Field of dreams...

"When I wake up early in the morning,
Lift my head, I'm still yawning
When I'm in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float up stream

Please don't wake me, no
don't shake me
Leave me where I am
I'm only sleeping"

--John Lennon, I'm only sleeping

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

- William Shakespeare, "The Tempest"

Everyone and everything seems to dream.

Anyone who has ever had a pet, knows that animals dream. We conjecture that the dog's jerking leg actions are a sign that he is perhaps chasing a rabbit in his dream. Tess' cat Keliki makes odd sounds when he sleeps. Since he is from Jakarta and weighs in at about 25 pounds since he moved to the U.S., I conjecture that he is dreaming about food or perhaps stalking lizards back in Indonesia.

Regardless, we accept that most creatures dream. And we accept it, but none of use really understands what a dream is.

Oh, the scientists like to attribute dreams to the equivalent of a brain fart. They say it is just the brains way of digesting what happened during the day and doing a data dump as you sleep. Okay, I don't know about you, but if all I did was dream about what happened during the day, I'd really go bats. It's bad enough sitting in meetings when you are awake, but I couldn't deal with reliving them in my dreams.

So what are dreams? Science fiction writers have played with the concept that dreams are simply another reality we enter during our sleep state. Every creative writing student at one time or another have written a story where the lead character discovered that their dreams were reality and their reality was a dream. Human beings love paradoxes.

Years ago, I read all of the Carlos Castaneda books about Don Juan, the Yaqui sorcery that taught Castaneda about magic and the other world. Don Juan really played up the concept of lucid dreaming...becoming aware during a dream and eventually being able to control the dream. He referred to it as the "art of dreaming."

I always thought that this was a pretty cool concept. But it isn't as easy as it sounds. Don Juan suggests that one way to know you are dreaming is to force yourself to look at your hands in your dreams. It is because your hands will always be there. The trick is taking control of the dream at that point and becoming awake in it without waking up in the "real" world.

If this sounds far out, it is because it is. I'm pretty much simplifying what Castaneda took umpteen books to explain. And though I've read them all, I confess that his books weren't presumably intended to make sense unless you were sitting on a rock in the desert whacked out on Peyote. His rambling, repetitive and often nonsensical style of writing always left me thinking I was trying to grasp a dream.

But I'll be damned if on a couple of rare occasions I didn't actually experience a lucid dream that I briefly controlled. The most memorable was finding myself outside at night next to a house I didn't recognize with a perfectly manicured lawn (so we know it wasn't my house). I looked down at my hand and saw it vividly. But it pulsated with color. I reached down and stroked the grass and could actually feel the dew on it and smell that wet-grass smell. But then I woke up.

I know it doesn't sound like much, but I actually felt I was awake in a dream and briefly controlled it. Imagine the possibilities. Because I don't know about you, but I can have some pretty elaborate dreams that sometimes rival a George Lucas Star Wars script in fantasy and detail. Now if I could actually control the plot of my dream and manipulate the characters, that would be entertainment.

But instead I find myself trapped in dreams of working at the Boise Public Library. The computer is down and we are checking out books by hand, writing down the individual bar codes. A line of people waiting to check out books stretches into the distance and they are all pissed at me because the computer is down. This is one of those dreams I was talking about that is actually based on what used to happen on a regular basis when I worked there as a teenager.

I also have lots of dreams about guerrilla warfare and escaping from roving bands of marauding soldiers. Often these dreams include hiding in foxholes and waiting for a bayonet thrust. Past life dreams, perhaps?

Many of my dreams thrust me back into my childhood home in Boise. Those dreams also incorporate my grandmother's house (she lived next door when I was growing up). Her house was built in 1905 or something like that and had the scariest basement I'd ever seen. It had this coal burning furnace that literally looked like something Freddie Kruger would be stoking. So dreams about her house still freak me out.

And I have dreams that I'm back in college and have neglected to go to a particular class (usually math) the entire semester and suddenly realized that I needed it to graduate.

I never really fly in dreams. I swim a lot and slog about in canals a bit. Maybe that's the Pisces thing. Come to think of it, I don't drive much in dreams either. Maybe that's the public transit thing.

Life is but a dream
It's what you make it
Always try to give
Don't ever take it
Life has it's music
Life has it's songs of love

Life is but a dream
And I dream of you
Strange as it seems
All night I see you
I'm trying to tell you
Just what you mean to me

--The Harptones

Unfortunately, once I passed puberty, I stopped having many erotic dreams (though I still have fond memories of one I had when I was 14 that involved the actress who played the mother on My Three Sons just before the series went off the air). Oh, I also had a dream that I was Madonna's boy toy. Pity I don't like Madonna. Even when I was having the dream I kept telling myself I needed to wear a condom because I knew she'd been around a bit.

But I digress.

When it comes down to it, I enjoy dreaming. I can't imagine what it would be like not to dream...even when I am awake.

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

--William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Blue guitar

The Man With the Blue Guitar

The man bent over his guitar, A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are."

The man replied, "Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar."

And they said then, "But play, you must, A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar Of things exactly as they are." -- Wallace Stevens

I always kind of related to that poem. I don't necessarily completely understand it, but I relate to it. Because at times I feel I'm sitting there playing a blue guitar while the world passes by and not a lot of people are pitching coins into my hat. It's as if they don't recognize the tune.

I think I see things clearly. And I hear that beat of the different drum they are always talking about. But it makes me feel so different sometimes. And different isn't always considered a good thing.

Of course, being considered eccentric does help you get away with things, like not ever cleaning my desk at work until things threaten to fall over on me. It allows me the freedom to violate corporate standards and keep odd things around me like the monkey playing cymbals and coconuts (long story).

At one point in my career, when I was a lowly copywriter, I used to have a complete Elvis shrine at my desk and tons of random crap that seemed to gravitate into my cubicle. One day I looked up and an entire middle school class was filing by on a field trip. The person hosting the field trip had made a special trip to my floor just so the class could see my office. As the kids filed by gawking at me like I was a geek in a carnival ready to bite off chicken heads, I had an Epiphany as to why gorillas in cages fling feces at people who stand outside the bars making faces at them. It was all I could do not to stand up a scream in a lisping voice, "I'm a man, not an animal."

But I doubt any of them had ever heard of the Elephant Man.

It's just that, when I was growing up, I caught on to the Catch 22 of being "creative." Teachers were always encouraging us to think out of the box and be creative problem solvers. Great inventors like Thomas Edison and George Washington Carver were always paraded in front of us as examples of what creative thinking could achieve. But damned if the same teachers didn't make us walk around single-file with our arms crossed ready to whack us in the head if we talked without raising our hands. And all hell would break out if you colored outside the lines.

But I learned that people aren't really comfortable with "out of the box" thinking that actually steps outside the box. People like their boxes. This is why they freak out when you don't mow your lawn or make your bed. God forbid if you dance naked on your roof with a dead chicken and a feather duster...not that I've ever done that...more than that one time.

But I digress.

Anyway, I guess I've arrived at a fairly happy medium in my life and can walk the line that allows me to play the blue guitar and occasionally throw in a few standards that people can hum to. It pays the bills and keeps me employed.

But I still refuse to make the bed.

eBay or not eBay...

As Tess and I merge households and I clean out accumulated clutter from the house I've lived in for 18 years, I've come face to face with a side of myself that is not pretty. Since I was a kid, I've held on to things out of a misguided cross between sentiment and a self-delusionary hope that one day it will be worth a fortune. This has created space issues that Tess is helping me resolve with a few tough love techniques.

I'm quickly being forced to examine why I have so much crap. And I'm learning that purging one's self of useless but interesting stuff is good for the soul (and the relationship). We spent much of weekend packing up my excess and hauling it to Value Village where much of it originated. I am trying to look at it all in a Buddhist fashion that way. And it does make me question the value system I had when I acquired most of the crap.

For instance, I went through an extended phase of collecting old, mismatched dinnerware from the 50s and 60s. My cupboards were overflowing with enough place settings to run a good sized restaurant, yet I don't entertain. I could have got by with two plates and a few cups. Instead I had hundreds. Out the door.

With them went the skies and poles from when I was high school (which is about the last time I skied). The boots went walking years ago. And the various maniquins that decorated my family room fit nicely into Tess' trunk to their new home at the "Village." All of my ratty old rattan furniture followed. And about 100 t-shirts that I've saved since grade school. Add to the stack my collection of Vegas and Reno memorabilia...at least the stuff I could part with. Gone is the "Lost my ass" coffee mugs and playing cards. Gone are the 14 or so ashtrays I'd "ended up" with as souveniers of casinos that ended up with my money in exchange.

Goodbye hockey gloves. I never played hockey anyway. Goodbye shop class project wine rack. Goodbye buddhist shrine, candles and chanting stool. I chant no more. Goodbye endless number of souvenier drink cups from New Orleans, defunct cruise lines and bars that exist no more. Goodbye four wall hanging guitars with broken strings. Goodbye green accordian that was broken and I couldn't play anyway.

But there is still more crap. So I frantically turn to eBay. Save me eBay. You were part of the problem. You forced me to buy more crap. Now take it back. So I list part of my cocktail shaker collection and my glasses and swizzle sticks from Playboy clubs. I list my McCoy cookie jar and my four enamelware camp plates with grizzly bears, salmon and deer images on them.

And I'm terrified that no one will bid. So once again I'll pack up the truck and haul even more of my maddness to the Village to feed someone else's obsessive cumpulsive behaviour. But maybe it is for the better. Letting go of crap is a very spiritual thing. I do find that the older I get, the less I need "things" to ground me.

But in the meantime, go to eBay and bid on my stuff, okay?

Does a bear blog in the woods?

This is of course, not a real bear. We were on an Alaska cruise and this was a lifesized stuffed bear in a gift shop. Had it been a real bear, Tess would likely have not had time to snap the photo and I might have been a bit more animated.

I did encounter a real bear years ago on a backpacking trip in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. I was with my oldest brother. We rounded a bend in the trail and caught sight of the south end of a northbound bear. As with most bears, it really didn't want to encounter us anymore than we wanted to encounter it.

But as usual, I digress.

The photo, which I have cleverly turned into a drawing via the magic of Photoshop, is a perfect example of creative posing. I do this a great deal because I am rarely comfortable with people taking my photo (though after 14 cruises you would think I'd be used to it by now).



Case in point, the above image is me in front of a totem pole. I was using restraint. Normally I would pose pointing at the object I am standing next to.

And here I am posing with Poppy:

Actually I was sitting on Poppy. I believe this was in Belize. Poppy had one ear that appeared to have been chewed partially off by another horse. He seemed okay with that, though and I didn't dwell on it.

And here is Snappy:


Snappy was a baby alligator at a tourist trap in the Everglades that you could hold and pose with for $3. Of course, you could also then buy a shirt that said, "I held Snappy" for another $20. I declined. Snappy seemed very resigned to his lot in life. I think he was just taking it all in, waiting for the day that he was six foot long and could extract payback for the indignity of it all.

Sometimes I pose with famous people:


This was taken in Las Vegas at a public transit convention. To be honest with you, I don't think they were the real Marilyn and Elvis. Marilyn told me that Elvis' real name was Tim, just like mine. I told her we weren't related. I'm a silver tongued devil.

Here I am posing with Jim Hendrix:


Well, actually it is his memorial at a cemetery in Renton, Washington. It was a very nice memorial. Several Japanese tourists were there snapping photographs. I told them that I was Richard Gere. Somewhere in Japan I think my photo is up on someone's wall.

Here I am posing with a trash can in Disneyland:



I have a whole series of these with different trash cans in each of Disneyland's "lands" and in California Adventure. But I'll save those for another blog.

And here's a rare photo of me simply standing in front of the Del Coronado Hotel in San Diego. We stayed there a couple of years ago.

It is supposed to be haunted. We didn't see any ghosts, but it is a very cool old Victorian hotel. It was where they filmed Some like it hot with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon. This is particularly interesting since I had met Marilyn in Las Vegas (see earlier photo).

And finally, here is a photo of me posing on caboose on the aforementioned Alaska cruise.


I thought it was an appropriate way to end this blog entry since, if you've been patient enough to endure these random images, you've probably been wondering if there was a caboose to this train of thought I'm riding on.

This is it.

The Rolling Stones are gathering moss

About 24 years ago the Rolling Stones played a concert in Seattle in the King Dome (which has since been imploded to make way for Qwest Field). I was a journalism major and writing a humor column for the college newspaper. All anyone could talk about was the rare opportunity to "SEE THE STONES, MAN!" So I wrote a column about non-conformists and in it I proudly declared that I wasn't going to the Stones concert. AND, I added, I don't even like the Rolling Stones.

You would have thought I'd spit on Mother Theresa. But it was true. I don't like the Rolling Stones. Oh, some of there older stuff was okay and when I was in high school I kind of liked the song "Angie," because it made me think of this girl I had a crush on at the time (though her name was Robin, so I'm not sure what the connection was). I don't get the hype about Mick Jagger. I swear he and Don Knotts are the same person.

Don Knots (left) Mick Jagger (right)

Anyway, you can imagine my annoyance yesterday morning when I see a broadcast of a press conference being held to announce the Rolling Stones are once again going on tour and they will be playing Seattle.

Give me a break. These guys are in their 60s. Can't they just age gracefully and sit in a mansion somewhere with their platinum records on the wall? Must we endure a geriatric Mick Jagger strutting around the stage like a rooster in heat while Keith Richards has a flashback staring at the bright lights and trys to remember what year it is?

It's bad enough that Cher won't stop touring and Neil Diamond is on the road again. And I know Paul McCartney is touring again, but at least the Beatles never sold out and reunited (granted only two of them are left). Can't the Stones simply be content with being part of history.

What's worse is that they are releasing a new album. Jagger is quoted as saying the band will "dig into the catalogue" for this tour and also play songs from its upcoming album. This means we'll have to endure a promo blitz of radio stations playing some crap single they are releasing. It will probably be a duet with Brittany Spears or other crap pop artist to help the band appeal to a "younger" audience.

Not that the younger audience can afford going to their concert. I went online out of curiousity to see how much tickets to their concerts were running. In San Francisco, tickets range from a low of $150 apiece to front row seats at...get this...$5800 each. For $5800 I'd expect to see someone pass a stone, not just four aging Rolling Stones.

I suppose it is human nature to want to continue to hold on to our fleeting youth. Heck, I'd be thrilled if people would fork over $5800 to watch me shuffle across a stage mumbling "Start it up." But one look in the mirror tells me that will never happen.

I've heard some comments that the Stones will keep touring until they are dead. Has someone checked Keith Richards pulse lately?

So, it has all come full circle. Twenty-four years after I wrote it first, I have to say it again. I'm not going to the Rolling Stones concert when they come to Seattle even if someone gave me tickets because I DON'T LIKE THE ROLLING STONES.

deluge Antifungal Foot Cream

Catchy title, eh? It's actually the subject line of a spam e-mail I received at work this morning offering me access to Viagra without a prescription. Now being a marketing professional, I have to at first question the logic of a headline that simply reads "deluge Antifungal Foot Cream" when trying to get me to buy non-prescription Viagra. Appealing as "deluge Antifungal Foot Cream" sounds, I would never associate it with Viagra. I mean, if I saw a bus go by with an ad on the side that read, "deluge Antifungal Foot Cream," I wouldn't immediately get an uncontrollable urge to buy non-prescription Viagra. I would more likely think about my feet or wonder if Rob Thomas had released a new CD. 

 Now before my nephew or other IT types e-mail me that this is just spammers ways of short circuiting spam blocking software, I'll admit that I had already kind of figured that out. But please. Even if it gets through the spam blockers and someone does read it, what kind of moron would respond to it. How can there be a single person left out there with access to a computer that doesn't know enough not to respond to spam? Oh, I forget...people do still use AOL.com, too. 

 Anyway, being a person who can't seem to simply delete endless spam without occasionally making an attempt to spam-inate them back, I've taken to using online "insult generators" to create appropriate nonsensical responses to their blathering subject lines. There are plenty of "insult generators" out there. Just Google. My favorite is the "Arabian-random-insult-generator." Here are some of the better insults from that generator to pass on to your favorite spammer (particularily the Nigerian lottery ones...they usually read their mail):

May one million dead late night talk show hosts flash Froot Loops in an evil parallel universe of your local Starbucks.

May 8 sad dead baboons use Taco Bell starving Gorditas as lubricant to get brains out of air fresheners while standing on your moistened dinner salad.

May a handful of aroused trolls tell "Yo Mamma's So Fat" jokes to air fresheners after consuming your delicious Waffle-chap stick.

May a megabyte of bi-sexual plumbers with butt-crack-itis dance the Macarana with cancerous growths after shoving glass shards into your huge willie.

May 1,024 evil people who use this arabian-random-insult-generator brutally beat Doogie Howser while having a bowel movement on your diseased eye socket.

May an imaginary number of bad tempered Enron executives give a little bit of a "How's your father" to weasels over your petrified Bud Light.

May many lice infested Oompa Loompas take a single dump on drawers of sliced meat after consuming your dog's pile of dirty underwear.

May 16 beer drinking Space Ghosts shout "I like to stick toe jam down my pants" to chex mix using only your moldy pontoon boat.

May one too many mutant Space Ghosts swing a Nerf Crotch-Bat at cigarettes while licking your ingrown sugar cane crops.

May an imaginary number of outrageously huge truck drivers plead the 5th to party poopers while getting it on with your crappy brass monkey.

May 7 funny Hare Krishnas wish they didn't catch the secret lover, Roseanne Barr virus from icecube trays above your silicone enhanced little yappy dog.

May 4 flaming Mormons swallow flaming urinal cakes while kicking your wart covered kazoo.

May 2 bulbous world leaders play Whack-A-genitals at the yellow carnival with Ronald McDonald underneath your hairy chicken head.

May 32 bloated world leaders develop the cure for cancer from diced coffee beans after shoving glass shards into your tongue.

May three bazillion nymphomaniac transvestites march in the "Support Mental Health. Or I'll kill you." parade with Meow Mix while polishing your under-appreciated swan.

May a gross of born-again Christian door to door salesmen sing the rap song "I like big hole" to toe jam while tinkering with your least favorite false teeth.

Okay, spammers, are you ready to rumble?

Stop reading my blog Anne-Marie and go back to work

Reflections

One of my favorite movies is Mystery Train by Jim Jarmusch. It is and isn't about Elvis. But in the movie, a Japanese tourist in Memphis walks around his hotel room taking pictures of everything. His girlfriend asks him why he always takes photos of the rooms they stay in and none of the tourist attractions they go to. He responds that he will easily remember seeing things like Graceland, but it is rooms that he would likely to have forgot without a photograph.

That idea kind of resonated with me. So, whenever I travel, I snap off several photos of mundane places like our cabins on cruise ships and signs. Digital photography has made this a more economical feasible thing to do and I can randomly photograph snippets of what we rarely even notice when we travel.


Of course, even the mundane can become interesting if you put it into the proper perspective. So I've taken to manipulating some of the boring images into a more interesting perspective. For example a shot of our cabin becomes a black light poster:




Or a cruise ship corridor becomes a mysterious pastel passageway:




And even lounge chairs on the balcony become art:





And for some reason I find myself snapping photos of myself in the mirror:

I've found that photos help us reflect on ourselves and our environment. Since the image in the mirror is the one I see of myself most often, I find the photos of myself in the mirror the most acceptable. Because regular photos of myself show me how other's see me. And for some reason that never seems quite right to me. So, in my mind, a photo of my reflection is a way of showing others how I see myself.

Writing is like that, too. It's a way of reflecting reality the way you perceive it.

Perhaps that's why I blog.

Just a reflection...

An apple for the teacher

I went along as a chaperone on a field trip with my wife's fourth grade class the other day. It was part of a local minor league baseball team promotion to help the kid's unwind after a marathon series of testing in Washington state schools called the WASL. There were about 2500 kid's at the game and about 50 adults. It was quite the experience for me. I learned a lot. The main thing was that teachers must have one of the hardest jobs in the world and that they are grossly underpaid.

This has never been a secret to Tess.

It's not that I didn't know that. It was just seeing her in action drove it home. I'm not sure I could do her job at any price. I barely understand and am able to supervise adults. How could I manage 25 fourth graders?

First, it took me awhile to adjust to all of the questions (are you Miss M's husband? are you Mr. H****? are you a stranger? where did Miss M go? why are you here?). Although the kids have followed along with our engagement and marriage, they haven't quite grasped (or accepted) her name change.

I don't think ever, on my busiest day at work, do I expend half the energy that Tess does teaching kids. It's not how I remembered grade school either. I remember sitting at a desk not making a sound with the teacher in the front of the room commanding our attention. Tess' kids sit at tables in teams in a kind of organized chaos that seemed to work fine without regimenting the kids into the classic rows. But I could tell it requires a lot of the teacher to manage such an arrangement.

I think the coolest thing about watching Tess with her students was the genuine affection they had for her. I watched her give out money to the kids who didn't bring any for treats at the game and telling them they could work it off picking up trash at school the following week. I don't remember any of my teachers helping kids with money when I was in grade school. And she did it in a way that didn't embarass them or draw attention to the fact that, in many cases, they didn't have money in the first place to bring to the game.

And I suppose it is a credit to their teacher that these same kids pitched in to raise more than a $1000 for Tsunami victims early this year. One girl in Tess' class brought in $20 of her own money to donate. These are fourth graders mind you. Remember how much $20 was when you were ten? Anyway, Tess asked her if she was sure she wanted to give that much and the little girl said her parents had told her it was her money to do what she wanted with and she wanted to give it to the Tsunami victims.

That's what prompted me to approach the baseball team and ask if they could provide these kids with free game tickets and they generously provided tickets for the entire fourth grade at Tess' school. And as out of place I felt surrounded by hundreds of 10-year olds shrieking gleefully at the slightest provocation, it felt good to see my new wife at work at something she obviously loves to do and does so well.

As for the baseball game, well, our team lost, but I don't think any of Tess' kids noticed or cared. But I think they'll remember the game regardless, and I'm pretty sure they'll always remember Tess.

My t-shirt slogan can beat up your t-shirt slogan

After trashing t-shirts in my rant on ugly Americans, I feel obligated to provide a caveat that I think t-shirts can be a healthy way of expressing one's self. I was merely expressing the sad implications of buying a t-shirt in Mazatlan that reads, "Official FBI (Female Body Inspector)" as a way of remembering your trip to Mexico. In fact, I think some of our greatest literature these days is being sported on people's chests and backs. Though I'm not sure who actually writes them. I mean, is there this room somewhere in Cleveland where a guy is sitting with his computer cranking out t-shirt slogans? And is he or she doomed to die anonymously having written thousands of pithy and witty sayings that are helping people break the ice at bars across the country? 

 Regardless, t-shirt slogans seem to fit in a few key categories. Some rely on word play and twisting old proverbs to garner attention:

"Summer in Nags Head, Some Are Not" 

"Statistics Means Never Having to Say You're Certain" 

"Where Are We Going? Why Am I in This Handbasket?" 

"Due to Budget Cuts, the Light at the End of the Tunnel Has Been Cut Off" 

"I Wish the Buck Stopped Here – I Could Use a Few" 

"Where There's a Will, I Want to Be in It" 

"If You Can't Speak Softly, Just Use the Stick" 

"If Idiots Could Fly, This Place Would Be an Airport" 

"Diplomacy Is the Art of Saying 'Nice Doggie' Until You Can Find a Rock" 

"Make It Idiot Proof, and Someone Will Make a Better Idiot" 

"I Used to Have a Handle on Life, but It Broke" 

"Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beer Holder" 

"If All the World's a Stage, I Want Better Lighting" 

"Army: Be All That You're Told to Be" 

"Five Out of Four People Don't Understand Fractions" 

"Yes, It's Lonely at the Top – But I Eat a Lot Better Than You" 

"The Quickest Way to Double Your Money Is to Fold It in Half and Put It in Your Pocket" 

"If You Can't Beat Them, Arrange to Have Them Beaten" 

"The Weather Is Here – Wish You Were Beautiful!" 

"I Don't Think Much – Therefore, I May Not Be" 

"Frankly, Scallop, I Don't Give a Clam" 

"FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION. It comes bundled with the software." 

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a cash advance" 

"Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana." 

"Two rights do not make a wrong. They make an airplane." 

"NyQuil: The stuffy, sneezy, why-the-heck-is-the-room-spinning medicine." 

"Quoting one is plagiarism. Quoting many is research."

Some play on animosity between the sexes:

"Ran Into My Ex – Put It in Reverse and Hit Him Again!" 

"I've Been on So Many Blind Dates That I Should Get a Free Dog" 

"Marriage Has Cured My Fear of Being Alone" 

"Men and Women Are From Earth – Deal With It"

Some refer to the owners love of pets:

"Got Rid of the Kids, the Cat Was Allergic” 

"My Cat Kneads Me" 

"My Dog Can Lick Anyone"

Some express a view on life paths or ways of life:

"This Is Not the Life I Ordered" 

"I Am the Only Hell That My Mother Ever Raised" 

"I Didn't Climb to the Top of the Food Chain to Be a Vegetarian" 

"Unproductive People Revolve Around the Earth at the Same Speed as Productive People" 

"I Have the Body of a God. Unfortunately the God Is Buddha" 

"I May Be Wrong" "You Non-Conformists Are All Alike" 

"Repent – and Sin Some More" 

"Growing Old Is Mandatory – Growing Up Is Optional" 

"Rehab Is for Quitters!" 

"HARD WORK WILL PAY OFF LATER. LAZINESS PAYS OFF NOW!" 

"When Your Dreams Turn to Dust, Vacuum" 

"Procrastinate Now"

And some speak of a person's mental state:

"Out of My Mind – Will Be Back Shortly"

"I Know About Stressed – It's Desserts Spelled Backwards"

"I'd Kill for a Nobel Peace Prize" "You're Just Jealous Because the Little Voices Are Talking to Me"

"I Live in My Own World But It's OK – They Know Me Here"

"...And You Say Psycho Like It's a Bad Thing"

"I Hear Voices – And They Don't Like You"

"I'm Not Shy – I'm Just Examining My Prey"

"Some Days It Just Doesn't Pay to Chew Through the Leather Restraint Straps"

Or ask questions:

"What Part of Eelymosynary Ratiocination Do You Not Understand?" 

"What's the Difference Between In-Laws and Outlaws? Outlaws Are Wanted" 

"IF THERE IS NO GOD, WHO POPS UP THE NEXT KLEENEX?"

Or educate and inform:

"Shin: A Device for Finding Furniture in the Dark" 

"How Long a Minute Is Depends on Which Side of the Bathroom Door You're On" 

"Stop Following Me – I'm Not a Shoplifter" 

"Be Nice to Your Children – They Choose Your Nursing Home" 

"Consciousness – That Annoying Time Between Naps" 

"Bomb Expert – If You See Me Running, Try to Keep Up!" 

"Damn Straight I'm a College Grad – Paper or Plastic?" 

"I Have a Degree in Liberal Arts -- Do You Want Fries With That?" 

"Heck Is Where People Go Who Don't Believe in Gosh" 

"Don't Worry, It Only Seems Kinky the First Time" 

“Upon the Advice of My Attorney, My Shirt Bears No Message at This Time" 

"Filthy, Stinking, Rich -- Well, Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" 

"The trouble with life is there's no background music."

And my personal favorite:

Beware a man who quotes t-shirts

Portrait of an Ugly American

The phrase, "Ugly American" was first coined in a bestselling book published in 1958, The Ugly American. The book contained slashing expos of American arrogance, incompetence, and corruption in Southeast Asia. 

 Although I was born in the same year that book was published, this particular blog entry has nothing to do with the political ugly American. It's more about Richard C. Crepeau's definition of the ugly American as "a caricature built on the reality of a boisterous, loud, uncultured, unsophisticated, arrogant, insensitive clod -- one who was prone to throwing around too much money, dressing absurdly, and acting oblivious to the subtleties of high culture." Having been on 14 cruises, I tend to agree in principle with that definition. Americans do tend to behave badly when faced with social situations or cultures they aren't familar with. A perfect example is silverware etiquette. According to Italian food retailer Barilla, here are the rules for table settings:

HOW TO SET THE TABLE

According to the rules governing formal table settings, the silverware should be arranged at the sides of the plate in the order in which the various pieces will be used. In order to avoid potentially embarrassing situations when faced with an imposing array of knives and forks, all you have to remember is that they are used as required, beginning with the implements furthest from the plate. As a rule of thumb, each course has its own silverware, up to a maximum of three forks and three spoons. In cases requiring more silverware, it is up to the person serving to bring more as needed.

Okay, for anyone who has seen Pretty Woman with Julie Roberts and remembers the restaurant scene, the basic rule for silverware use is start outside and work in. 

When I first started taking cruises, dinner was a pretty traditional formal affair with all of the silverware placed on the table at the onset. In the past few years they've given up and only bring a utensil when you need it. Why? Because Americans couldn't figure it out. 

 Don't get me started on our excess consumption of everything. When I take a cruise, I enjoy eating in the dining room where you can enjoy a leisurely paced meal with modest proportions. But 90 percent of the people prefer a buffet where they can pile more food on a single plate for a single meal than many third world countries consume in a week. Then they complain about the quality. 

It's little wonder that the people who work on cruise ships carry back to their countries the perpetuated image of Americans as fat, loud and wasteful. And I've been guilty of this myself, but why is it most Americans think the perfect souvenier of a trip to another country is a t-shirt. Shoot, most of the t-shirts were manufactured in China or Indonesia and shipped to Mexico and the Caribbean where Americans haggle over the $3 price tag. And once we get our cheap t-shirt home and wash it once, the only one in the family who can fit in to it is the cat. 

 Then there is the basic attitude of most American tourists that everyone in a foreign port is out to cheat them, even the kids peddling Chicklets. I can never get this image out of my head of overfed cruisers fresh from the buffet, pouring off the ship in Caracas, Venezuala and bartering with these little homeless kids from the shanties that surround the city over the price of a keychain. 

 How many times have you seen Americans pour through a small town and tramp through a cathedral wearing shorts and tanktops, pausing only to snap a flash photograph during a funeral ceremony. Would you tolerate that in your home towns? And what is it about Americans from the east coast that makes them shout all the time to make themselves understood in other countries. There's something about old fat women from New Jersey screaming at there husbands to "TELL HIM WE WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH, BUT WANT HIM TO WAIT FOR US BUT WE WILL ONLY PAY $3 U.S....SAY GO-O TO BEACH-O..." that makes you hope the drive will drop them off at a leper colony and high tail it out of there. 

 I suppose I'm no one to talk. I have done my share of parading around in shorts and a t-shirt, buying my obligatory overpriced Cuban cigar, snapping my photos and bargaining with cab drivers. But at least I know which fork to use.

Old man and the sea

I grew up surrounded by sagebrush desert. The largest body of water I ever saw as a kid was Lucky Peak Reservoir outside of Boise. It ebbed and filled as they opened and closed a dam on the Boise River. It was really nothing impressive as bodies of water go, but to me it was the ocean I only knew about from educational films in school.

Many summer Sunday afternoons were spent at Lucky Peak. For the longest time I thought Luck Peak was named after the first family dog I remember -- Lucky. Lucky was a golden retriever. Lucky developed a habit of biting strangers (including me soon after I was born). So one day a man in a truck came and took Lucky away to the proverbial farm parents always send errant pets to. So Lucky apparently wasn't.

But I digress.

Our trips to Lucky Peak were always to the same "secret" spot my father had found to fish without competition. Not that competition mattered. The only fish in Lucky Peak were trash fish -- squawfish and carp. But that didn't stop my father from teaching us how to cast our lines and watch the bobbers until we got a bite and then haul in the bounty that we would then quickly dispatch, gut and look for tapeworms to bait the next hook.

Dad's secret spot at Lucky Peak involved parking in a gravel turnout and winding our way down a small path worn through the sagebrush (alert to my mother's neverending warnings about ticks and rattlesnakes) to the edge of the reservoir. The edge of reservoir varied according to the whims of the people who controlled the dam. Sometimes the water came up to the edge of the sagebrush and sandstone. Other times it was low and you'd have to made your way down endless sandy terraces that looked like something the Incas would build in the Andes in Peru.

I liked it when the water was low. My brothers and I would spend hours gathering driftwood and looking for old lead sinkers from fishing lines snagged on old tree trunks. Then we'd float around on inner tubes and listen to Dad cuss as pulled in yet another carp.

For the longest time I thought Lucky Peak must somehow be part of the sea. Since the Boise River would eventually flow into other rivers which eventually make it to the ocean, I suppose it technically was.

Years later, I finally saw the real ocean and stood in awe at how it stretched infinitely into the horizon. I felt its pull on me and knew that Lucky Peak had only been a space saver in my young life until I could return to the water.

I suppose that is why I was born a Pisces.

I hear voices coming from my Blackberry

Okay I think epinions.com is the devil and Alexander Graham Bell is satan. So that leaves demons, devilish imps and bad joo joo or evil spirits to claim responsibility for my Blackberry. And I know I wrote about the thing before, but man, this little bugger is getting to me.

I swear sometimes I hear voices coming out of it. Of course you do, you are saying. It's also a phone. But I'm not talking about the phone. It's like these vague whisperings just out of comprehension level talking to me seductively:

"Hey Tim, shouldn't you check your e-mail? It's only been 2 minutes since you checked your e-mail? And don't forget to play Brickbreaker. Maybe you'll get beyond the dreaded steel wall this time and break your top score of 9300. "

That's sick. It knows I was so proud when I bested my all time high on the original brickbreaker and then it calls in a software upgrade and adds about 32 new levels of brickbreaker that I probably will never get through.

All I want to do is read a book again without that little bastard vibrating on my hip telling me it's time for some appointment or urging me to check movie times or play Jumble.

Playing Jumble via a wireless device sucks, by the way.

Last week I stepped off the bus and somehow my Blackberry hooked on my jacket and flew off my hip. The battery popped out and it lay there right next to the rear bus wheel. I looked down on it stunned and for a moment I hesitated. This was my chance, I thought. It's broken and it can't torture me anymore. But then, and this may just be my imagination, it sneered at me. I scooped it up and popped the battery back in. And what appeared on the screen? Two words:

I'm Back!

Damn you Blackberry!

Mini-Elvis (the series)

As is my habit when I travel, I look for Elvis. And I don't mean the Elvis that shows up in 7-11's and hitchhikes everywhere. I look for his image. The one place you can bet you'll always find Elvis is a Hard Rock Cafe. And sure enough in the Hard Rock in Puerta Vallarta, there he was shining down on me.

I find great comfort in that (and the shooter in the Hard Rock shotglass I always have to have to add to my collection).

So when CBS, the network giant whose symbol is a giant eye, announced that they are showcasing a brand new mini-series about Elvis, I once again know that Elvis has given me a sign that he watches over everything and everyone.


What really clinches that fact that the King is once again presenting me with signs is the contest CBS is holding to promote the mini-series. They are, get this, giving away a lovely set of ceramic poodle dogs that decorated the set of the mini-series. These aren't just any poodle dogs either. They are SIGNED by Camryn Manheim, the actress that plays Elvis' mother in the mini-series. Well, I have to have these, so don't even think about entering the contest. Because there is nothing more I need as I try and consolidate two households after my recent marriage, than four ugly ceramic poodles signed by Camryn Manheim (who also once appeared in Scary Movie 3). God knows Tess will understand the importance of ceramic poodles that appeared in the Elvis mini-series.

But I digress.

What is earthshattering about this new Elvis mini-series appearing May 8 at 9 p.m. ET/PT and May 11 at 8 p.m. ET/PT only on CBS, is that it proclaims to be "fact-based." Well smack my ass and call me Sally, it is about time we got to see some fact-based information on Elvis. Because I'm looking to learn something I haven't been able to glean out of the 50 some books I've got that have just about scab-picked to death every aspect of his life (and death).

But what I'm really looking forward to is Randy Quade as Colonel Tom Parker. I guess his role in National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation (a fact they leave out in his bio on the CBS Web site) has prepared him for this important role.

Oh, I suppose I should say something about Johnathan Rhys Meyers who plays Elvis in the mini-series. Okay, he looks kind of like the King, but good luck with the rest of his career. He's gone from Bend it like Bendham to playing Elvis in a made for television mini-series. I'm afraid he's destinied to someday be sitting in a room shooting out his television with a .357 shouting, "I played the King, man."

And what can you say about Antonia Bernath as Priscilla? Apparently her biggest film credit was Kisna, the Warrior Poet, so what did she have to lose by play Priscilla?

Oh, I know, you are saying that Tim-Elvis is just being a nattering naybob of negativity again. But something tells me this is just another attempt to rekindle interest in the King with a generation who thinks he is a myth like the Easter Bunny. I mean, as the rabid Elvis fans get older and older and have less money to purchase Elvis Presley Enterprize-authorized TV trays, the marketing people have got to be looking at ways to increase the percentage of market share in the younger demographics.

But I have news for you, a mini-series on CBS isn't the answer. You want to light a fire under potential new Elvis fans, you have to get on cable. HBO needs to launch a mini-series on par with Deadwood and the Sopranos...maybe something like, Untold King or Real Elvis or Memphis Mafioso. You produce a real, "fact-based" program on the King that doesn't have to be censored or interspersed with Toyota ads and you will create a whole new generation of Elvis fans.

Now that would be taking care of business and something I'd TIVO for sure.

The monkey is back and you're going be sorry...

A few days before I left to get married, someone in my office stole the Monkey Playing Cymbals and left a note reading:

Dear Tim, I couldn't tell you to your face because I'm jsut too emotional right now. I'm leaving you and I won't be back. Well, i may think about coming back on one condition: You must call the wedding off now!! I just can't beat the thought of sharing you with another. i know she's much prettier than me and her hair is real and she can do many other things besides just play the cymbals! But I know you so much better than she does. our relationship goes way back, I stuck with you through thick and thin, throgh hell and high water, from ponytail to salt and pepper. I love you, man! I'm beggin you, I'd get down on my knees if I could, DON'T DO IT!!! If you decide to call it off send me a note care of Bonzo and leave it at the main reception desk. One of my other friends will pikc it up for me. I fyou decide to go through with this, will, all I can say is: Smell ya later! Your dear old friend, Cymbal Monkey

Okay, I know the note wasn't really from the monkey. The monkey is a much better writer than that and the monkey didn't know me when I had a ponytail. I figured the monkey paid off some of my co-workers and went off on a bender. He's done this before so I didn't think anything of it. The day before I left for my wedding I got another note:

Dear Tim, Here's a poem for you: No more carefree laughter Silence ever after. Walking through an empty house, Tears in my eys. Hear (sic) is where the story ends This is goodbye... memories: good days, bad days. They'll be with me always In these old fimiliar rooms Children would play. Now there's only emptiness, nothing to say. Boo hoo, Cymbal Monkey

Okay, I really know the monkey didn't write that crap. He's a cynical little bastard and he wouldn't be caught dead writing childish poetry like that. Plus, call him what you will, but the monkey can at least spell. I was a little pissed at this point, because the monkey owes me money. But I ignored the note and left for my wedding and honeymoon (locking my office to avoid anything else disappearing) figuring the monkey would be back when he sobered up. So I get back from my honeymoon and still no monkey. 

Then a note shows up with photos of him hanging out at a commuter train station in California. I'm really pissed by this time because normally he just hangs out in Seattle when he goes out on a binge. The next day I get another note from him showing him out on the California desert with some family that took him in. I'm figuring, great, the monkey has duped some poor family with his "poor monkey" routine. He probably ate them out of house and home and then stole the family silver. He is a mean little cus. 

 Finally, he shows up yesterday in my bosses office (fortunately she wasn't in) with another note begging me to take him back in. I could tell from his glazed look he's been stoned for weeks. And he'd lost the stupid green pom pom he'd been wearing on his head since the Seahawks lost their playoff game. He tried to concoct some while tale about monkeynapping and spankings, but I just put him up on the shelf to sleep it off. So, if you go to his blog and he tries to feed you crap about where he has been, keep in mind that he is a pathological liar.

There's no point in being pointless...

I'm one of those people that firmly believes that everything has a purpose or a point, if you will (except certain reality programs like American Idol and Survivor which I'm proud to say I've never watched...though I have taped and watched the Bachelor on occasion...nobody is perfect). I believe that everything is connected and fits into the cosmic theme of things. All things have meaning.

William Blake summed it up well when he wrote, "To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour." Of course Blake is widely believed to have been a few bricks shy of a wall and talked to angels, but as I've said, nobody is perfect.

I suppose you think I'm wandering into a treatise on Elvis and Quantum Physics again, but I'm really just reacting to the selection of the new pope. Because on the surface, many people are wondering why anyone would select a 78-year old German man who bears a striking resemblance to an aged Walter Mondale as the spiritual leader of one of the most powerful religious bodies in the world.

I for one was ready to place big money on the new pope being one of the Italian contenders. But MSNBC tells us not everyone was suprised by the selection:

"Thousands worldwide placed bets on him through the Web — and an inspired few
hundred even correctly guessed he'd take the name Benedict.

Among a handful of Internet-based bookmakers who offered odds on the next pope, the biggest player was Paddy Power PLC, the No. 1 bookie in Ireland,
Minutes after Benedict XVI appeared in St. Peter's Square, Paddy Power was collecting — or paying out — on more than 10,000 bets totaling more than $260,000.

The biggest winners: Someone who put down $1,050 Saturday on a Ratzinger victory at odds of 6 to 1, which meant a payout of $7,350; and somebody else who waged $260 on the new pontiff's taking Benedict, which at 3-to-1 odds meant $1,050 back."

The lord and bookmakers work in strange ways. But beyond answering some gambler's prayers, I think there were some bigger forces at work in the selection of a pope who, how can I put this delicately, probably only has a few good years of blessing people left.

I think the main reason Ratzinger was selected was "Market Share". I think the networks saw what kind of ratings they got with Pope John Paul's death and funeral and convinced the Vatican PR people that picking a more, let's say, seasoned pope has potential for raking in a big Nielson rating in the near future, if you catch my drift.

I image there are some FOX Network people who are even now pitching a new reality program to the Holy Father. I mean, Ozzy Osborne could pull it off for two maybe three years, so why not the pope? And if he happens to expire in the final season, well, can you say Emmy?

So, it all makes sense to me. I mean, there really has to be a point, doesn't there?

Deadwood: it's not your father's television show

Unless you are living under a rock (or worst yet don't have HBO), you've at least heard about the television series, Deadwood. It's a western, of sorts, unlike any western you ever dreamed you could watch in the comfort of your home while sitting back in the good ol' barkalounger. I watch the show religiously every Sunday (or at least play it back on my TIVO when I get a chance) and at the end of every episode, I shake my head in admiration and ask myself, "How did they get away with that script?"

You see, Deadwood is based on the wild west as it likely was, not as we grew up to believe it was on Gunsmoke. Whereas Marshall Dillon would always call out the bad guys and shoot them in an honest gunfight at the beginning of each show and then bury them on Boothill, characters on Deadwood tend to shoot people friends and enemies in the back, stab them unexpectedly or push them off cliffs at random moments. Then they dump the bodies at Mr. Wu's and his pigs eat them. Damn!

Deadwood is where characters like Wild Bill Hickcock and Calamity Jane really lived, fought, and died. And if the scriptwriters are true to the venacular of Deadwood at the time, everyone was inflicted with Tourette's Syndrome. Because every other word that comes out of the mouths of the characters on Deadwood (including women and children) begins with "f," ends with "k" and rhymes with 'suck' (which is coincidently part of another word many of the characters use frequently). I mean, you've got to love the simplicity of the dialogue:

WHERE'S YOUR FUKIN' HORSE?

HE'S IN THE FUKIN' STABLE.

WHAT'S HE FUKIN' DOING?

HOW THE FUK SHOULD I KNOW, YOU COCKSUCKER?

I think you get my fukin' point. Even Al Pacino's character in Scarface didn't use the fukin' word that many fukin' times in the entire movie as they do in ten minutes of Deadwood.

But the beauty of it is, we stop hearing the profanity and realize that this series is genius. The characters are all vile, yet they have more depth than any western we ever had to sit through growing up. It's history, yet it's entertaining.

It's kind of like what I was trying to elude to in my last post. It's like sending a camera back in time and watch history at its most fascinating worst.

So, my fukin' hat is off to the creators of Deadwood.

Picture, if you will...

There is just something about taking an ordinary snapshot, running it through some filters in a digital photo editing program that fascinates me. It makes an image of me hugging an arch in Puerto Vallarta very surreal.

Actually, just the whole world of digital photography fascinates me. On our recent honeymoon, I must have snapped 300 images with my digital cameras. Not only do I avoid about $75 in printing bad snapshots, I can manipulate bad shots into something at least I think are interesting. And on a morbid, but practical point, when I die, all they have to do is toss out some CDs instead of boxes of old photos that no one but me cared about.

Though I am kind of fascinated by old photos, too. When my dad died, I rescued some albums of photos from his Navy days in World War II. They were random shots of his ship passing through the Panama Canal and photos of him with Navy buddies and a few women I assume were old girlfriends. Now, my mom would have simply tossed the photo albums saying that they were of people we didn't know and thus weren't important. I totally disagree. They meant something to my dad. They were his memories. Since I never got to ask him about the people in the photos, I simply fill in the gaps with my very active imagination.

Think how fortunate we are to live in a generation where there is a photo record of everything. Think of past generations of people who only knew the names of the president but never knew what he looked like...okay, bad example.

But aren't you ever curious what famous figures throughout history actually looked like? To get slightly controversial, take Jesus. There is no record of what he looked like yet we all conjure up images of a bearded white man. Why? Because painters throughout history painted Jesus to look like their contemporaries. It's the same reason why Biblical quotes always have "thee's" and "thou's." The most popular translation of the Bible was done during King Jame's reign in England and translated into their venacular. It never ceases to amaze me that many Americans actually believe they spoke English in Biblical times.

Even Mel Gibson hung onto the image of Jesus as a white man in his mega movie. He was obsessed with realism in every other aspect of the film, including having them speak the ancient tongue of the time and depicting violent scenes of crucifiction none of us could even have imaged back in the old 1940s and 50s films depicting Jesus, yet Gibson makes Jesus a white, bearded man. Go figure.

But, I digress.

I used to fantasize about a timemachine that could be sent back and photograph great moments throughout history. But would we accept them?

Meanwhile, we have instant images of everything. But even as I marvel at our technology, I must go back to the original point (?) of this particular blog entry: with our increased abilility to document everything comes an equally sophisticated ability to doctor the images to match our expectations.

And when I hug arches, it is always in a very surreal world.

Traffic

I've given up on blog traffic. I went to BlogExplosion again today and I've determined it is not worth it to sit there looking at mindnumbingly boring blogs to get people to in turn stare at mine for a minute in hopes of getting "mystery credits." I have no idea what you do with the mystery credits, but I think it has something to do with fibonacci numbers.

I swear I spent five minutes staring in horror at a blog that featured a baby's sunsuit some woman had crocheted. I find something very wrong about this.

I also have begun to believe that I have no sense of humor. The blogs I've randomly been forced to look at that declare themselves to be humorous make absolutely no sense to me. So I must conclude that they are staring at my blog about feeling bad about being relieved that the Pope did not die on my wedding day and scratching their heads in confusion.

I'm trying not to be negative. This was my resolution after we got back from our honeymoon cruise. One of the couples that were seated at our dinner table on the cruise were the most negative people I'd ever met. Everything that came out of the husband's mouth at every meal was a major downer. This guy looked exactly like an age-progressed Beavis from Beavis and Butthead. He gleefully informed us one night that Peter Jennings had terminal lung cancer. This was in between pronouncements that we shouldn't go ashore in Mexico because of all of the kidnappings and the fact that he was sure Mexicans had stolen some tools he had loaned to his daughter in California. Despite his own warnings, he and his wife did go ashore but were pissed that they couldn't buy Valium and other narcotics over the counter in the Mexican pharmacies.

Plus the guy told Polish jokes at the table during a discussion of the Pope's demise. Even I found this in poor taste....that and his insistence that everything on the menu tasted like chicken.

But I digress.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that life is too short for useless conversation with dimwitted strangers and too short to sit glued to my computer staring at photos of the joys of tabletop gaming and crocheted baby clothes.

So bye bye Blog Explosion. I'll just coast along in my own little blogosphere oblivious to the rest of the world and comfortable in oblivion.

Bless a my soul, what's wrong with me?

I know it's wrong, but I couldn't help but be relieved that the Pope didn't die on my wedding day. It's just not something you want to associate your wedding anniversary with. I mean it was bad enough he died the day before we got married. But then again, the sunami happened the day after we got engaged.

Don't get me wrong. Even though I'm not Catholic, I thought the Pope was okay. I think he meant well. And I thought his Pope Mobile was pretty cool. If he'd taken a different stand on condom use, I truly believe he would have really done the world a heck of a lot more good. But that's just my humble non-Catholic opinion of it.

I'm old enough to remember the last two Pope's before John Paul dying. I remember this mainly because back then there were only two or three television stations in Boise and all you could watch for days was images of people waiting for the white or black smoke when the Cardinals vote for a new Pope. This was a major bummer for a little kid being raised on television. I also remember staying up late watching it because I had a bee sting on my hand and it had swollen to the size of Rhode Island. Being Christian Scientists, this meant all I could do for the discomfort was watch it swell, think positive thoughts and watch the process of a new Pope being selected. This process is much like watching paint dry, especially when you are five or six years old.

Today, they make the process much more like the American election process and try to dig up dirt on all of the potential Popes. This doesn't seem quite right to me. But I am thinking of checking out what some of the odds are in Vegas on some of the Pope-idates...or are they perhaps Popeabees. My money is on one of the Italians.

I know, I'm going to hell.

But since I'm not Catholic, I'm not sure what kind of hell that will be. Christian Scientist's didn't really have a hell (though I associated it with having to go to Sunday School on one of the only days I had to sleep in). And having been a Buddhist for a brief stint, my afterlife could be a bit confusing no matter where I end up.

But no matter where that is, I hope they have TIVO or at least the premium channels.

We don't need no stinkin' badges...

Sometimes words just get in the way of a good story.

The great escape in Mazatlan

When we stepped off the ship in Mazatlan (one of the stops on our honeymoon), we were immediately greeted by many helpful people with maps wanting us to truly enjoy the hospitality of their city. One particularily helpful young woman offered us a free cab ride to a major resort, two bottles of water and the opportunity to dine for free at the resort restaurant and enjoy all of their amenities. Well, I just didn't fall off the potato truck yesterday. I asked her if we had to listen to a timeshare presentation. Noooooooooooo, she assured us. We just had to take a brief funfilled tour of the resort and then we could kick back and enjoy ourselves.

Did my experience with the Sea Monkeys teach me nothing?

We accepted the offer and they quickly whisked us to a cab for the ride to the resort. I won't go into a cliche description of a cab ride in Mexico. Suffice it to say "Mr Toad's Wild Ride" in Disneyland could learn a few pointers from this driver when it comes to a thrill ride.

So we get to the resort in Mazatlan's "Golden Zone." A representative greeted us and informed us we just had to endure an hour-long tour and presentation and then we could eat and enjoy the resort amenitities. Unfortunately, all of their tour guides were busy and we'd have to wait at the pool area and they'd come get us.

Okay, if you've ever been on a cruise, you know that time ashore is brief and very precious. Tess and I sat fuming at the pool watching ten very portly seniors doing water aerobics and getting pissed at ourselves that we'd got sucked into the timeshare scam. And then it occured to us...all we had to do was make a run for it.

We scurried past a ceramics demonstration and a napkin folding seminar and beelined it for the beach. All the time we kept looking over our shoulders sure the timeshare police would be swooping down on us demanding $10 for the cab ride and wanting their bottle water back. I was bracing myself to ask to see some badges and having this burly guy snarl at me, "Badges...we don't need not stinkin' badges."

We hit the beach at a brisk speed walk, clutching our bottled water. Once we were past the hotel property line we breathed a sigh of relief but then the beach vendors swooped down on us like a scene out of "Night of the Living Dead." I shouted out a string of "No Gracias'" and bolted for an alley that led back to the main street and freedom.

Bottomline is we escaped. We found a small restaurant, ordered a reasonably priced lunch that didn't require us to sit through an hour long sales pitch (though there was an American dude there who claimed to be from West Seattle who tried to get us to check out another resort). He finally admitted to us that all we had to do to enjoy any of the beach resort amenities was order a drink at their bar.

So we ended up at a hotel called Costa De Oro where it was Happy, Happy Hour (two for one drinks). We sat in their beach chairs, enjoyed their pool and it only cost us about $5 US. That's where I snapped the above photo. If you look closely, you'll see a parasail in the distance. Five minutes later the drunk parasailor almost landed on us. He ended up hitting a coconut palm ten feet away from us instead. We finished our four margaritas and caught a cab back to the ship.

I love happy endings.

It was a nice day for a Web Wedding...

Okay, so the Webcast of our wedding lasted maybe nine minutes and looked like a surveillance tape from a 7-11. But you have to admit it was a unique idea. So what if my mother thought the candle sticks in the image were Tess. She got to see our wedding. If you missed it, one of my friends copied the images for posterity:


Tess and I are standing before the Captain of the Diamond Princess.
I was relieved that he was British until I realized I didn't understand a
word he was saying. You would think those people would learn to speak
English. I was taken aback when he asked me to repeat the phrase "lawful
impediment."

Tess and Tim exchange vows (and no that is not my belly, it's my jacket and I know it made me look like Alfred Hitchcock).

Tess and Tim sign the ship's log (a journal, not a piece of wood).


Tess and Tim are introduced as husband and wife and experience the blinding light of spiritual rapture...well actually it was a flash going off at exactly the time the Webcam refreshed. But we were very happy.

I plan to post some of the more traditional photos of our wedding soon whether you like it or not.