are so huge that I am greatly relieved that they are taken orally. I also purchased a personal steam inhaler and spend a large portion of my day breathing in hot Vicks laden vapors.

But enough about my physical frailties. I started out talking about silent blogging and its advantages. I'm sure many of you surfed in and were relieved only to have to read a couple of sentences so you could get on with your day. I'm the same way. As I ritually click through my blog roll I am delighted when someone...anyone...posts something new. I am especially delighted when the post is only a few paragraphs because my attention span has grown woefully minute on the Web. If the words scroll off the screen I begin focusing on dust particles on my monitor and wondering what I'll have for lunch.

I'm not saying this is a good thing. But I work in marketing and have been conditioned to communicate tons of "messages" within very small spaces and within a very short timeframe. I have toyed at times with switching careers and working in a mall inscribing the Lord's prayer on grains of rice at one of those annoying little carts that have sprouted up in the center walk ways of every mall these days.

I am at a loss as to what people expect when they read someone else’s blog anyway. I’ve toyed with the idea of just typing “YOUR NAME HERE” at the top if the blog and simply writing blogs to order (note to self: sell personalized blog posts on eBay).

But I suppose we read other’s people’s blogs because it gets a bit tedious simply reading our own. Though I must admit, sometimes I read some of my archived material and I laugh. It’s kind of an “out of blog” experience and I occasionally forget I’m reading something I’ve written and it could be considered conceited to be amused by your own material.

Speaking of silence of the blogs, I want to voice my opinion about those of you who embed your favorite song into your blogs so they play automatically. Don’t. It is annoying. It forces me to scramble for the mute button. It wastes bandwidth. And just because you like Britney Spears, doesn’t mean the rest of the world does.

I’m glad I got that off my chest. I don’t mean to be harsh, but it is a pet peeve of mine. Not that I would normally keep a peeve as a pet. I’m not even sure what you would feed a pet peeve. And I don’t want to clean up after one either. They sound pretty messy.
But I digress.

Funny, I have the urge for some Fava beans and a fine Chianti. But regardless, there you have it my friends, 600 words about nothing.

I am back.

Loss for words

I, the man who can write 600 words about anything, am at a loss for words. I haven't really lost any words. I just have nothing to say.

A better time

Photographs of people from the 40s and the 50s always look so much happier than people from our own era. Of course, the grass is always greener in retrospect. In reality the good old days rarely were any different than the good old nows.

I was born in 1958 so I don't really remember much about the 50s. The 60s are a bit more clear, especially since I wasn't old enough to experiment with psychedelics. The 70s I'd just as soon forget. I did forget the 80s and the 90s are pretty much of a blur, too. Now that I'm in the 21st century, I am a bit curious about the 22nd.

Einstein was right. Time is relative.

Speaking of relatives, my nephew and his wife are expecting...a baby that is. I'm excited to be a great uncle, literally. It seems like only yesterday that I was parading my nephew around as a baby on my shoulders when I was 19. I remember being horrified at the goo he projectiled onto my head. Now it's his turn to be slimed.

I also remember sitting at his wedding in Las Vegas three years ago at the Graceland Chapel trying to goad an Elvis impersonator into singing Freebird. I'm getting all weepy just thinking about it. Anyway, I'm about as proud of the boy as an uncle could be.

But I digress.

I think photographs used to capture better times because they were special occasion things (birthdays, weddings, holidays). Now all anyone has to do is whip out their cell phone and they can capture a mugging on video.

I wonder if the ability to capture anything at anytime with a digital camera is making photographs meaningless. Or is it just reshaping our expectations and making us relax our memories. Will the next generation rely on computers to be their memories? When asked to recall the good old days will they simply pop in a flash drive and relive them.

Cool, but there is something vaguely troubling about it. I just can't remember what it is.

Old Time Photos

I have always been fascinated with old photos. Even as a kid I loved to open up my grandmother's old desk and pull out photo albums and flip through the pages, making up my own stories about the people and places in faded photographs. More often than not I had to make up stories because my grandmother couldn't remember who half the people were anyway.

That's the thing about photos. Unless you write down who the people in the photographs are, eventually they will just be random people captured in eternity by light and chemicals. At least digital images automatically record the time the photos were taken so you will always have some clue about when they were taken if not who they were taken of.

I treasure all of my family photos. I love looking into the faces of family I never knew or the young images of my parents or grandparents when they still had the spark of youth and hope. They are my window to the past...my past.

Years ago I bought a box of old photos at an auction. They were random images of people, many of them out of the early 1900s. They were nameless people, mainly posing for portraits in long gone photographer's studios from the past.

I find it sad when I find old photographs at auctions or in antique stores. It means the families of these people either didn't care or the photos ended up in the trunks of someone who died and didn't have any family to pass them onto. Either way, the photos symbolize to me the lost souls of people who will never be remembered.

I've scanned most of those old photographs of unknown people. And every now and then I use them on my blog. I occasionally put myself into the photographs to symbolically give the people some connection in a world that has forgotten them.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm helping these people's soul live on though their names have been forgotten along with the stories of their lives.

I like to think that anyway.

Reflections on a Sunday morning after daylight savings time

My computer didn't automatically adjust for daylight savings time. I suppose it is making a statement about the arbitrary nature of saying what time it is. It's about as stupid as having someone deciding to start calling blue, red.

But you can't really go against time. Or at least you can't really go against how the majority decide to measure it. Because since we can't control time we have to be content to measure it, watching it dribble away as we fret about ways to keep it at bay.

I've noticed that much of the blog community I am privy to has been aggitated of late. There is lots of starting and stopping and wringing of hand's posts. I can't help but think it is related to our futile efforts to control time. Or maybe it is part of our futile efforts to control anything.

Which is why when someone is debating whether or not to keep blogging, I encourage them to write even more. It may not help you control things in your life, but it puts a certain sense of order to it. It's very much akin to measuring time and our lives. Plus it gives you a written record of it.

So little time, so many blogs.

Hair apparent

I have always had lots of hair on my head. Believe me, this has been comforting as I age. It may have turned silver and gray, but it is there.

I had very long hair as a teen ager. It was the style in the 70s. It drifted dangerously close to being a mullet in the 80s and then a god awful Steven Seagal ponytail in the 90s. Now it is just short.

Up until about six months ago, I was able to get a good haircut from the same stylist at the same salon for years. I didn't have to tell her how to cut it. She knew. And she'd descretely trim my eyebrows and the occasional stray hair on the ears without being asked or even acknowledging it. We could also discuss trash television without guilt. I went seven years without having to worry about my hair. Then my stylist got pregnant.

My head has been in chaos since. I have been thrown to the mercy of junior stylists with names like China, Sunni and Brandi. They begin every session with, "What are we going to do today" and seemed puzzled when I suggest, "cut my hair?" And so far I have walked away each time with my hair looking like a gardner has gone amuck with a hedge trimmer.

That pony tail is starting to sound like a good idea again.

'Roo the day

G'day Mate! I guess it is Outback week here at Dizgraceland. My Aussie friends seem keen on seeing my face on a bunch of critters from down under. I finally figured out a way to put my face on Skippy. Which reminds me of a joke: A kangeroo hops into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face?"

Stop! Stop! I am killing me.

Okay Whitesnake tells me a have to put my face on an echidna. I have never even heard of an echida until now. Turns out it is just a hedgehog with an attitude.

But I kind of like the hedgehog better.

What the hey. As long as I'm at it I might as well put my face on a dingo and cover just about all of the species of animals the Aussies have.

Oh, and if Mickey is still reading this. I am sorry dude. I know you have a thing about dingos.

Bear with me

I'm trying to ease my way back into Photoshopping my face onto random things. This is for my friends down under there in Queensland or Woop Woop or wherever Whitesnake and Madame Butterfly live there in Aussie land (I'm still working on the hedgehog...the spines are a challenge).

I have come to believe Photoshop is the universal software that can make us all one people (or animal object). After all, a picture of yourself Photoshopped on something speaks a thousand words. Plus it becomes a challenge to figure out how to do.

A koala bear wasn't really very hard. I tried a kangaroo first. Now that's a challenge. I do really look good with a pouch.

Whenever I think of kangaroos, I think of this old Australian television series I used to watch in Boise as a kid...Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. I think it was Australia's answer to Lassie, Flipper or Gentle Ben. Skippy was this game warden kid's pet who helped him catch sheep theives and stuff. It had this catchy theme song that went something like, "Skippy, Skippy, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. Skippy, Skippy, Skippy your friend ever true." I swear I'm not making this up.

But I digress. Forgive me, I'm feeling a little jumpy. Ha, ha....

Anyway, an all new episode of LOST has started and I need to find out what random thing they'll be Photoshopping themselves into tonight.

A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

Bright light city gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire

--Viva Las Vegas, words and music by Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman

Jesus! Bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing, intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out! The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes.

--Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson

I wish I had interesting things to say about Las Vegas. If I were 21 and unleashed on the city I still probably wouldn't have much happen that would stay in Las Vegas after I left. Because if I were 21 I wouldn't be able to afford anything there.

I was at a conference. And despite the "nod, nod's, wink, wink's" people give you when you go to a conference in Las Vegas, some of us actually drag our butt's out of bed and catch those 8 a.m. sessions on "Forging Partnerships and Building Ridership" even though watching bread toast would be more interesting. Call it work ethic or call it Catholic guilt (though I'm not Catholic), but if someone pays me to do something, I do it. Point is, it wasn't a vacation. And public agency expense accounts are not generous or forgiving despite what the news program watchdogs tell you.

I did hop the Vegas Monorail to the strip a couple of times and walked through the obligatory big casinos like Paris...

....MGM Grand...

....and of course, Ceasars Palace.






I didn't go to any shows, but my hotel room had a plasma screen television and a 26th floor view of the strip. I ate in one buffet, but mainly ate sandwiches. I gambled a bit, but not alot. I drank a bit, but not a lot (though I had a Star Trek martini in a Ferenghi Bar at the Hilton that had me seeing Klingon families dining...turned out they were real). I bought my wife a Las Vegas sweat shirt. I bought myself a pair of dice with my name on it. I didn't steal any ash trays. Oh yeah, it snowed.

I think I did see the weasels, though. And they were ugly brutes.





But that could have been the fever that went along with my sinus infection.

I think I'm getting old.

Saturday Night Fever

I came down with the creeping crud before we went to Guatemala. It hung around the week were there. And it rose to the top in Las Vegas. The seven different flights, five airports, and two hotels in less than two weeks didn't help matters.

Growing up a Christian Scientist has not made me good at accepting being sick. But I spent last night in the grips of a fever that had me seeing things and talking in tongues. So I had to finally admit I was sick. And it sucks.

I think the worst part of having a fever is what it does to your dreams. I was drenched in sweat, caught in an endless series of repetitive dreams. And I can't remember a single one.

I went into work yesterday and people reacted to me like I was a leper and avoided me like the plague. But Tess has been taking care of me, filling me with Veraflu, tea, orange juice, and chicken soup. I am lucky.

Anyway, I'm home. My fever has broken and I've stopped coughing up a lung every ten seconds. So I guess I'll live.

And maybe by tomorrow I will blog in a semi-normal fashion.

Whatever that is.

Elvis has left the building

My first trip to Las Vegas was back in 1990 or there abouts. I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, seeking the holy spots where Elvis had been during his Vegas years just before he became the fat and bloated king who died on the toilet. And the holiest of holies in Las Vegas is the Las Vegas Hilton. This is where Elvis stayed and performed while he was in Las Vegas. And this is where I am staying 17 years later attending a conference.

On my first trip to the Hilton I was in awe of a statue of Elvis the Colonel and Priscilla had donated to the Hilton back in 1978. It sat in a place of honor near the main entrance next to a glass case that housed one of his jump suits and guitars.

As the flame of Elvis' memory begins to flicker, the Hilton has followed suite. They have moved the statue out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk. So Elvis has literally left the building. The jump suit and guitar are nowhere to be seen.

To add insult to injury, Barry Manilow is headlining at the Hilton and has his own gift shop in the lobby. Oh, you can still buy Elvis memorabilia next door in the Vegas shop, but it has settled into the kitsche category (though I did snag myself a cool TCB money clip for good luck...it didn't seem to help me on the Elvis slot machine however).

It is sad. The old Las Vegas is dead. Elvis has become a joke and they honor people like Barry Manilow and Celine Dion instead.
Even the slot machines have changed. They no longer have handles and you get your payout in a coupon instead of the clinking of dirty quarters. There are no more $1.99 steak and egg specials. A cup of coffee even costs $4.25. And if I hear one more person say, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" I am going to puke.

Oh well, at least when the sun goes down the lights of Vegas still shine. And if you squint, you can imagine you are in the old Vegas and downstairs in the showroom, the King is singing "hunka, hunka burnin' luv."

I miss you Elvis.

Tim Travel

I have to admit it is nice to be away and not have to worry about too much more than what to order from room service, when to go to the pool, when to workout (yes there is a gym here and I have used it every day), when to go to dinner and what to watch on television. Of course it is Spanish television and we tend to watch the English programs with Spanish subtitles instead of the other way around. But I tell you, sometimes I catch myself watching about 10 minutes of Bewitched before I realize it isn't in English. And of course we get the Fox Network so we can keep up on the latest news about Anna Nicoles' corpse.

Neither Tess nor I speak a great deal of Spanish. But I am trying to learn by reading the Spanish subtitles on the English speaking programs. It is particularily entertaining to see what Spanish words they come up with for English idioms and swear words. "What's up dog," becomes "Que Paso Amigo."



Most of the staff at the hotel speak English and respond to most of my attempts at Spanish with, "Okay." I do love the way Spanish sounds. And it is fun keeping track of how to greet people depending upon the time of day (Buenos Dias, Buenos Tardes or Buenos Noches). I tend to talk low and mumble in Spanish the same way I do in English, so I am getting by okay.

We do like spending time at the pool. I sunburned my ankles the first day and have been slathering on the sunscreen. I used so much today that my wedding ring slipped on my finger in the deep end while I was dog paddling around. I had to talk a couple of kids to dive for it and then give it back to me when they found it. Both Tess and I were relieved.

We are flying back to Seattle Friday. Fortunately it is not a red eye home. Unfortunately I won't have much time to recover from traveling. I have to head back to the airport on Saturday to go to a marketing conference. The upside is that it is in Las Vegas. The downside is that it is Las Vegas.

Oh well, it's been awhile since I Photoshopped my face on something from a casino. That's something to look forward to.

Where in the world...

It is Tess' mid-winter break and we are travelling. We took a redeye out of Seattle on Saturday night and arrived at our destination Sunday at about 12:30 p.m. Other than sleeping through the inflight movie (How to eat fried worms) in between being woken up by flight attendants who insisted we take juice or water, the flights were uneventful.

I am now a foreign correspondent for Dizgraceland. I am amazed that no matter where you are in the world you can very likely get an Internet connection and blog. So here I am sitting in our room blogging.

But this is no travelogue. Suffice it to say, we are in some place much warmer than Seattle and you can lay by the outdoor pool in comfort (which we did). I looked up from my lounge chair and this statue was peering down at me.

Since I am on a vacation of sorts, I probably won't be Photoshopping my face on anything for the week. Besides after responding to a request by "Tia" and "Cara" to Photoshop my face onto a chihuahua I feel as if I may have fallen victim to a cruel prank by my enemies to lure me into a false sense of security by preying on my ego and making me think there were others out there who really do appreciate the fine art of Photoshopping your face onto things. I don't think there ever was a "Tia" and "Cara."

I'm not naming names, but I think it could be a dirty trick by one of the denizens of another land that hates ice cream in response to an ice scream that was heard throughout their land. Or it could have been someone who likes sock monkeys but hates the Beatles. Or it could have been any number of drunken bloggers who wanted to mess with me.

But then again I am a paranoid cuss. I won't worry about it today, though. I'll worry about when I get back from vacation and return to Dizgraceland.

Nuthin but a hounddog

The Monkey Playing Cymbals intercepted a comment that must have been intended for me yesterday. It was a request of sorts:

SUPER FANS said...
Well, Tim "Snake Eyes" Elvis,

We stumbled across your site when searching for "carnival towel animals." We were pleasantly surprised to find your addition of the "hanging monkey" to the list. We are very sorry about the lightbulb. Those carnival mofo's!!! (They also refused to change my lightbulb...what is wrong with them?!?).

Now we see you have many blogs, how fabulous for us.

We, too, LOVE (L-O-V-E LOVE) to superimpose our heads onto the bodies of animals and computerized characters (ancient kings, etc.). Let's share secrets? Keep in touch? Who's your FAVORITE thing to be the head of? We LOVE you as the snake. ssslllliitthheerr!!!

Please write back to us. Make a post about us and we will respond. Dooo it, Tim Elvis. Do it.

PS Maybe put your head on a chihuahua?

LOVE,
Tia and Cara (please reference us in next post. Thanx.

Okay, I don't normally take requests. Plus I think Tia and Cara may fall into the CUI category. But what they hey. If I can put my face on a quesidilla, how hard could a chihuahua be?


But personally I prefer the pug.

As for "Who's your FAVORITE thing to be the head of," I'm going to ignore the Freudian implications and assume you mean what is the favorite thing I've Photoshopped my face onto. I could suggest a vanilla ice cream cone, but that could only set off the revolting peasants again. So I will have to say a timber wolf.

They might be angels

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
Hebrews 13:2

I am quoting the Bible as literature, not as gospel. I want to get that out of the way right up front. My intent is not to insult nor encourage any religious group. I hate to have to begin with a disclaimer, but there are people out there who believe even opinions require fineprint and footnotes.

This post was inspired by Madame Butterfly's post about the Torment of the Ocean and Hayden's post about Exterrestrial Intelligence. The posts really had nothing in common. Madame Butterfly wrote of a primal fear of the ocean and a metaphorical angel who embraced her when she arrived at port during a sea voyage as a child. Hayden wrote about people's obsession with finding intelligent life in the universe (presumebly because there isn't much of it here on earth).

For some reason both posts resonated with me. I have always loved angel imagery and I have always been fascinated with the concept of intelligent life both in and outside our "world." After all, what is more exterrestrial than an angel?

Or are they? Exterrestrial I mean. My mother used to tell me that angels were God's thoughts sent down to us. If I merge that definition with some of my dallying in Buddhism, I can kind of theorize that the angels or "God's thoughts" are actually coming from my Buddha nature or simply from me.

Don't get me wrong. I am not saying I am an angel or anybody else's angel. I am just suggesting that angels (and demons for that matter) originate from within us and not from outside us.

Okay I can see the shaking heads and here the "pooh poohing" of this as more of my simplistic "we create our own reality" platitudes. It's not that at all. Just because an angel comes from within us doesn't make it any less powerful of a metaphor. On the contrary, I think it empowers us because the angels are always with us.

Fear comes not from being alone, but from feeling alone. If the angels are always within us, we are never alone. Which brings me back to Hebrews 13:2. If we apply it to my theory, the strangers we are providing hospitality to are our own new thoughts and ideas. Because those thoughts and ideas just might be those angels (or exterrestrials) we are looking for.

But don't take my word for it. I'm just a stranger on the Internet.

Portrait of a blogger

I didn't wake up one day and say to myself, "Tim you should become a blogger." I didn't have a clue what a blog was until about three years ago. It wasn't that I wasn't Internet savy. I'd had my own Web site since about 1995. But I was just oblivious to the whole Blog world until I stumbled into Blogger.com while running a search on Google.

Being familiar with building a Web site, the technology of how to start a blog didn't phase me. It was the why of starting a blog I had to wrestle with. What was the point? I browsed through several blogs before starting. Many were started by subject experts focusing on a single topic like politics or technology. Some were forums for hobbists. But the bulk of the booming blog rush seemed to be individuals just looking for a place to express themselves.

So I began my blog the way most people do -- with random posts about whatever popped up in my head. And that is pretty much the way it has stayed. I've toyed with theme weeks and reoccurring topics, but for the most part, my blog is random.

I did discover that blogging is the perfect vehicle for experimenting with words and images in a way that is spontaneous and almost limitless compared to traditional writing. And blogging has added a new dimension to the traditional writer-reader roles. You no longer simply read or write when you enter the blog world. You do something unique for writers who normally write in solitude -- you interact.

Blogs are designed so that you write and people can instantly comment. You in turn read their comments and you can respond. It definitely requires stepping outside of your comfort zone if you are locked into the traditional "I write, you read" model.

Blogging also has odd side effects. I don't know how many bloggers (including myself) have complained about blogger's block, blogger's depression and the pressures of blogging. I wouldn't be suprised to see a whole new branch of psychological study and treatment crop up targeted at bloggers.

I am shocked at how many people I have seen begin a blog, flourish and than panic and quit for no apparent reason. The Information Highway is littered with the broken down bodies of abandoned blogs.

Since my non-blogging profession is also writing, I have never really experienced the pressure some people succomb to when faced with writing in a blog on a regular if not daily basis. This is not to say I haven't suffered from depression and insecurity when it comes to blogging. It can be a major ego blow when you produce a masterpiece post and you are rewarded with a resounding "yawn" on the comment front. I have just learned that the only way to deal with it is to write another post.

I also have experienced what I call "blogger's rage" when bloggers clash over the equivalent of being flipped off in the comment section of a blog. The relative anonomity of blogging and commenting can lead normally rational people to say things they wouldn't dream of saying to a stranger in the real world. And there is sometimes a tendency for some blogger's to delude themselves that the virtual alter egos they have assumed is more than just a fantasy title and doesn't make them invulnerable. I think the solution for blog rage is similar to that for road rage -- learn anger management and never drink and blog.

Sure maintaining a blog can be challenging and intense. But it is also rewarding (in a strictly non-monetary way). Despite the pitfalls, I view blogging as a theraputic activity. And lord knows I can use all the free therapy I can get.

Pointing out the obvious

Believe it or not, I never know what to do when I pose for a photo. So most of the time I just point at whatever I'm standing next to. It has become kind of a reflect action (fortunately I resisted this reflect action in my wedding photos). I call this pose "pointing out the obvious."

Unless you are aware you doing it, the "pointing out the obvious" pose is pointless. But if you are aware you are doing it, the "pointing out the obvious" pose does have a point. It adds exaggerated emphasis to something in the photo, even if that something is of little or no significance. So everytime someone looks at the photo they will wonder why the hell you are pointing at something insignificant and think there is some significance that they are missing. It's a great way to mess with people.

I find the "pointing out the obvious" principle can be applied to blogging as well. Sometimes you can blather on about some mundane and blatantly obvious thing and people think there must be some hidden meaning or ulterior message that they are missing. So they create one. It's kind of fun to watch.

But it can also be kind of annoying. Because sometimes you are just blathering on to blather on. It doesn't have to have sinister significance.

Or does it?

Patty Griffin - Rain

One thing I love about the Web is the instant access we have to music. I found this song by accident while trying to find the lyrics to another song. I ended up buying the album it comes from (1000 Kisses) at iTunes. 

 I don't know why certain songs appeal to me. But when they do I end up playing them over and over ad nausem. My iPod facilities this particular obsessive behavior of mine. I like moody music. I like to be carried away by a simple guitar rhythm. I like good lyrics, but they don't really matter if the music and voice can capture me. Anyway, I think you can tell a great deal about a person based on the music they like. 

For instance, Kristy doesn't like the Beatles. This explains her obsession with sock monkeys and police spokespersons. Hope you enjoy Patty Griffin.

The Tim he is a-changing

I have never quite gotten used to being a grown up. But I am a little over a month away from turning 49 and it is hard to ignore the fact.

The worst thing about turning 49 is that it is one year away from 50. And I've heard that platitude about 50 being today's 40, but I'm not really buying it. Fifty is half a century no matter how you rationalize it.

It is not that I feel old (or grown up). I just feel changed. It's not just my body. My outlook has changed as well.

When you are young, it seems as though time will last forever. When you are older you look back and realize how fleeting it actually is. I am sure I am not the first person to discover this. But I think the knowledge comes in a time release capsule.

There are many things about aging that are actually not bad. Raging hormones have begun taking Yoga classes. I don't have to make up stuff under the "experience" column on my resume. I never get carded when I buy liquor. I can begin anticipating AARP discounts. And I can sneer at eager and ambitious young people with a sense of pity knowing that life will eventually wear them down as well.

There are things I am desperately trying to avoid as I age. I refuse to refer to myself as 49-years young. I won't eat dinner before 7 p.m. no matter what discount I can get. I won't wear black socks with shorts. I will watch for the "I want to gnaw my arm off to get away" look in people's faces if I catch myself telling one too many stories about the good old days. Finally, I will never buy a sports car and get a perm.

That being said, it is almost 7 p.m. and I am getting pretty hungery. I better go and fix dinner. Or we could go to the Country Kitchen Buffet. I think rush hour is over.

Tomorrow is another day

If Kristy can publish photos of Sock Monkeys gone bad, I can post a photo of me as Scarlett O'Hara. I realize they are both very wrong things, but I won't worry about that today. Everything is relative (especially in Arkansas).

It has been an odd week in the news. An astronaut was arrested for driving from Houston to Orlando wearing diapers to threaten a woman she was jealous of with a BB-gun, garbage bags and a steel mallet. Anna Nicole Smith died and Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband claimed he was the father of her baby. Her ex-interior decorator Bobby Trendy is being interviewed on the FOX network as a definitive expert in the case.

Locally, in Washington state an initiative is threatened to go before voters requiring married couples to procreate within three years of getting married.

I really hope tomorrow is another day.

My head examined

I have been told on a few occasions that I need my head examined. Okay, here goes.

I have a big head. This is not an ego thing. I just have a big head. I think I mentioned this a few months ago when I was ranting about hats. Because my head is so big, I have a hard time finding a hat that fits or doesn't look stupid.

Fortunately, I also have lots of hair. It would suck having a big head and not having enough hair to cover it up. Though I swear if I ever start losing my hair I will not do the comb over thing. I'll shave my head before I do the comb over even though it would mean having a very big bald head.

When I was a young boy, my hair was blonde. It gradually turned brown. Then after I turned 30 it started to turn gray. Now it is pretty much all gray, though in some light it kind of looks blonde again. The irony doesn't escape me.

I've heard people describe how different parts of your body shrink as you age (and get your mind out of the gutter, I'm not talking about that part). This doesn't apply to the ears and nose. They seem to get bigger and bigger, especially the ears.

Then there is the hair that grows randomly on the ears, in the ears and in the nose. And I swear I'm starting to get Albert Einstein eyebrows. I'm starting to feel like a chia pet.

I have blue eyes. I've had Lasik surgery but now I have to wear reading glasses. The irony of that doesn't escape me either.

That's about all I have to say about my head.

It is pretty big though.

Legend in my own mind

Not long ago, someone accused me of being a "legend in my own mind." Other than being a cliche and unimaginative thing to say, it really didn't bother me. I am lots of legends in my mind. Or more precisely, I have lots of legends in my own mind. That's why I like to plaster my face on kings, cowboys, clowns and mimes. It's fun to bring my legends to life.

When I was a boy, I wanted desperately to be an astronaut. I watched Alan Shepard, John Glenn, Neil Armstrong, and Buzz Aldrin on our black and white television launched at the tip of rockets and walking on the moon. And I wanted to be them. Lately being an astronaut has dropped a notch in the legend category, but when I was a child they were truly legendary.

At various times in my life I've wanted to be Van Gogh, John Lennon, Elvis, Einstein, King Arthur, Braveheart, Edgar Allen Poe, King Tut, Ceasar, Wild Bill Cody, James Bond, Cyreno de Bergerac, Bart Starr, Hans Solo and the Godfather. The digital world allows me to play virtual dress up and be those legends.

So being a legend in my own mind really isn't that bad of thing. Oh, and I really never wanted to be a cheese quesadilla, ambergris, or an omelette, but sometimes it's fun just to be a random object in my own mind, too.

We are what we eat

True artists in the kitchen know that presentation is almost as important as the food itself. My blogger friend Hayden is just such an artist. I was inspired by her last post. It was simply a description of her breakfast: kale and mustard greens sauteed w/ onion and garlic, 2 egg omelet w/maitake mushrooms, garnished with ikura (salmon caviar) and radish sprouts.

Her breakfast presentation was such a work of art I offered to do what I do to all major works of art -- Photoshop my face on it. Shandi egged me on, too (egged me on, get it...ha, ha). I call it Baccus of Kale and Mustard Greens.

I think it is very tasteful.

Inconvenient truth or dare

Tess and I watched Al Gore's film about global warming (An Inconvenient Truth) last night. I have to admit that I wasn't too keen on seeing it at first. It's not that I don't believe global warming is a problem, I just didn't want the buzz kill on my world view that we are all doomed.

I was wrong. The movie does tell us that there is indeed a dire problem facing us, not centuries away, but mere decades. That is a sobering fact. But it tells us something I didn't expect. Global Warming can be stopped. It isn't a conundrum. Scientists know the solution. The solution is us.

The film points out that we can all make a difference by doing little things to reduce the amount of CO2 we contribute to the atmosphere. It can be as simple as recycling, driving less, maintaining your car or choosing a more fuel efficient mode.

I toyed with deleting this post because it's not what I normally write about. I hate preaching and I hate regurgitating politics and current affairs. That is what the evening news is for. But at the very least perhaps this post will encourage someone to watch An Inconvenient Truth. Even if you don't change or reinforce your beliefs about global warming, you might discover that Al Gore is a pretty smart and funny guy.

Punxsutawney Tim

Yesterday was Groundhog Day. In Punxsutaney, Pennsylvania, Punxsutaney Phil (coincidently enough, a groundhog) came out of his den in Gobbler's Knob, didn't see his shadow and tradition says we now will have an early spring.

I'm hoping Punxsutaney Phil is right. Because if you can't trust a groundhog to predict the future, who can you trust?

Punxsutaney Phil was made famous by the 1993 film with Bill Murray called coincidently enough Groundhogs Day. If you haven't seen it, you are living in a hole because they play it over and over. Ironically that is what the movie is about, one man reliving the same day -- Groundhogs Day -- over and over until he gets it right.

The film is the most brilliant description of karma I've ever seen depicted. Bill Murray goes through phases of despair and then acceptance when he realizes he is stuck in the same day. He begins to use the day to improve himself and the environment around him. He reads. He learns to play the piano. He rights wrongs and eventually becomes an enlightened individual. That's when he is free to move on from that one, perpetual day as a new man.

I think about that movie sometimes when I feel stuck in the same situation over and over or feel frustrated that I keep repeating myself and no one seems to hear it. Because even though it feels like I am part of an endless loop, the movie reminds me that we need to keep doing things until we get them right or saying things a little be different until people finally understand them.

Groundhogs are pretty clever animals.

Free at last

I vow to never join another group blog. And I vow never to attempt humor (outside of my own blog) with people who haven't a clue about my sense of humor.

But it has been a learning experience. I've learned not to engage pompeous or overly verbose people in a debate, especially about such burning topics as why the term "vanilla" when referring to someone who is not part of the BDSM community might be termed condescending (if you don't know what BDSM stands for than you are part of the group they are definitely referring to as "vanilla").

I suggested alternative terms like Cherry Garcia or Neopolitan, but that apparently fanned the flames of the controversy. It was too late, I crapped in the punch bowl of the community blog and the sheriff there called me out. After I suggested that people call me Cherry Garcia instead of Vanilla the self-appointed sheriff said (with quite a bit of righteous indignation), "Shame on you."

Apparently people in this blog community take there ice cream pretty seriously

Well it only escalated from there. I pointed out that I was joking but regardless there was such a thing as free speech. The sheriff of the community said that free speech didn't give me license to say anthing I wanted. I suggested he shouldn't take the sheriff thing too seriously. He told me that I was a real wit, and I quote, "A legend in my own mind."

Well that was it. Nobody hurls those kinds of insults at me. We did the virtual equivalent of guys belly bumping each other at a bar mouthing off at each and then walked away muttering.

As with a real dysfunctional community, people are still posturing as to what happened and what it all meant. I'm not fairing well in the translation. At last tally, vanilla was still the ice cream of choice for most people there and my little satirical tirade went over as well as the President's plan to send more troops to Iraq.

Bottomline, I've left the group blog and I'm really pretty relieved. I can look back at the whole ridiculous experience and laugh now, but at the time I was pretty pissed at the hypocrisy of it all. Freedom is freedom. Once you put subjective parameters on it (other than don't be hating) it ain't freedom.

So I'm home now. I don't have to apologize and I don't have to explain myself. And best of all I don't have to debate anyone about the merits or meaning of what I just wrote.

Finally, I feel free.

Moonmares

Tomorrow is another full moon. And you know how I get around a full moon. Well maybe you don't know how I get around a full moon, but trust me it isn't pretty. Or at least my blogging isn't pretty. I tend to get morbid and irritable. And there is a good chance that some squid beaks are on the horizon (see Ambergris by any other name is still whale puke).

I know many people pooh pooh the power of the moon, but I can't ignore it. And it does bring out the nutcases in Seattle...well more than usual. Yesterday a man was walking down the street in downtown Seattle, dowsed three people with lighter fluid and set two of them on fire (the third beat him off with an aluminum cane).

I don't venture uptown downtown much anymore. I stay in the fringe here in the International District where the crackheads are more predictable. Oh I have to deal with the kilt-wearing geeks that work at Amazon.com, but you tune them out like the camoflage wearing drug dealer who hangs around Tullys coffee shop in a beret eating raw onions.

Life truly is odder than fiction. Which is why I don't understand why people need to make up shit when they blog. All you need to do is write about what is going on around you and you are immersed in about as much fantasy as any one can deal with. Open up your eyes and look around you and you'll never say your life is mundane again. All life is drama.

But I digress.

The moon. It does something to my dreams. I don't get to have those nice bizarre dreams they have in the television commercial with the groundhog and Abe Lincoln playing chess. That would be kind of cool. My dreams during the full moon are filled with Lord of the Ring like quests through amusement parks and swamps. And no, I don't believe in analyzing dreams. Mine have nothing to do with not being breast fed or being frightened by a Zamboni at a hockey game when I was a toddler (don't ask). Mine are just odd and intricate and I'm sure woven by the full moon.

But nevermind. I need to go get a cup of coffee. I hope the camoflage-wearing drug dealer with the beret isn't there. I hate the smell of raw onions in the morning.

They call me Mr. Potato Head

When someone hears I grew up in Idaho, I generally have to endure a tirade of potato jokes. Because there's nothing more people in Idaho or from Idaho like more than a good potato joke. Ha, ha, ha, ha.

But when I think about it, we did eat lots of potatoes when I was growing up in Boise. Idaho was, after all, the "Famous Potatoes" state. Our license plates reminded us of that on a daily basis. Ironically, Idaho probably produced more sugar beets per capita than potatoes. "Famous Sugar Beets" just didn't have the same ring to it. Now I think they have options for license plates with other slogans on them (like "Land of the Skinheads" and "You da pimp, Idaho"). The potato lobby must not be as influential as it used to be.

Potatoes were my father's specialty when he was forced into the kitchen. He loved potatoes. He particularily liked them ground or fried with bologna. I get a bit queesy to this day just thinking of the electric frying pan filled to the brim with gray slices of congealed potato and pink slices of bologna curling up at the edges as they fried in Crisco oil.

His ground potatoes weren't much more appetizing. He'd pull out this old metal hand grinder and attach it to the bread board and then start cranking out the potato pulp. He'd put a pan on the floor to catch the starchy liquid that would drip out of the end of the grinder as he cranked. Then he'd fry up the ground potato in much the same fashion as he would the sliced potatoes. If my memory serves me, he fried them in Crisco, too. My cholesteral level leaps just thinking of it.

Don't ge me wrong. I like potatoes. But I like mine baked or mashed. I like a good potato salad, too, and potato pancakes, but I can take or leave scalloped potatoes. Potato skins frighten me, but for a guilty pleasure, I'll take french fries, tater tots or Sour Cream & Onion potato chips. When I was in Cub Scouts we got to go on a field trip to the Clover Club potato chip factory in Boise. I remember thinking I was in heaven when they let us eat hot potato chips right off the conveyor belt as they came out of the oven.

Oddly enough, one of my favorite meals as a kid was Banquet fried chicken TV dinners with mashed potatoes. I loved the way their mashed potatoes tasted. It wasn't until years later that I realized the reason I liked Banquet's mashed potatoes so much was that they put real butter on top of them. All we ever used on a daily basis was that cheap tub margarine, so real butter was a gourmet treat to me.

One thing I could never stomach were Idaho Spud bars. They were these gross marshmellow things covered in chocolate spinkles and shaped like a potato. They still sell them in Boise, but I think only tourists buy them. These are the same tourists who buy the "Darth Tater" t-shirts and the postcards with the giant potatoes on them.

Regardless, I am not ashamed of my Idaho roots and the potatoes that were attached to them. But ironically the one toy I never did have growing up was a Mr. Potato Head. Go figure.