A moment in time

I'm not sure why I typed my mom's address into Google maps.  The house I grew up in was sold to a developer after she died and was to be demolished to make room for what I assume will be hideous townhouses. I guess I was expecting to see a photo of a construction site or vacant lot. Instead I found a snap shot of the house from about a year before my mother died. She is working out in the yard while her dog rests in front of the door on the drive way.

I know some people question Google's efforts to capture these types of images. Although it makes me a bit sad, I'm actually glad they captured a moment of my mom's life that wasn't posed self-consciously and reflected something she loved, working in her garden. It is how I want to remember her.  It helps me try and get past the memory of her last days.

I kind of wish Google had existed throughout history and captured similar moments. I would love to see photos of the house at various times during my life. Photos of me playing in the yard with my brothers and neighborhood friends. Photos of me sitting with my parents on the front steps on summer evenings, enjoying a breeze and a break from the day's heat. Photos of life that didn't just involve people awkwardly posing in front of the camera at birthdays and graduations.

I am going back to Boise in a few weeks on a business trip. I plan to drive by the house (or where the house used to be). And I'm not sure how I will feel or react. It will be hard to believe that the place is gone, the tree, planted in the front yard when I was a small boy, cut down. The fence I jumped over torn down (the same fence I ran into with my bicycle when I was learning how to ride). The remnants of my childhood plowed under.

And it will be odd not to walk through the gate and up to the door as I did on countless trips home in the thirty something years since I left. Countless trips home. It just dawned on me that part of me subconsciously holds onto the place as my home when I haven't lived there for more than three decades. But now there is no physical place to hold onto, to ground me to my past. My mother was that anchor that held me to that place and now she is gone. And so is that home.

I couldn't wait to leave there when I was old enough to get my own place. After sharing a room with my two brothers for the first ten years of my life I longed for my own room. And then I longed for a place that was my own without other people's rules.

And I am nostalgic about the place being gone. Maybe we are like the salmon and other creatures who are drawn to the place of their birth.

Or maybe we are just drawn to moments in time.

Me loves the blog, me hates the blog!

I know, I know, the photo is pretty creepy. But then again, blogging isn't always pretty.  It is better than when I Photoshopped my face on the painting of the Girl with the Pearl Earring.

Now that seriously creeps me out and it's my face. But then again I am drawn to look at it in the same way you are to look at a auto accident when you drive by one on the freeway.

But I digress.

I have a love, hate relationship with my blog. I check my stats several times a day on Blogger and bemoan the fact that, although there are a couple of hundred a people a day who wander in here, it is pretty pitiful compared to a blog about, say someone like Justin Bieber. But after nine years of blogging, I still don't really know what I am trying to accomplish.

I know, I know, I'm supposed to just be writing for the pure pleasure of writing..bla, bla, bla, bla, bla. It's the same rant I've made every other month for nine years. I should just be happy that I can write whatever I want without having to worry about pleasing anyone. But can I help it if I kind of would like a modest level of fame and fortune (heavy on the fortune side).

But I am not destined to be either famous or materially fortunate. If it was going to "just happen," it would have happened by now. Not that I believe that things just happen. You are who you are through where you have been and were. So I have to accept that the seeds I've planted over the years were eaten by birds or never sprouted.

Though as I've aged, I have grown to think if I were ever truly famous, I would greatly regret it. I don't really deal well with excess attention focused on me or my garbage.

Which for some reason reminds me of a friend of mine I'd gone to grade school, junior high and high school with. Just before graduation he dropped out of high school and joined the marines. I am not sure why. But he  stayed in for awhile but the pressure must have got too much for him. He ended up in the brig for hitting an officer. While in jail, his father died and they wouldn't let him attend the funeral. Then he really lost it. He ended up getting discharged from the marines and committed to a mental hospital.

The next time I saw him he showed up at the Boise Public Library where I was working at the time. He didn't look very good. And he didn't really seem to recognize me. I tried talking to him and he made a point of telling me to ignore all of the people with cameras around him. He said they followed him everywhere because he was famous.

I slipped away, gave his mom a call and she got him back to the hospital that he had walked away from. Eventually he was able to leave the hospital and ended up as a projectionist at a porn theater in Las Vegas. Then he was involved in a car accident that left him a paraplegic. He died a few years later.

Tragic life. But it shows you what fame will do to you.

My but that was a downer of a digression.

Plunder and lightening

I've been watching the Viking series on the History Channel and I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed in the whole warrior image they have given the Vikings in the series. In the second episode, they sail a dragon ship west and land in England and attack a monastery where they kill most of the unarmed monks (who think the Vikings are part of the Apocalypse sent by god to punish them) and steal all of the religious artifacts. Where's the sport in that?

The thing that struck me by this dramatization was that the Vikings thought they were impressing their gods with how great of warriors they were when all they were doing was butchering peaceful monks who happily transcribing manuscripts and making wine. I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the cultural mindset that it is okay just to hop in a boat to find the nearest settlement to attack, kill and steal from.

In our society we call people who break into other peoples homes, rob and kill them thieves and murderers, not warriors. But although this is the History Channel, I imagine much license has been taken with how the Vikings are portrayed. One only has to look up Vikings on Wikipedia to discover (by sifting through some pretty dense academic text) that not much is really known about the Vikings. And they are portrayed as barbarians primarily by European Christians.

And much to my disappointment, they didn't wear helmets sporting horns. Such helmets wouldn't have worked very well in a battle and would more than likely poke one your fellow warriors eye out.

Someone should tell this to the Minnesota Vikings fans.

Still alive at 55

In honor of my 55th birthday, I am posting photos of myself as I actually appear today and not Photoshopped on some inanimate object, animal or food byproduct. Though I have to say I think I look better Photoshopped onto some inanimate object, animal or food byproduct. Although I am still startled every time I look into a mirror or look at a current photo of myself. This aged face is definitely not what my mind's eye thinks I should look like.

It is not that I mind being 55 so much. I just don't like looking 55 (or older). It shouldn't come as a surprise to me, though. My recently deceased 87-year old mother complained of the same thing. But getting old just isn't something you ever really believe will happen to you. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is just the folly of youth to imagine that it lasts forever.

Not that I would have wanted to be a teenager forever. God knows that was a miserable time in my life. At least now I don't have to deal with pimples, puberty or the urge to write bad poetry. Unfortunately I do have to deal with random hairs growing in the oddest places, a nose and ears that seem to defy logic and continue to grow while the rest of me shrinks. I feel like I'm turning into a Hobbit.

Ironically, I'm probably in better shape physically than I was in my youth. The only way you could get me to run in my 20s was to chase me with a knife. Now I can run several miles on a tread mill without coughing up major organs (though I sweat an inordinate amount). I am, however, not as flexible nor nimble as I used to be. I used to be able to sit cross legged on the ground without wondering how I was going to stand up again.  And while I could once put a foot behind my neck while standing, now I struggle at times to bend over and tie my shoe.

I am imagine that this is all way too much information for most people. But there is any point in writing this blog for almost nine years, it is to leave a time capsule of sorts. If nothing else, my children  will one day be able to read all of my blog posts and confirm what they believed all along. Dad was a very odd person.

It is easy being green

In preparation for St. Patrick's Day I have been listening to Irish music on Spotify non-stop. It has given me an insight into why the Irish drink. If their ballads aren't about someone dying in an IRA shootout, they are about drinking whiskey and attending wakes (presumably for someone killed in an IRA shootout) that they never sober up from.

Although my name is extremely Irish, genealogy has actually uncovered that it actually has its roots in England  and evolved into the Irish version in America. Add to that the fact that my father was adopted and I'm not related to the clan via blood and you separate me from the Irish even further. Plus, I was born the day after St. Patrick's Day adding insult to injury. The world parties the day before my birthday and throws up most of  my special day.

But still, I play the part of being Irish on St. Patrick's Day. For the past two years, my family has taken part in Seattle's annual St. Patrick's Day Dash, a 5K run/walk that encourages people to exploit all of the worst stereotypes of the Irish. You basically can't swing a dead (green) cat without hitting one of 7500 race participants dressing in green spandex, wearing fake red beards and t-shirts screaming, "KISS ME ARSE."

It is a definitely a family event. Try explaining to your 6-year old daughter why there is a man in gold lame' shorts, no shirt and a rubber horse head mask jogging past. I muttered something about "a horse's ass wearing a horse mask" and point out some jogging Guinness Cans. Then the Leprechaun with a goat jogs by and I'm saved.

I think the romance of the Irish stems from the beauty of their speech. And Irish speaker can meet you and basically tell you to "Go fock yer self and don ya know it" and the average America just melts. It is just a lyrical language. You then buy the person a drink they down with a "fock yer arse" toast and you laugh as if you've been recited poetry.

And although the Irish also have a reputation for violence, it is more of the drunken brawl variety. It's not like the Braveheart, screaming "Freedom" kind as they unwind his bowels like a garden hose. The Scottish seem a bit more noble when it comes to violence. The Irish seem to be just as proud of cleaning some one's clock for pouring a beer incorrectly as for fighting for freedom.

But I digress.

My favorite St. Patrick's Day was spent in New Orleans 14 years ago. I stood along a St. Patrick's Day Parade route near Bourbon Street catching green beads thrown by Irish Parade Princesses from floats that also tossed out heads of cabbage and condoms. There were tons of police cars in the parade as well since most of the police force in New Orleans are of Irish descent. I stood there drinking green beer when a large man dressed like a Leprechaun approached me, handed me a Irish wool tie and kissed me on the cheek screaming, "You are blessed amongst men."

It didn't seem weird at the time. In retrospect, I haven't a clue what it was all about.

But "Whale oil beef hooked!" Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Stinky Cheese Man

"Run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Stinky Cheese Man!"

--The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith

 Of all the books I've read my children over the years, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales has got to be the only one that has entertained me much more than it does my kids. Shoot, I'd read it even if I didn't have kids.

The book is sheer genius. For one, it makes fun of the fairy tales that we've heard ad nauseum since we were kids and two, each story is no more than a page or two long and they are funny! And believe me, when your kid asks you to just read one more story before lights out, you'll appreciate a story that is no longer than a page or two and one that makes you laugh.

Stinky Cheese Man is my favorite story (though my 4-year old won't let me read it because for some reason it freaks him out). Stinky Cheese Man is loosely based on a more traditional story called, The Gingerbread Man. In The Gingerbread Man, an old woman bakes a gingerbread man because she and an old man are hungry. When she opens the oven door, the gingerbread bread man shouts, "don't eat me" and begins running. The old woman chases him and the gingerbread man chants, "Run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!"

The gingerbread man outruns the old woman, an old man, a pig, a cow who want to eat him, all the while taunting them with his chant about not being able to catch him. Eventually he comes to a river where a sly fox offers to carry him across on his tail. The gingerbread man trusts the fox, but half way across the river, the fox convinces him to move from his tail to his back to his nose. Then he eats the gingerbread man.

The Stinky Cheese Man also starts out as something an old woman throws into the oven to bake because she and an old man are hungry. But instead of being made of gingerbread with raisins for eyes, a cinnamon drop for a mouth and chocolate chips for buttons, the Stinky Cheese Man is made out of, you guessed it, stinky cheese. His mouth is a slice of bacon and he had two olives for eyes. When the old woman opens the oven she is overwhelmed by the stench of the Stinky Cheese Man. He hops out and chants, "Run, run as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the Stinky Cheese Man." But neither the old woman or man have any desire to eat or catch the Stinky Cheese Man.

Oblivious the Stinky Cheese Man taunts a cow, and a little boy and girl convinced that they all want to catch and eat him when all they want to do is get away from his smell. He too eventually comes to a river and meets a sly fox who offers to carry him across the river on his back. Half way across the river the fox says, "What is that funky smell?" It then begins choking and coughing and the Stinky Cheese Man falls in the river and falls apart.

Okay, so my synopsis of the story isn't as funny as the actual story, but trust me, it is hilarious. The true genius of the story is that it intentionally or unintentionally is a parable about many real life Stinky Cheese Men who dash through life thinking everyone wants to cut their cheese when everyone really just wonders who cut the cheese.

At least that is my take on it. But then again, I think fart jokes are funny, too.

No one walks in L.A.

 I was in Los Angeles last week on a business trip around the same time as the Academy Awards were taking place (the above photo is of LA from my airplane...that small white dash on the hill in the background is the Hollywood sign...it's the closest I got to it). The conference I was at was in a hotel in downtown L.A.  And downtown L.A. is probably one of the last places you really want to be if you are in Southern California. It has all the character of  a "Three's Company" rerun, it is seedy and unless you have a car, you are trapped there.

Other than a few excursions with fellow conference attendees to a couple of local restaurants, I barely left my hotel. I tried walking around a bit and I discovered why no one walks in L.A.  Fortunately, it was a nice hotel with a decent work out room. And one morning, while working out, I looked out the window to a courtyard by a pool and saw this hawk swoop down and grab a bird that it proceeded to leisurely devour. It took so much time eating the bird that I had time to grab my phone and snap this photo.

It was about the most interesting thing that happened on the trip. I didn't even see any of the Academy Awards activity though I watched bits of it on the television in my room. I felt vindicated that Lincoln didn't win best picture after my anticlimactic viewing of it. And I was happy that Daniel Day Lewis won the best actor award since I thought he did a great job portraying our 16th president although he is a foreigner.

Why is it that the British can portray Americans easily yet most American actors trying to be British sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins? Love-leeee!

But I digress.

I am extremely happy that I do not live in L.A. The only thing it seems to have going for it is the weather (which they talk about a great deal on their local news...they seem obliged to explain why the Santa Ana winds are so warm ad nauseam). I realize that few people actually live in downtown L.A. (other than those camped out in Pershing Square and in tents along some of the streets). But I can honestly say that, other than Dallas, I have never been in a downtown so devoid of charm or personality.

But as I sit in my office staring out the window at the various shades of gray that make up Seattle, I do miss the sun. Wait, there it is. No. Sorry, that was the reflection of my lamp on the window pane.

Sigh.

Being honest about Abe

I have wanted to see Steve Spielberg's Lincoln since the hype started months ago.  I've always been fascinated by our sixteenth president, the myth and the man. And from the previews and accounts, watching Daniel Day Lewis portray Lincoln was as close to seeing the real thing as one can get (if you don't count Disneyland's Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln...and I don't).

Since I have young children, I haven't seen a movie at a theater that didn't involve Disney or Pixar Studios and computer generated characters in at least five years. So I was resigned to not seeing Lincoln until it made it to cable or Red Box. But my wife, bless her soul, had a Groupon ticket to the local theater that expired this week so she suggested I use it to take my mother-in-law there where Lincoln was premiering just before President's Day.

The theater was packed, but we found okay seats towards the back of the theater and settled in for 2 1/2 hours of what I hoped would be greatness. The movie opens with a brutally disturbing battle scene that leads you to believe Lincoln is going to be an action film. But the few seconds of action in the opening is pretty much the last you see of the battlefield.

What follows is 2 1/2 hours of a 19th century version of the West Wing, fraught with enough political minutia to satisfy your most die hard wonk. The problem is, watching how 19th century politics works, although historically significant, is about as entertaining as watching paint dry while you are making sausage.

Don't get me wrong, the attention to detail in the film was amazing, as was most of the acting (though I don't think Tommy Lee Jones was acting and he looks old enough to have been in the Civil War). But if the costuming was accurate, ill-fitting suits were fashionable in the late 19th century. Daniel Day Lewis is amazing and he does portray a multi-faceted Lincoln who was a great leader and compasionate father. The problem is that the movie seemed too much like it was trying to make a dramatic version of a 50s educational film about how a bill becomes a law.

And, through Spielberg's intense lobbying efforts, Lincoln will likely win "Best Film" honors at the Oscars. But honestly, I don't think it is the best film. It's a good film and a significant film, but I'd be hard pressed to say it is the best film.

Though it was better than Madagascar 3, Brave in all honesty was more entertaining.

Perhaps I need to get out to films made for adults more often.

Feeding at the trough of disillusionment

I was at a meeting the other day where a guy flashed up a slide depicting something called the Gartner Hype Cycle that shows the life cycle of "new" technology. Normally my eyes roll back into my head when a slide containing a graph appears in a meeting. But this one had cool points on it like the Peak of Inflated Expectations, the Trough of Disillusionment, the Slope of Enlightenment and the Plateau of Productivity.

It was like something out of a Candyland board game for IT bureaucrats. Not that I imagine IT people play any games that aren't generated by an APP or an X-Box.

I have to say I was pretty enamored with the Trough of Disillusionment. I have spent many years there in blog land with my eye on the Slope of Enlightenment. But it is quite the slippery slope and I keep wallowing in the trough whimpering and muttering Marlon Brando lines from Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, the Godfather and Apocalypse Now (nothing from Don Juan DeMarco) . It sounds something like, "Stellaaaaaaaaa, I could have been somebody, I could have been a contender, but instead I'm a punk. But someday, and I'm not saying this day will ever come, I may call on you for a small favor, but tonight you sleep with the fishes. Oh the horror....Don Juan DeMarco...that's a film offer I should have refused!"

I realize it is gibberish, but what do you expect from the Trough of Disillusionment. 

Grim reaper with sombrero

I am often amused and baffled at the searches people conduct on Google that lands them on my microscopic piece of the Web. Apparently not one, but two people ended up at Dizgraceland while searching for "grim reaper with sombrero." Up until now, I have never written a post about a grim reaper with sombrero. So it just goes to show you that search engines do the best that they can with odd searches, but don't always deliver what you intended to look for.

 It's kind of like playing fetch with your dog. You throw a stick and sometimes they bring back a dead animal. Maybe not the best analogy.

 I don't claim to understand why someone would search for "grim reaper with sombrero." I think it may have something to do with a tattoo or motorcycle gang symbol. But if you do type "grim reaper with sombrero" in Google, you won't find the exact phrase, but it will pull up pages that use those words. And one of those was a series of my blog archives from 2011 where I talked about turning 53 and going to a Mexican restaurant where they would place a sombrero on my head and sing a Spanish version of "Happy Birthday." On that same page was a post about me putting my face on images of the grim reaper and calling them the "Tim Reaper." I don't think that was really what the searchers were looking for.

 It makes me wonder what we did before the Internet and Google when we wanted to uncover some obscure information. It wasn't like you could just drop by the public library and ask the reference librarian if they had any books about "grim reaper with sombrero." Though in the years I worked in a public library I heard some pretty bizarre requests.

 I for one don't know how we managed to do anything before there was the Internet. I forget how I found a hotel to stay at, purchased music, communicated with friend and family or found out what was going on in the world at any given second. I'm thinking of printing up t-shirts and bumper stickers that say, "I'll be wired until I've expired."

 Anyway, here's to all you random searchers. Without you I'd feel so alone.

Uniforms

The universal "they" say that clothes make the man. It is unfortunately sad, but true. Every day I walk by people on the seedy streets on the fringe of Seattle's International District and shake my head in wonder at the uniforms people don to express themselves.

It's not that I am a fashion plate hot (or cold) off the pages of GQ. I'm definitely not. I tend to wear whatever makes me blend in, not stand out. Oh, in my younger days I tried making statements with my clothing and hair styles. I have many embarrassing "what was I thinking" photos to prove it. But middle age has taught me that trying to dress young simply makes you look absurd, not hip.

I imagine I've ranted about middle aged men trying to stay young by dressing the way they did in their 20s before. Although I admit to sporting a pony tail and pierced ears as a young man, I wouldn't be caught dead with either now (which becomes a very real risk as I pass middle age).

I defend my tattoo as art, however. Not that I can do much about it at this point. At least I can cover it up. And it is on my arm if you must know.

What triggered this random train of thought about people's personal uniforms was ironically my commute on the train last Monday (in between the train being cancelled by mud slides).  We were just a few minutes out of Seattle when a man came down from the train car's upper level to use the rest room on the main level. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a Marlboro commercial. He had one of those cowboy duster jackets on, a Stetson hat, jeans and big belt buckle with what looked like a steer on it. He also had a handlebar mustache.  He looked like someone who was going to rob the train rather than ride it.

It dawned on me that this was this guy's uniform. I doubt whether it occurred to him that there was anything odd about it. And there wouldn't have been anything odd about it if we were riding a commuter train in Montana. It is just that Seattle doesn't have a lot of cows to wrangle.

I would rather see a middle aged cowboy uniform than the gang banger wanna be's that populate the sidewalks outside my building. I will never get used to the stupidity of wearing pants that are ten times too big for you and letting them bunch around your knees to expose boxers. I see these guys shuffling along holding up their pants looking like a bad parady of a Tim Conway comedy sketch (very few of you will get this reference) and wonder what could they possibly be thinking.

The answer is that they aren't thinking. They are simple stuck trying to project something about themselves by donning what they think is a unique uniform. God only knows what kind of delusion they conjure up when they look into the mirror. To me they simply look like pathetic clowns.

In addition to the cowboy on the train there has also been a group of what I believe are art students riding to downtown Seattle. I assume they are art students because they all dress in black and wear what we used to refer to as "hot pants" but with tights (mainly the girls). They all look about 12, but I imagine they are in the 17 or 18 year old range since anyone under 30 looks 12 to me.  Other than being either shorter or taller than each other, they all look alike.

The point is that they fancy themselves as looking unique but they are dressed alike. So they are essentially sheep to fashion like everyone else, albeit black-clad sheep.

My advice to people who want to celebrate your uniqueness? Don't try to express your uniqueness through fashion. You don't stand out, you stick out or worse: disappear in a sea of unique wannabee's.

It's okay to march to the beat of a different drummer, just make sure the drummer is playing with both sticks.

I haven't a clue what that means.

Petty little cacophonies

One of my pet peeves is people who make annoying (and often disgusting) noises, oblivious to anyone around them. It is a cacophony that weighs heavily on my OCD nature.

I'm not sure why anyone would keep a peeve as a pet. They aren't very cute and cuddly (though they don't puke on the carpet or pee on my daughter's bed like our cats).

But I digress.

There is just something obsessively distracting about snorts, sniffing, wheezing, excessive throat clearing, hacking, phlegm rattles, grunts, sighs, heavy breathing and other similar sounds people make in public when they should only really make them when they are alone. Gyms and locker rooms are particularly notorious places for people to make disgusting sounds.

Maybe it is just me, but I find it hard to concentrate on my workout when someone is on the elliptical machine next to me grunting or clearing there throat every five seconds. The maddening thing about it is that you can't say anything to them about it. It is considered bad form to turn to the person and say, "Excuse me, but could you please stop making that disgusting sound or move to a different machine where no one has to listen to you?"

Why do people lifting weights have to grunt and shout all the time. Can't they be more Zen like about pumping iron? And I really get annoyed by overweight, naked people sitting in the locker room sighing heavily and wheezing after a workout. I also get annoyed by overweight, clothed people sitting in the locker room sighing heavily and wheezing after a workout. But at least they are wearing clothes.

Public transit is another source of disgusting people sounds, particularly buses. Doesn't matter where you sit, someone invariably sits next to you and begins "harrumphing" or clearing their throat of a phlegm ball the size of a small child. I won't even go into the smells that usually accompany these people.

I won't even go into the disgusting sounds that emanate from public rest rooms. Suffice it to say, I have a phobia about using one if anyone is in one of the other stalls.

My wife gave me a gift certificate for a massage for Christmas. It had been years since I'd had a massage and I was looking forward to it. When I got to the massage therapist, she took me to the therapy room and told me to undress and get under the sheets on the massage table face down. I complied and waited patiently for my relaxing massage, listening to the pleasant New Age music. The masseuse came in and began the massage. And then the noise began.

She snorted, wheezed and made sounds like a snoring elephant. I tried to ignore the sounds and enjoy the massage but it was like trying to relax in tuberculosis ward.

The sad thing is that I don't think most people are aware of the disgusting noises they make. Since I am annoyed by noises so much, I try to be aware of my own. My wife claims I snore, but I only have her word on it.  Other than that, I try and confine my obnoxious sounds to those times when I am alone and since they are my own noises, I am not really bothered by them.

After all if someone snorts, sniffs, wheezes, excessive clears their throat, hacks, rattles their phlegm, grunts, sighs, breathes heavily or makes other similar sounds and there is no one there to hear it, does it really make a sound?

Pretty Zen, huh?

No cliff references and other resolutions

There is nothing like the threat of economic ruin to ring in the new year.

I find it very sad that the stock market sheep continue to fall for the brinkmanship in Washington D.C. The fiscal cliff was a bit like the Mayan End of the World without the parties.  But if they had hyped up fiscal cliff parties, they could have created a drinking game where you got to down a shot every time someone said "fiscal cliff," and there would be one heck of a lot of drunk frat boys making late night calls sobbing into the phone, "I lub youse guys" to their Senate and Congress people.

But I, like every other average Joe Bag of Doughnuts didn't really understand the importance of anything either the Republicans or Democrats were arguing about despite the mass media experts explaining it to me ad nauseum. I just know that every time the federal government is about to go belly up, they borrow more of the imaginary money to increase the national debt beyond the comprehension of anyone. It makes you wonder why all the world leaders don't just give every country a "get out of debt" free card and start over with no one owing anyone anything.

I was never very good at economics.

Regardless, it is the year 2013 and we have four more years until another presidential election and the Olympics. So that is something. I am a bit surprised that no one has made a big deal over the unlucky 13 in year 2013. I am sure that if 2013 has any of your average natural disasters, it will be blamed in retrospect on the number 13 (unless someone unearths an Aztec calendar that is missing a few pages).

I spent New Year's Day dragging our no longer "live" Christmas tree out into the yard and dismembering its corpse. This is not something I am proud of.  I much prefer simply disassembling an artificial tree and putting it back in a box as I did the previous day with my Elvis Tree.

As in other years with less ominous unlucky numbers, I have made no resolutions. At my age, I have pretty much accepted all of my faults and imperfections and see no reason to resolve to do anything about any of them.  Though I would find it refreshing to make resolutions like "I resolve to start smoking, eat whatever I want, drink like a fish and stop bathing altogether."

As it is, I simply settle for getting out of bed every day and getting the highest possible score I can in Angry Birds. I believe in setting the bar low enough to step over without breathing heavily.

No end in sight

So no matter what time zone you live in and what part of the world, the end of days associated with the Mayan calendar was as anti-climatic as Harold Camping's failed rapture call. So perhaps the end of the world will not come with a bang, but through a slow process of attrition like a river wearing down a rock. The rock doesn't explode. It just wears down.

Many people joked about the end of the world (including me). But I have to wonder if there was this niggling idea in the back of many people's minds wondering "what if?" And I think there may be just a bit of a sense of relief (or disappointment) that nothing happened.

There is a certain "carrot and stick" aspect to human nature. We are motivated by the potential of events happening. We, as a species, seem to need something (positive or negative) to look forward to. It could be as simple as the weekend or as complex as the end of the world. We need something to look forward to in order to escape the mundane.

Perhaps it is how we deal with the inevitability of our own death. It would somehow be easier to accept our own end if everything else was being snuffed out at the same time.

I write this as I watch yet another documentary about the Mayan prediction of the end of the world (or the Western world's interpretation of the Mayan prediction). I suppose it is the last day when they can screen such a documentary. Because tomorrow, it all gets filed as bull shit and we will move on to the next ancient text prediction of the end of the world.

Just please don't let it be Harold Camping who comes up with it.

It can't rain all the time

In a drought, rain is a blessing. When it never seems to stop, it is a curse. We experienced record days without rain in Seattle during the summer and fall. It is making up for it now.

The consequences include an unplanned indoor swimming pool in my basement, frequent mud slides that have blocked the tracks of the train I normally commute on; and I broke down and purchased a pair of rubber boots that I normally wouldn't be caught dead in.

I attribute the flooded basement to a curse triggered by cutting down our own Christmas tree this year.  You would think I would have learned my lesson about cutting down trees. The contractors are still rooting around (pun intended) trying to find out why the water all of a sudden began flowing into my basement. This was after we had to pay $1000 to have the wet carpet and half of the walls removed and sprayed with chemicals to prevent mold.

So far they have determined that the problem is not with the French drain that already exists in the basement. Before this I didn't even know what a French drain was let alone that I had one. The only way they determined that the French drain was okay was by punching a hole in the cement floor. So now we have a working French drain, but a hole in the floor that matches nicely the demolition motif we've got going down there.

Apparently the problem has now been traced to one of the outlets for the French drain that snakes under our deck and down to the slope that was slipping last winter due to the rain. The retaining wall we had repaired so far appears to be holding despite the efforts of the rain and the mountain beaver to compromise it. I have a hunch the mountain beaver has something to do with the plugged drain outlet as well. We won't know until they rip up some of the deck to get to it.

The irony in this all is that none of the damage or repairs are covered by our homeowner's insurance. There is some clause that doesn't pay out for damage caused by ground water coming into your house. It would be different if a pipe had burst. And the claims adjuster said it wouldn't have been covered by flood insurance because we aren't eligible for flood insurance since we don't live in a flood plain.

And the rain continues. It turned to snow briefly yesterday which added to the fun of my daily commute that used to be a pleasant train ride along the shoreline of the Puget Sound. Now it involves driving to a park-and-ride lot, parking next to a guy who is living in his VW van and catching a packed bus for a 45-minute bus ride into downtown Seattle.

Now is the winter of my discontent.

Maybe absolutely not

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." --Ralph Waldo Emerson 

 One of the things I've learned about my life as I spiral through middle age is that the only people who believe in absolutes are the very young or the very stupid. There is no certainty about anything. It's what makes life frustrating and interesting.

This may be disconcerting to people who seek consistency in a random world. If we believe Darwin, nothing would have evolved for better or worse if everything was consistent and static.

And I'm not just waxing macro philosophic jibba jabba. We start out believing that there are absolutes when we are children. We believe our parents know everything or know nothing. We believe doctors have all of the answers and can cure all. We believe that the next politician really does want to change things for the better. We believe we'll be best friends forever. We believe that the one true religion will save us. We are absolute sure of all of these things until they turn out to be absolutely wrong.

Well, not absolutely wrong, because there are no absolutes. Life is full of footnotes and disclaimers. Your parents don't know everything or nothing. Most doctors are doing the best they can, rolling dice and hoping they don't cut out something you really need. Some politicians really do want to change things until they realize they can't or they meet the right lobbyist. Friends come and go. There is no one true religion.

You feel betrayed when you first start to realize that things aren't always what you believed they were. One of the most idiotic phrase ever uttered is, "That's not fair." Fair to who? Fair by whose rules? Something may suck, but it has nothing to do with not being fair. The zebra may not think it is fair that the lion has chosen him for dinner when he just met the zebra love of his life, but the lion thinks it is pretty darned fair (or fare).

I'm not suggesting that we settle or accept everything under the guise of "Shit happens." I think what makes use strong is the struggle to create the closest thing we can to absolutes in our own lives. The operative statement here is "our own lives." My absolutes are not going to be the same absolutes as someone else. They may come close. But no two people or snow flakes are alike (as far as we know).

My parents didn't know everything but they did the best they could. Doctors are best consulted only if you have a gaping wound that is too big for a bandage you have at home. Never vote for politicians who advocate for change and claim to have been abducted by aliens. Enjoy the friends you have when you have them. As for religion, if you meet the Buddha by the road, kill him.

I'm not absolutely sure about any of this, however.

12-12-12

I would be remiss if I didn't post on the only 12-12-12 date in my lifetime. Not that it truly has any significance since a calendar is as artificial measurement of time as is a clock. I don't imagine nature crosses off the days the way humans do.

The mountain beaver in my backyard probably doesn't know or care that it is 12-12-12. It doesn't wake up, look at a clock and say, "Time to get up and randomly dig through shit. Oh, it's 12-12-12! I should eat some bark and ferns to celebrate."

Not that I think the mountain beaver ever sleeps. It just seems to dig.

I'm digressing again, aren't I?

It just occurred to me that there will never be a 13-13-13. What's that all about? There will be an 11-12-13.  I wonder what the mountain beaver will be doing then? I suppose it depends upon whether world ends when the Mayan calendar winds down.

Oh well. Happy 12-12-12!

I'm not running as fast as I can

I hate running. I used to tell people the only reason to run is if someone is chasing you. I still feel that way, but I have accepted that the only way I can truly keep weight off is by doing the thing I hate.

I know that some people love to run. I have heard about people getting in the zone and the brain releasing chemicals that make them feel euphoric. The only thing my body seems to release when I run is sweat and pain.

Now granted, the only place I normally run is on a treadmill in the gym. And unless I am on a machine with a built in television, boredom adds to my hatred of running. Because the only thing I seem to be able to think about when I run is when I can stop running. And when you want something to pass quickly, it turns into the slow motion sequence from the Bionic Man (for the young and the pop culturally impaired, the Bionic Man was a bad series from the 70s starring Lee Majors as a man who lost several limbs in an accident and had them replaced with super powered bionic ones...so he could run and jump at super fast speeds that they always showed in slow motion to avoid having to spend money on better special effects...after all, it was the 70s).

I don't think I really started hating to run until I was in 7th grade PE and had a sadistic PE teacher named Mr. Ackley who would make you run two cross-country's (the equivalent of a mile) if you were the last one to get dressed and stand on your number in the gym before the bell rang. I developed a psychosomatic cough that year due to the stress around running. To add to the stress, I had an English class right before PE with a teacher who wouldn't let anyone leave when the bell rang until everyone was quiet. So we never got released on time. I started wearing sweater vests so that I could unbutton my shirts under the sweater to safe time changing once I got to the locker room.

It didn't help that I was what my mother called "a stocky kid" in grade school and 7th grade. It made running even a single mile agony. But by the time I completed 7th grade I had become borderline anorexic and was as skinny as a rail right up until I approached 40.

Middle age severely impacted my middle. And this was despite years of taking aerobic classes. I just foolishly clung to self-delusion that I could still eat and drink just about anything I wanted. I learned where the old adage "You are what you eat" and "bread basket" came from. My real moment of truth came when I weighed in for a physical to qualify for life insurance after my son was born. I realized then that I was twice the man I used to be--literally.

So I faced the thing I hated the most (right after being fat) -- I added running on the treadmill to my routine.I also turned away from some of the things I liked the most like bread, french fries, and most sugar. I stopped eating out for lunch and reduced my portions. And I weighed myself regularly to avoid self-delusion. Eventually much of the weight was dropped.

The exercise has become more or less second nature and I don't feel like puking after jogging for a mile. I don't think I will ever truly love to run, though. I try to mix it up with elliptical and rowing machines just to cut the boredom. I've managed to maintain my weight for several years now.

But I still sweat like a pig and I curse Mr. Ackley every mile I run.

I am un-a-Mused

At the height of my blogging days (2006), I logged in 292 posts. Six years later, in 2012, I've posted 35 (well 36 after this post). That's an 88 percent drop in the number of posts (you can tell that research is part of my day job). Though in 2009 I only posted 23 times. I think it had something to do with having a baby boy and toddler girl in the house and the distractions of being a new, but pretty old, parent.

I don't know what's wrong with me this year, though. I'm not as amused by my muse anymore. And maybe it is because I've been blogging for more than eight years and it has lost that new blog smell. Now it just smells like stale french fries and coffee.

In 2006, I had a lot more fellow bloggers reading and commenting. It helped feed the muse.Almost all of them have dropped off the radar. The only comments I get anymore are from Baggy over in England (which I appreciate).

I don't know if it is just that blogging has changed and primarily been taken over by business blogs and technical blogs.I don't follow many blogs anymore. I imagine there are still personal bloggers by the millions but I just don't have any desire to hit the "next blog" button and venture into the wasteland to find an interesting one.

I subscribe to marketing guru Seth Godin's blog and screenwriter Kevin Levine's blog (he was one of the writers for Cheers). They are both well-written blogs, but they post everyday (and sometimes twice a day) and frankly I have an aversion to overachievers so I only read them sporadically.

Sometimes I think it is better to just post once or twice a week. Less is often more (more or less). And I know this is just my way of rationalizing why I don't fire out 292 posts like I did in 2006. But hey, if I did, 90 percent of them would probably be about not having anything to write about.

Sigh.

Repent: The end of the 13th b'ak'tun is near

I hate to break it to you, but the end of the 13th b'ak'tun (a cycle from the Mayan calendar) is coming up in just three weeks. And everybody knows that when the calendar ends, so does the world. So come Dec. 21, you won't have to worry about any last minute Christmas shopping.

I haven't seen as much hype about this "end of the world" as there was for Harold Camping's much ballyhooed end of the world and the resulting rapture (not to be confused with the Debby Harry song from the 80s).

BTW, "ballyhooed" is not a word I get to use very much but it just sort of slipped naturally into that last sentence. It refers to sensationalized marketing efforts. Its origins are said to be associated with a mythical creature called the ballyhoo bird that an 1880 Harper's magazine article described as having four wings, two heads and the ability to whistle through one bill while singing through the other.

Which just about describes Harold Camping.

But I digress.

End of the world or not, let's face it, all of our days, like the calendar, are numbered. Everything ends (except for Buddha and Friends reruns). Whether the world ends on Dec. 21, 2012 with a bang, or slowly chokes from Global Warming, it doesn't change the fact of our mortality. If nothing ended, there wouldn't be any room for anything else to begin.

I'm not trying to sound like a Debbie Downer, just realistic. Even if the world ended tomorrow, odds are something new would grow in its place. And down the road that world would grow arrogant about lasting forever and eventually implode or explode as well. It's that cycle of life and death that only Buddha seemed to have overcome.

I suppose it is why mankind invented the afterlife. Because it is a lot easier to face mortality if you know you have somewhere to go after you die. If there is an afterlife, I hope it doesn't involve having to be reunited with all of your dead relatives. Because I have a shitload of them and I really didn't know or particularly like any of them. So being reunited with strangers isn't my idea of paradise. And I would rather not be reincarnated unless I could come back as someone like Brad Pitt (though who knows if he is really happy).

I am actually amazed at the elaborate institutions and complex myths mankind has concocted to stave off ceasing to exist. There seem to be a infinite number of religions claiming to be the one, true path to salvation. And ironically religions are probably the number one cause of people fighting and killing each other.

And where did civilizations like the Egyptians come up with their elaborate rituals and ceremonies that were supposed to guarantee passage to the after world (for those rich and powerful enough to warrant it)? Who is giving these people all of these instructions? As far as I know, the dead still don't have a 4G cell phone plan that includes unlimited calling to this world. The only people I know talking to the dead are those mental midgets on Ghost Adventurers and the only thing the dead seem to be capable of saying are barely audible, garbled words about Zak's bad haircuts.

Oh well, I suppose we will all find out on Dec. 21.

Or not.