30 Days to a Better Man, Day 18: find your N.U.T.s

That there may be no speculation, "N.U.T.s" means "Non-negotiable, Unalterable Terms."

They're related to your core values, which we discussed during Day 1 of this challenge. The example The Art of Manliness article gives is this: if one of your core values is fitness, then one of your N.U.T.s could be "I will work out six times a week, no matter what." As the article so adroitly states, "N.U.T.s are the things you’re committed to, the things that matter more than anything else: your kids, your career, your primary relationships, yourself, your purpose, your spiritual practice, your hobbies, your integrity, your morals and your psychological well-being."

Before we start, take a look at this picture, here:

That's Hiroo Onoda. He was in the news recently, but not because he has way too many Os in his name. The guy was a Japanese soldier in World War II, left behind and isolated on a Philippine island in 1945. He had been ordered by a superior to keep fighting. So he did. He refused to believe the war was over. He dismissed the newspaper and radio reports. Even when his own people dropped leaflets on him telling him to surrender, he thought they were Allied propaganda meant to demoralize him. He slept in a hole and lived off the land, waging a shadow war with the local Filipino population. He had some squad-mates with him in the beginning, but two of them surrendered in the 1950s and the other was killed in a skirmish with Filipino militia, I believe. Onoda finally capitulated in 1974, 29 years after the war ended. After a Japanese student found him in the jungles of Lubang Island near Luzon and sent his picture to some government bigwig, Onoda's former commanding officer (now a balding librarian) was flown in from Japan to personally order the steadfast soldier to stand down. Onoda handed over his sword and left the island. He then lived out the rest of his life as a peaceful citizen of his native land. He died yesterday at the age of 91.

Now, don't get me wrong. The Imperial Japanese Army doesn't have the cleanest rap sheet. Onoda may not have personally had anything to do with that, but he did kill some innocent Filipinos during those three decades as a holdout. I don't admire him for it.

What I admire him for is that unshakable sense of duty which led him to (literally) stick to his guns for 29 years, despite the whole world telling him to throw in the towel. Think about that for a second. Reach way down inside yourself. Is there anything you believe in so strongly that you'd be willing to give up 29 years of your life for it? Even then, do you truly think that you've got the determination and the stick-to-itiveness to do so? 

Onoda believed so hard in his duty as a soldier and a subject of the Emperor that he did just that. He put his money where his mouth was. He gave up thirty years of his life fighting a war he didn't know he'd already lost. In 1974, when he was discovered, Onoda's rifle was in perfect condition despite sitting in a jungle for three decades. He had stockpiles of ammunition and food which he stole from the locals. He was a literal one-man army, and he did it 'cause he felt he had to do it. Voices must have whispered to him a thousand times, a million times: stop, desist, stand down. He must have been tempted to listen to the news reports. To believe the rumors he'd heard. To turn himself in and go home. But he didn't. He never gave up. Something down deep in his soul, something made of furnace-forged steel, compelled him not to quit until his commanding officer told him otherwise.

If that isn't a N.U.T., I don't know what is. There's a reason Onoda's on this list of real-life Determinators.

So! Here are my N.U.T.s. You may think I spent a lot of time agonizing over these, but I didn't. Truth be told, I've already done this challenge. This was a separate AoM article before it was part of this 30-day challenge, and I saw it, and just for kicks I brainstormed and wrote some ideas down. I couldn't find the notebook I wrote them all down in, but I remember them pretty well. I've reproduced them here for you: 

1. I will not refrain from doing something just because my mind thinks it's scary.

2. I don't trust first impressions. I'll try anything twice.

3. I don't need to justify my choices or my actions to anyone but myself.

4. I see things through, but only if I decide that there's a good reason for doing so.

5. I say nothing about anyone behind their backs that I would not say to their faces. 

6. I accept jokes made at my expense with grace and good humor.

7. I never lie: I say what I think and I mean it.

8. I will never be satisfied with the man I am, and constantly strive to top myself. 

9. There is never a wrong time to learn. 

10. Skills can always use improvement. 

11. I waste minutes and hours, but not days: every day I write, move, live, and experience.

12. Everyone, no matter who they are, has something they can teach me.  

13. I judge movies, books, and albums by their covers, not people.

14. There is more to life than my life. 

15. I am aware of my bad habits and I combat them actively.

16. Humanity will remember me for something. 

17. I will leave this planet a better place than I found it. 

This is only the first draft. I'm going to refine these during the final weeks of January. Something should probably be thrown in there about my commitments to others: my job, my family, the love of my life, etc. But for starters, this is what we've got. What do you think, dear reader? Are these good-lookin' N.U.T.s? 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 17: talk to three strangers

Why?

Why do it?

Why talk to that schmuck a few feet down the bar?

Six very good reasons. You expand your network. You meet new friends...and potential mates. You increase your social skills. You learn new things. And most importantly, you boost your confidence. If it's one thing all the manly men I know have, it's confidence. Confidence is one of my core values, but even if it wasn't, any one of those aforementioned things would be a fine reason to reach out to someone you don't know. As long as you're honest, genuine, and act interested, you can gain a wealth of information (and perhaps a good friend in the bargain). 

So I done it. I spoke to three strangers tonight during a date with Heather in Itaewon — the same date, actually, that I planned on Day 9.

The first person was the owner and proprietor of one of the foreign food markets. He and I had a short discussion about two things: Cheesy Ragù sauce and unflavored Ruffles. I asked if he had them in stock, and he explained that the Ragù is difficult to come by in Korea, that the Ruffles usually come in once every two weeks, and it's up in the air what flavors he'll get. At least, I think that's what he was implying. He's from Pakistan and he's a very busy man, so he speaks quickly and is sometimes difficult to understand. After bestowing these bits of comestible information upon me, he wandered away to hector a couple of his employees who weren't facing the stock assiduously enough.

The other two were a pair of foreigners on the Line 6 train heading east to Bonghwasan. I had spotted them earlier, smoking and standing outside the Paraguayan restaurant where Miss H and I had dinner. On the subway I overheard them speaking in accented English about the express line heading to Incheon Airport, so I up and asked them where they were catching it. Hongdae? Digital Complex?

Digital Complex, it turned out.

One of the men was a long-haired West African with dreadlocks and the other was a dark-complected and rather handsome southern Asian. He could have been Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi for all I knew. They were indeed taking a flight out the next morning. The Asian fellow got off at Yaksu Station only a few seconds into the conversation, but Miss H and I engaged the African man for a few moments longer, until our inevitable departure at Cheonggu. He looked to be about our age. We never got his name. He was flying home to Sierra Leone to see his family, he said. It would be a 30-hour flight. He hadn't seen his family in three years, and was very much looking forward to being home and surrounded by familiar faces. I couldn't say I blamed him. I've been feeling the need — no, the compulsion — for something similar for a long while now. We wished him well on his journey, then leaped off the train and switched to Line 5 for the last leg home to Gwangnaru. If we'd stayed on the train a little longer — which I kinda wish we had — we'd probably have learned his name, and maybe even become friends with him.

Oh well. Ships that pass in the night, as they say. Let's not forget the salient fact, here.

I talked to a West African today.

Who have you talked to lately? 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 10: memorize "If"

There's a splendid poem, which I pride myself on having been familiar with before I took up this challenge. 

“If”
By: Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!

My task for Day 10 was to memorize this 'ere poem. Commit it to memory in its entirety. Which was just as well, as I had a touch of food poisoning today — either raw oysters or expired mayonnaise, I'll warrant — and there was precious little else to do. So I got straight to the memorizin', thank you very much. The website says it's okay if it takes you one or two days to complete this challenge, so I'll let you know how it went tomorrow.

All aboard for Day 11!

the Temple of Heaven

To be truthful, I didn't even know what this beast was until I saw it in one of my old hagwon's textbooks on a list of must-see landmarks in different countries. It was right up there with the Statue of Liberty and the Apple ('scuse me, Eiffel) Tower. Interesting cylindro-conical sort of structure with fetching blue detailing and attractive rounded eaves. Might be worth a look.

Boy, was it ever. Once you got past the obstacle course, that is.

First we had to pass through the overcrowded, grungy Beijing subway system and squeeze by the little four-year-old girl who took a dump on the pavement in front of the ticket office, her mother chasing her around with a doggie bag like her little girl was some kind of pet. After that, though, we found ourselves in a scenic park.

The complex as a whole is set up like the Forbidden City. Instead of courtyard after courtyard, though, it's gate after gate, and ticket after ticket. You had to buy a ream of four tickets (for something like six dollars American) to penetrate all the way into the park and see its every secret. We paid for everything, but we only saw the garden and the temple itself. Oh, and these, the Seven Star-Stones:

They're supposed to represent the seven divine peaks of China, or something, and also the unity of each of China's distant provinces. (Tell that to the Uighurs, guys.)

Then we hit the temple proper.

Originally constructed between 1406 and 1420, this particular building (called the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests) is 38 meters tall, 36 meters in circumference, and is built entirely of wood—not so much as a nail. The Chinese emperor and his entourage would come here to pray for a generous haul of rice every harvest season. Given its central location, the temple complex has often been conquered and used as a command center by invading forces, notably the Anglo-French Alliance during the Second Opium War in the late 1850s (not to be confused with the Taiping Rebellion) and the Eight-Nation Alliance in 1900 during the Boxer Rebellion.

But I didn't come here to tell you that. I came here to be sententious.  

Let me just say this: my initial impressions of the Chinese people (or at least the Beijingites) were negative. After I saw my fiancée get groped at Donghuamen Night Market, that four-year-old girl take a crap in public, old men with their shirts tied up under their armpits (exposing their sagging underbellies), and dozens of Chinese guys with cameras snapping covert pictures of us (particularly Miss H and Miss J), my impressions became even more negative. The Chinese seem to have the frayed tempers of the Koreans, but lack even the most basic idea of decorum. Hence, they take pictures of foreign women without permission (and then grin crookedly at them), walk around in stained tank tops, have screaming fights with each other in public, cough and sneeze and hack without covering their mouths, and let their kids relieve themselves in public like dogs.

It was that moment, as we sat on the west side of the Temple of Heaven, watching the smoggy sunset over the heads of creepazoids taking pictures of us, that I decided that I would never set foot in Beijing again.

Got some good pictures though.

Ensuing: HONGQIAO PEARL MARKET. Best place in the world to buy wedding jewelry.  

if I had $300,000,000

I don't like television. As a general rule, I find it flabby, unwholesome, dissatisfying, crude, and pointless.

So when I tell you that my favorite television show is Firefly, you should understand that the show itself is none of those things. It is, in fact, pure awesomeness incarnate.

Tragically, it was canceled after a measly 14 episodes had been filmed, due to Executive Meddling. More's the pity.

In an interview, Firefly's male lead Nathan Fillion stated that, if he had $300 million on hand, he would buy the rights to the show, and probably continue it, free of interference from the powers-that-be.

That got me thinking. What would I do if I had $300 million?

I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd start up my own movie studio.

On-Target Productions, I'd call it. Or maybe Faithful Studios. Something to convey my sententious but entirely truthful belief that Hollywood is incapable of producing a piece of cinema which is in any way faithful to the source material, and that my studio, by virtue of its firm grounding in literary value (and complete disregard for monetary gain), is.

Anyway, the name isn't important. What's important is that I'd outfit this studio with the best equipment my limited budget could buy, hire the most hardworking personnel I could find, write a bunch of screenplays (the way I like 'em), and make some movies that are entirely accurate and complete interpretations of the media upon which they're based.

I mean that quite literally. Entirely accurate and complete. No chopping or dissecting or mulching being done here; if I mean to make a movie out of a book, I'm using the whole goddamn book: every scene, every line of dialogue, every sentence if needs be. There'll be no "lost characters" like Tom Bombadil from The Lord of the Rings or Peeves the Poltergeist from Harry Potter. And there'll be none of this cutting-out-minor-scenes-because-they-don't-advance-the-action-fast-enough-and-we-can-totally-skip-those-scenes-anyway-because-all-they-do-is-reveal-minor-nuances-of-character-that-we-can-gloss-over-in-the-third-act malarkey. These are going to be faithful interpretations, like I said. That means every little scene, no matter how insignificant a two-bit brain-dead Hollywood screenwriter might consider it, will be reproduced in exact facsimile. No exceptions.

Having my own studio (and not giving a fig whether my productions are marketable, or even if they will be marketed) will give me room to breathe. I don't have to worry about length, or mass appeal, or tone, or censorship, or any of that other crap that the Gilded Mulcher has to worry about in order to sell movie tickets. I can reproduce these great source works as I see fit, with complete creative control, and revel in the realness and truthfulness of the results. I can bring my imagination to life for myself and a few other acolytes to enjoy. Everyone else can go spit.

I'm not saying these films will be unwatchably violent, sexy, or disgusting. There's practically no sex in any of the works I have in mind to adapt. And the violence won't be worse than anything you'd see in a typical action flick. As for the darker, scarier stories...well, it all depends on what you think might blast your soul from your body with cosmic horror.

                                                                                         by Pete Amachree

And mind you, I won't object if a few independent-minded cinemas agree to pick up my works and release them at a few small drive-ins and dollar theaters. Those are the kind of folks I'd want watching my films anyway, not the bigwigs from Hollywood and Cannes.

But that's beside the point! Aren't you curious to know which books and stories I will be adapting for the screen? 

I thought you'd be. I have some very specific ideas on that score. They include, but are not limited to...

• Several tales from Robert E. Howard's Conan the Cimmerian mythos. If you haven't read any of Howard's original Conan tales, it's time you started. Howard's barbarian makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like a pantywaist choirboy. The stories are gritty, bloody, sweaty, and hard-boiled, bursting with darkness, danger, hideous evil, swashbuckling adventure and testosterone. Some of the stories I have in mind are Beyond the Black River, The Tower of the Elephant, Iron Shadows on the Moon, and Red Nails...as well as a weird Western tale, unrelated to Conan, The Horror from the Mound.
• Selected works of H.P. Lovecraft, including At the Mountains of Madness, The Thing on the Doorstep, The Shunned House, The Haunter of the Dark, The Shadow Out of Time, The Whisperer in Darkness, The Shadow Over Innsmouth, and The Dunwich Horror. It'll be interesting to see if Lovecraft's works translate well onto the screen. A lot of the horror and suspense in his stories is conveyed through description and inarticulate mentality, not through dialogue or action. Many of the horrific implications and disgusting monsters are best left to the realms of the imagination, too, rather than put up on a screen in CG and pixels. Still, I'd be willing to give it a shot.
• Most of H.G. Wells's full-length works, including The Time Machine, The War of the Worlds, and The Island of Dr. Moreau. Most have been made into films already, but none of them have been done correctly. That's not my opinion, that's fact. I'll treat 'em right if no one else will.
• Many of Jules Verne's classic tales, like Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, and Around the World in Eighty Days. Can you imagine what giant squids, raft-rides through lava tubes, and thrilling heroics on speeding steam trains would look like on a humongous theater screen? It gives me the chills!
• Dozens of science fiction novels and short stories by writers such as Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, A.E. van Vogt, Arthur C. Clarke, C.M. Kornbluth, L. Sprague de Camp, Lester del Rey, and Fritz Leiber. Here are a few I've got in mind.
• The Wendigo by Algernon Blackwood
• The Novel of the Black Seal by Arthur Machen
• The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov
• Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein (a respectful interpretation); also The Roads Must Roll and Universe
• The Empire of the Atom, The Wizard of Linn, The Weapon Shops of Isher, and Black Destroyer by A.E. van Vogt
• The Hammer of God by Arthur C. Clarke
• The Big Front Yard by Clifford D. Simak
• Baby Is Three by Theodore Sturgeon

• A live-action film adaptation of the superb and underrated Hanna-Barbera cartoon Thundarr the Barbarian. A fur-clad warrior with a magic sword wanders the post-apocalyptic Earth in the year 3999, after a rogue planet cast human civilization in ruin. In his ongoing quest to save the scrawny, ragged survivors from evil wizards, mutants and strange monsters (many of which are holdovers from the 20th century), Thundarr is aided by the beautiful Princess Ariel, a sorceress, and a huge, furry Mok named Ookla. I'm thinking some big-budget disaster scenes and a lot of Scenery Gorn. 
• Some of the video and computer games I've played have definite potential, such as Crimson Skies. Maybe if I'm in a really fun-loving and goofy mood I'll do Serious Sam.
• Yes, I know I've railed against remakes on this here blog. But I can't help it. I'd redo a few of the old stop-motion monster flicks, not because I think CG would make them better (certainly not; Ray Harryhausen has no equal and never will), but simply because I'm curious to see what they'd look like with a technological makeover. Just curious, is all. I can't help but wonder what a reboot of The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, The Valley of Gwangi, Them!, Jason and the Argonauts, and The Golden Voyage of Sinbad would be like. Specifically, the monsters. You know how much I like monsters.  

And that's it. I think it'd be a lot of fun. I've always wanted to try my hand at screenwriting. And I'll bet I could hire an assistant until I got good at it. Then I'd just go to town. My studio would crank out these films, and they'd go for limited theatrical release or direct-to-DVD, and whoever was interested in real, faithful, true adaptations of good books and cartoons and movies could buy 'em and watch 'em. That's all I want. That's what I'd do with $300,000,000. Maybe a few bucks to charity here and there, but for the most part I'd launch my vendetta against  Hollywood and revel in unmitigated artistic license.

What would you do with $300,000,000? Buy a monkey?

 

getting back in the ring

Short post today, rest assured.

Flying's been called off for the second day this week. There's a massive storm system deluging SoCal at the moment, including my neck of the desert. You've no notion how strange it is to have rain two days in a row out here, let alone the kind of downpour this has turned out to be. There was a whiz-bang thunder and lightning show last night, which my dad and I stood out on our front stoop and watched. The lights of the town completely disappeared behind fog and mist, and massive tongues of lightning tore open the sky and limned my little neighborhood with a garish lambency. Then the thunder came and pounded our eardrums into our skulls, just to let us know that the world hadn't quite ended...yet.

Anyway, I thought I'd use the extra time to get caught up on my writings. I'm letting the rejected "Wrong Life-Form, Genius" sit and stew awhile on the back burner. As for the four longer stories I have on my desk...well, I think I'll just finish 'em up as I see fit. Have fun with them, you know, and not get obsessed with making them subtle and perfect and sublime and meaningful. Then I'll let them sit awhile and come back to them and fix them later, see? It'll keep the process from becoming too much like work. That's the ticket.

The way I see it, I got into this literary stuff for the fun of it. So I ought to be having fun. I should just write what I want, when I want, when it occurs to me, and worry later about making it so that some editor somewhere will want it. (After I've finished writing it, for example.)

So it behooves me not to reject any ideas. If I get one, I should write it and see where it goes. If I judge every new idea by someone else's standards, I'll never get anywhere. Commercial writers like Robert E. Howard still managed to write some dang good fiction and have a shit-ton of fun doing it, despite writing for a specific market, or even a specific publisher.

My point? I've been stressing. Despite how non-negative the feedback I got from Fantasy & Science Fiction was, I've still been having a crisis.

Oh God, I've been rejected. I'll never be a good writer. I should shave my head and go live in an abbey and solve mysteries like Cadfael.

What in the name of hell's donkeys was I thinking? This story sucks canal water. It'll never get anywhere. Isaac Asimov would laugh me right off the street.

"Too obvious." Okay, my story's too obvious. I'd better go and check and see if my other stories are too obvious. Oh damn, they are. What'll I do? They're mostly written already. How am I going to inject meaning and subtlety into these wads of shallow drivel? I should just delete them off my laptop, run the disk defragmenter, and forget I ever wrote them.

Forget that noise. I just have to write what I like. You should write what you like, too. That's where the magic begins. I and ten thousand other writers endorsed this message. (If you don't believe me, Jade's got a marvelous article about it right here.)

To that end, I sat down at my computer last night and this morning and came up with two new ideas.

That's right, two. Two stories, buster. That's the way you get yourself back into the ring after a major letdown. Double-tap. Arsinoitherium-style. That's how I roll. 

And I've actually begun work on both stories, too. No outlines or anything. I'm just making it all up as I go, seeing how the plots develop. At least both stories have plot and subtlety as far as I can tell. Plus they're just dang fun to write. I don't have to worry about those troublesome things like research or realism or respectability or anything. All I have to do is sit up to the keyboard, let my imagination wander, and write a nice, clean, fun, wacky, character-driven story.

The titles are "Jonah and the Asteroid" and "It's a Jungle in Here."

(See, this is why I love science fiction. I can whip up stories with wacky titles like that and still be considered a legitimate writer. What a racket!)

One more thing: I solemnly promise, on pain of self-mutilation, that I'll finish telling you about my trip to England sometime before the year's out. I haven't even mentioned Scotland yet, and that just can't be missed. Plus I have a little vignette about the trip Miss H and I took to Joshua Tree National Park last weekend, and undoubtedly there'll be some more worthwhile flying stories as autumn comes on and the weather worsens.

Stay tuned.

from me to you

My valiant quest to win every award in the known Universe continues.


Now, I could offer you the usual excuses, self-deprecations, pleas of ignorance, but that'd be tedious. You've heard 'em all before.
"My gosh, I just don't know why I get all these awards."

"Who'd have suspected I would garner all this attention just for shamelessly pontificating?"

"Beats me where all this attention comes from. I just blog here, man."

Let's just skip that part. Suffice it to say, I am once again humbled, honored, and red-faced to receive this accolade. I believe it's called the "From Me To You" Award (didn't see that coming, did you?). Two exemplary bloggers bestowed it upon me: Jon Paul from Where Sky Meets Ground and Mia from My Literary Jam and Toast. I call these bloggers "exemplary" because they epitomize principles every blogger should aspire to:

If you're going to say something, say it well. And make yourself useful while you're at it.

Mia and JP not only write well (and humorously). They habitually promulgate tips and hints to help us poor benighted folk with the agonizing and soul-shaking process known as "writing." (Speaking of which, I need to get cracking. I should find out what that publisher back in Georgia is doing with my first three chapters, and keep editing my MS in the meantime. I might have found an alpha reader I can give it to when I finish the second edit, though. Even so, I'm falling into a stagnant, apathetic rut again. I hate myself sometimes. Come on, my conscience is niggling at me, do you want to be a writer or not? Roni over at Fiction Groupie just won an award with her novel manuscript, and the publication process has started! She's on the road to success! That could be you, chump. Thanks, brain, I needed that.)

Anyway, let's see about the rules of the FMTY Award: seven facts, seven bloggers. Or perhaps we should say "seven truths" because, as Indiana Jones will tell you, fact is not truth. Relate seven truths about yourself, and send the award on to seven worthy bloggers. That's not too shabby. I was hoping I'd get to do another award ceremony again, and mollify my enormous ego by deluging you with ceaseless talk about my favorite subject.

1. I could count the number of lies I've told in my lifetime on one hand. That's if I could remember how old I was when told the last one.
2. I hate asparagus. It is my absolute least favorite vegetable on this benighted green Earth. If every single spear of asparagus suddenly vanished out of existence, or was whisked away into another dimension, or was scorched and fried into oblivion...I wouldn't so much as blink.
3. Speaking of hating things, I once despised alcohol. Couldn't stand it. Liquor, cordials, even beer. The taste was abhorrent. Thank goodness I stuck to my guns and kept tasting it. Eventually it began to taste better. And now look!
4. Sneezing is one of the more under-appreciated bodily functions. It's so enjoyable! Scratches every itch in the nasal tract.
5. It's endlessly annoying when folks say "Here, here" instead of "hear, hear"; "without further adieu" instead of "without further ado"; and "hanger" instead of "hangar." ("Here" is an adverb, "hear" is a verb; and you are telling bystanders to "hear" what the speaker is saying when you proclaim "hear, hear." Adieu is French for "goodbye." "Ado" is bustle or fuss. And a "hanger" is either something you use to put up clothes or a short sword worn by British soldiers and sailors. A "hangar" is where you put your airplane. Are we clear?)
6. I love it when people refer to chimpanzees and other great apes as "monkeys," though. It makes me laugh.
7. I have an irrational fear of fiberglass.

Splendid. And now onto the nominees who have earned this prestigious award!

• Points of Claire-ification
• Writing in the Wilderness
• That Rebel with a Blog
• Murrmurrs
• Sometimes I Think...
• Views of a Star Child
• Sharp Pen/Dull Sword

From me to you, my pretties. Keep the quality coming, the juices flowing, and the Muses grinning. You're lucky I'm rather tired this evening. I was going to spin this post into a huge didactic tale of drone-spotting and novel-editing. But I ain't gonna do it now. I'll have to save it for later. I, my friend, am going to flop down and vegetate for a while. You have yourself a good evening.

turmoil

Yes, you guessed it, folks: we woke up early again. This time, the morning of the 12/17, we had to get down to the airport for Allison's flight. Her introductory ride in N42126, I mean. I was going to usher Allison into the world of aviation, and Harold and Apple Valley Aviation were going to help me do it. We drove down to the airport, met Harold, and soon enough he and Allison were preflighting the plane. I helped as best I could, explaining things as I went, a tad over-zealously perhaps. Alli was bold as brass. She got in, strapped in, and watched attentively while Harold went through the motions of starting the plane. Once we were on the taxiway, he let her take over. She got the hang of taxiing real fast. Impressive. Most impressive. We pulled off at the end of runway 18, did our run-up, and then cruised onto the runway. This was the moment of truth. Allison had the controls for the long run down the tarmac. She kept us straight and true, and lifted us off the ground with hardly any dips or bumps. Soon, we were at 5,500 feet, floating contentedly along above Apple Valley. Harold put Alli through some basic maneuvers, being his usual cheery, helpful self. She remained cool and collected, like she'd been flying all her life. She didn't cackle like an idiot, nor panic. She said, calmly, that it wasn't as hard as she thought it'd be. We did some turns, and then flew around to see what we could see. We flew over the golf course, Interstate 15, Southern California Logistics Airport, Bell Mountain, and finally circled back to the airport and landed. Alli gave me one of her signature grins as we unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the plane. I'd love to show you some of the incredible pictures I got, but I can't, because I didn't get any. I forgot my stupid camera, both for this flight and for the duration of our time in Las Vegas. More's the pity. I took some incredible shots with Allison's camera, however. If she ever starts a blog, and she uses those photos, you'll know who took 'em. In deference to the amount of sleep we'd been getting (or rather, not getting), we elected not to head straight off to Vegas after the flight, like we'd planned. Instead, we came back to the house and sacked out again for a couple of hours. Well, we tried to, anyway. Alli curled up on the futon in the front room with the TV and dozed for a time; I did my best, but I just wasn't sleepy. That's just the way I am. Once I get up, I'm up. I can't get up, do something for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep. I showered and then began planning our route in Vegas. That meant I got no extra sleep that morning of the 17th. It would come back to haunt me later. But by and by, we hit the road. About noon or so we finally got everything of Allison's out of the house and into the Jeep. We also exchanged Christmas gifts: I gave her some dominoes and a fun card game called Quiddler (where the cards have letters instead of numbers and you have to make words); she gave me another fun word game, mentioned earlier, called Bananagrams. Mom got Alli some notions from Bath & Body Works, which she appreciated (they smelled like vanilla). Then we climbed in and headed out. I don't think I'll ever forget that sunlit ride back to Vegas. It was bittersweet, I can tell you that much. There we were, Alli's iPod plugged into my car radio, Alli sitting beside me and knitting socks for her sisters for Christmas, singing softly and beautifully along with her favorite tunes, me joining in with my broken yowl whenever one I knew came up. And all the while, the fact that our time together was almost over kept looming. It would be goodness-knew-how-long before I'd see her again. Harmonious yet strange is the marriage of rapture and despair! And, underneath the deep-seated affection I had for her as a friend, was another feeling, more desperate, more insistent, more infuriating. It coalesced as a wordless interrogative, and nagged at me unmercifully those last few hours. It had been nagging at me ever since I knew she'd be coming. Do I make a move on her or not? I didn't have an answer to that question. My rational mind and frivolous heart were at war, endlessly attempting to formulate one. The resultant turmoil wreaked havoc in my brain and gut. I felt, during some periods, as if I was sitting on an anthill, as if my spirit were slowly being eaten alive by venomous, mindless Myrmidons. I couldn't sit still, nor think rationally. My Cro-Magnon mind was gone. There was a blind, mute, unspeakable monster loose in the halls, demanding action at any price, no matter the risk. Go for it, the monster bellowed. I can't. She's not interested in me that way. It's impossible. I'm too scared. What if she's unwilling? I couldn't handle it! my weaselly ego whined. Thou craven! the monster screamed. What hast thou to fear? This could be the start of something beautiful! This is your second chance! Don't blow it! But what if she says no? the weasel almost sobbed. Damn it, man! Show some backbone! howled the monster. Are you going to let one potential moment of embarrassment get in the way of a potential lifetime of happiness? No, but what if— And so on, and so on, and so on. You all have been here before. This is high school stuff. You don't need me to spell out the rest of the conversation. It leads right back to the place it began, an endless litany of vacillation, exhortation, courage and cowardice. It's a funny thing: no matter how much you think you've matured in life, when it comes to such a simple thing as asking a girl whom you think you might go places with to take the next step in step with you, you can't do it. Because deep down inside, we're all third-graders. We know we like that boy or that girl, but love is such a big huge mysterious unknown THING, and we're all so worried about opening our hearts to others and possibly getting burned, that we don't act. Instead, we deflect, dodge, run, hide. We project. We drop hints. We hedge. We hem and haw. We stammer. We try to look cool. We pose. We posture. We challenge. We pretend. I'm sure, somewhere in the universe, there must be some planet, somewhere, where, when Male Inhabitant A discovers that he loves Female Inhabitant B, he simply walks up to her, unafraid, and says, "I love you. Let's spend the rest of our lives together." If Female Inhabitant B doesn't love Male Inhabitant A, she says, "I'm sorry. I don't love you." To which Male Inhabitant A, completely free of embarrassment, mortification, self-doubt or angst, replies, "Well, thank you for hearing my proposal. Good day." And then Male Inhabitant A strolls off into the sunset, on the lookout for Female Inhabitant C. If Female Inhabitant B does love Male Inhabitant A, she simply says, "I love you too. Let's get married and move in together." And the two of them live happily ever after. Not as much fun as Earth, you might say. It's a helluva lot more straightforward and honest and open, though, you've got to admit. I'm actually glad I didn't put Allison on the spot during that car ride, or any time after. I needed some time to think. After I'd considered things properly, I figured that I'd done the right thing. Alli and I probably weren't meant to be. Our lives are going different directions, and there are some glaring incompatibilities between us that probably would be insurmountable obstacles in a marriage. (She considers modern art to actually be art, for Pete's sake.) So it's good that I didn't do anything stupid or hasty. But there was a considerable amount of turmoil going on inside me during that car ride, and our time in Vegas. Speaking of which, let's get back to it! We made it to Vegas fine, just after the sun had set and the strip was beginning to light up. Once again, I had to take a few runs at the parking lot. Having missed the turnoff a time or two, I finally managed to swoop in, pay $3, and find a good parking space. Whew. We were in. Now we could waltz about with impunity. First stop? Caesar's Palace. We were going Swatch-hunting. Don't know what a Swatch is? Well, neither did I. And I haven't been living under a rock for 23 years, either. Swatches are something you just hear about, I guess. They're Swiss watches (hence the name), which come in all sizes, designs, styles, and colors. Alli's Swatch (gaudily hued with brown, blue and green stripes) was winding down, and she wanted to replace it. The only Swatch store she'd ever seen had been in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Alli had been to Sin City before, visiting with her family, and had bought it then. That in mind, we elected to head to Caesar's Palace first, get her a Swatch, and figure out the rest. Oh, and we had tickets for the ten o'clock Blue Man Group show, but we had a few hours to kill before that (and after). So, after strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard for a half-hour, going over bridges, through construction tunnels, past people of all sorts and varieties, past the old man in the cowboy hat playing Christmas tunes on the accordion, past the two ladies in platforms on the street corner (one dressed like a devil, the other like an angel), past the Aria and the Bellagio and the Monte Carlo, we came to Caesar's Palace. Now, I've been to Vegas before. Driven past it many a time. Driven through it on occasion. Been into one casino (the Aladdin) a few years back. This was the first time in a long time, however, that I'd been on the Strip and inside one of the most famous casinos in the world. It was fantastic. I can't even begin to do it justice. I'm no stranger to glorified surroundings and I was still floored. Picture vast promenades, dotted with high-end shops on either side, a faux blue sky overhead, magnificent statuary and fountains every few hundred yards. The whole pantheon of Greek gods, their hair adorned with olive wreaths; nymphs, satyrs and hippocampi, surrounded by rushing water; and aquariums filled with the most exotic and colorful fish. Bars, restaurants, rare bookshops, jewelry and designer clothing outlets...it was almost too much to take in at once. I felt as if I was in the middle of a fabulous dream. It was a maze, a labyrinth, a spider's web of opulence and lavishness and sinful excess, seemingly brought down from Mount Olympus for all the world to see. It may all have been a sham, sure, but the illusion was compelling enough. That's one of the things I love about Las Vegas. It's all artifice, sure. But it's fun artifice, convincing artifice, cinematic, glitzy artifice. I'll take it. We located the Swatch shop, and spent a few minutes rooting around. The attendants informed us that, beginning at 6:00, a massive sale would begin. So we elected to find somewhere to eat and then come back after the sale had started. A quick consultation of the directory gave us a prime candidate: the Cheesecake Factory. Allison went all ga-ga when she saw that little name stamped on the directory board. But then again, she'd sampled the Factory's delights before. I hadn't. Boy, was I ever in for an eye-opener. Or rather, as it proved to be, a mouth-opener. We had to walk the entire length of the Palace's promenade once again to get there, but I didn't mind. It gave us a chance to peruse the stores, the fountains, and the faux opulence once again. We descried the restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac, just past the giant aquarium. I didn't know where to point my eyeballs: at this aquarium or the impressive façade of the Cheesecake Factory. (Why am I using so many French words?) It was staggering. It arched two stories up (and this was indoors, mind), built to resemble an ancient Roman structure, as most of the storefronts in the casino were. Just standing in front of the reception desk, I could see a bar, tables with spotless white tablecloths, huge (faux) pillars, mood lighting, and quite a few people who looked more than happily fed. This was going to be good. And it was. We were ushered to our table, right on the edge of a balustrade overlooking nearly the whole restaurant, with a clear view up to the gallery-like ceiling and the second floor. It was like eating in a Roman palace, with pillars and rich tiling and soft yellow light all around. Like I said, fun artifice. I was truly starting to have fun. That turmoil had abated a little. What the hell, I said to myself. Just roll with it. Whatever will happen will happen and whatever won't, won't. Our server, John, a thirtysomething blond-haired man with short sticky-up hair and a cheery smile, came over, gave us our menus, and made some very genuine small talk. I took an immediate liking to him. He seemed somehow different from 98% of the other servers and waiters I'd met in my lifetime, who were friendly and helpful without being honest about it. Their demeanor, like the statues of in the Palace promenade, was artificial. John seemed truly pleased to see us and glad to be working where he was. That manifested in his conduct. He wasn't sappy or superficial, but warm and jocular. I appreciated that. After warning us that the portion sizes were enormous, John let us have some time to decide what we wanted. We could already tell it'd be a tough choice. I've never seen such a huge menu. It was like a book, as John had pointed out. There were pages and pages and pages of pastas, soups, salads, sandwiches, and other entrées. And that's not even including the cheesecake, which I will get to later. It deserves a blog entry of its own, I can tell you that much. We decided to have a drink while we pored over the expansive menu. Mojitos seemed like a good idea. We informed John, and before we knew it, a pair of tall glasses filled with ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, club soda and mint sprigs was set in front of us. And brother, believe me when I say the Cheesecake Factory makes a fine mojito. I hope they pay their bartenders well, 'cause that was the best dang mojito I ever had in my life. I could detect the rum, beautifully supplemented by the lime and sugar, underscored by the carbonation and perfectly tinctured with copious mint. Heck, I don't even like mint all that much, and I liked this mojito. I began to have very high hopes for the dinner to come. In the end, we decided on the spicy chicken chipotle pasta. We ordered one plate for the two of us, which was a good thing, because the portion sizes were indeed massive. A huge heaping bowl of penne, peas, asparagus, and a just-spicy-enough chipotle sauce was laid steaming before us, and we dug in with relish. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Conversation practically died as we satiated ourselves, all the while continuing to admire our surroundings, trying to guess what language the Mediterranean couple beside us was speaking. (We had no luck.) But wait, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. This restaurant was named "The Cheesecake Factory" after all. It's famous for its cheesecake, ever since the founding couple got the business started in California some decades ago. The menu's cheesecake pages alone would've sufficed for an entire menu at a lesser confectioner's shop. There was so much to choose from. We'd gotten a tantalizing glimpse from the reception desk: there had been a glass case filled to the brim with dripping, gleaming, glistening slices of cheesecake of all shapes, sizes, hues and patterns. And that was only scratching the surface. We pored over the gigantic master cheesecake list, calling out whatever sounded good to each other. I thought the Chocolate Turtle, Dulce de Leche and Kahlúa Cocoa Coffee all sounded delectable. You can guess which one I chose in the end. Come on, I'm a mixologist. I like Kahlúa anyway. Getting to sample some in cake was an idea I just couldn't pass up. The description in the menu said that my choice was "chocolate brownie, Kahlúa cheesecake, and chocolate mousse" all overlaid. Come on now. Try and pass that up, even after a full bowl of chipotle pasta. Alli was vacillating as well. She had been on a pumpkin kick lately (she had tried to get the pumpkin pancakes at IHOP two days earlier, but they'd been out). However, she was also a lifelong fan of strawberry cheesecake. Both options were represented on that menu. What to do? In the end, her decision was made for her. When John returned and asked us what we'd like, he had to inform Alli that, unfortunately, the Cheesecake Factory was also out of pumpkin. So Alli went with strawberry, not without a hint of reluctance, and that was that. In seemingly no time at all, two humongous wedges of cheesy goodness were set upon our table. Both of us just sort of stared at them for a bit. It seemed almost a shame to eat them, they were so beautiful. My slice was sitting pertly on its plate, a dollop of whipped cream on top, another one right in front of the wedge, as if the cake slice was a ship crashing into a creamy iceberg. The slice itself was excitingly tinted, dark brownie underneath, lightening to muddy brown above for the cocoa and the cheesecake itself, covered with dark frosting cross-hashed with wavy light-brown stripes of mousse. Aw, man. Of all the times to forget the camera. After a moment, and an encouraging look from Alli, I picked up my fork and tenderly excised the first bite. I opened my mouth and bit down respectfully. Now, I don't claim to be a religious man, but whatever happened in my mouth right then was something like an epiphany. I could almost hear the heavenly bells ringing, the voices of the angels lifted in a hallelujah. It. Was. GORGEOUS. I've had cheesecake before, many times. I've just had your regular, straightforward cheesecake, no special flavoring or additives, though. I've also had a lot of cheesecake at (for lack of a better term) half-baked shops and restaurants who don't really put a lot of artistry into their creations. The preceding facts became readily apparent as I took that first bite. It was amazing. The Kahlúa wasn't overpowering, but lent a special coffee overtone to the overall chocolate flavor, which itself was explosive. The cheesecake and frosting melted in my mouth almost immediately, while the brownie remained solid for a good while longer, providing an intoxicating textural blend. Alli was no less absorbed. Her eyes were closed and she was emitting the occasional sigh. John came back to the table while as we devoured our cheesecake in a fugue. "Horrible stuff, isn't it?" he asked, with a mock-serious expression. "Terrible," Alli agreed. "Venomous," I concurred. "I'm sure," John replied. "I know you're just eating it to be polite. I can't stand it myself." All three of us grinned. "You guys need anything else?" "Could I have a glass of milk?" I asked, around a mouthful of brownie. John got one for me, and then gave us the bill. I made a point to comment to the lady at the front desk just what a genuine, helpful, diligent guy John was. My conscience wouldn't permit me to do anything else. He was really the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae (or slice of cheesecake) regarding that whole experience. Suitably satiated, we set off once again into Caesar's Palace. My benighted mind had now been opened to heretofore unsuspected horizons of cheesecake, and I was ready for anything. We stopped briefly at a large toy store so Alli could do some Christmas shopping. Her sister was an ardent fan of Uglydolls (you know, those stuffed toys that look like horrible little monsters), so Allison got her an Uglydolls all-purpose bag. I got me a tequila-flavored lollipop with a meal worm in it, and then we left. Now for a Swatch. We ducked back down the curved escalators, down through the three-story gallery filled with enormous plaster statues of half-naked women ("We're surrounded by boobs," I told Alli), and reentered the Swatch shop. Alli had previously narrowed her choices down to three finalists: white band with hippos; turquoise band made of interlocking ovoid stones; or plain brown. She elected to go with the turquoise band. It had to be taken in a little to suit her wrist. While we waited, I browsed a bit myself. I saw one particular Swatch that I liked: plain, no frills, a simple black band and a white analog face, with a small window for telling the date and day of the week. If I'd had $55 I wasn't using I would've probably dropped it right then and there. Suitably Swatched, we exited the shop and plotted our next move. Both of us figured we'd better mosey on over to the Venetian. It was two hours to show time. We could check out what shopping the Venetian had to offer and then walk for a few minutes and be ready when the theater doors opened. I was about ready for a drink, too. We'd been walking past bar after bar after bar, all of which looked exciting and fun and interesting to sit in (and fully stocked). Those mojitos we had at the Cheesecake Factory were good, but they'd worn off. I was getting thirsty, and no mere glass of water could mollify me. So we walked out of Caesar's Palace, turned left, and headed north up Las Vegas Boulevard until the Venetian peeked out from behind Harrah's. We went in, found the Blue Man Group theater, procured our tickets, and then just began to browse. As impressive as places like Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio had been on the inside, the Venetian gave them all a run for their money. They've got a canal inside the casino. A real, full-blown canal, about the same size as the ones in Venice actually are! And they've got men and women in straw hats and striped shirts—gondoliers—punting gondolas with happy couples up and down this canal, just like in Venice! And some of them even sing, too! "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." How awesome is that?? So we took to wandering. We peeked in a few stores, and a few art galleries showcasing caricatures of well-known actors and musicians, and also a fair bit of Snoopy-related artwork (Vegas, Vegas, Vegas). We walked under arches, past strange forms of Christmas decoration (a giant, serpent-like sculpture of evergreen branches tied up with red ribbons and Christmas lights, writhing over a cranberry pool by the waterfall). We strolled along the canal, peeking through windows, me drooling over every bar we passed. Noticing my stares, Alli suggested we stop in to Davidoff, a fine cigar shoppe right by the side of the canal. They had a walk-in humidor. I'd never seen one of those before. The glass walls were lined with expensive, fancy cigars of every stamp and vintage. The quality and prices were both outrageous. In the end, however, I folded. I got myself an Opus X, supposedly one of the most full-bodied and "peppery" cigars offered (according to the pretty attendant), for $31.50. Heh heh, I chuckled to myself as I shelled out the money, I can't wait to get home and wave this under John and Chris's noses. I haven't smoked that cigar yet, but I'll let you know when I do, and how green the boys turn. We stopped at a directory to see if we'd missed any interesting shops. As we looked, a bald, uniformed guard in white gloves walked up to us and asked if we needed help finding anything. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have any bookstores here?" The man thought for a moment, and then said, "The only bookstore we have would be Bauman's Rare Books. Head straight that way," he pointed down the hall the way we'd come, "past the escalators, make a right and a quick left. Bauman's will be on the right." He had me at "rare books." Alli noticed the sinister gleam that came into my eye as he said it. The guard began to tell us about a general store on another floor that sold magazines, but Alli cut him off. "I think we'll take the rare books," she said, looking at me with amusement. Bauman's Rare Books was a tiny shop set into the side of a long, low, carpeted hallway on the second level of the Venetian. I could immediately tell we were in for a treat. They had a first-edition copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss in the bulletproof glass case out front. Mentally, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Books, books, BOOKS. They were all in excellent condition, if a little worn and old-looking, and their sheer antiquity (and price) boggled the imagination. I saw 26 rare editions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's original Tarzan stories; a note penned by Walt Whitman himself to his publisher; first-edition copies of everything from Cool Hand Luke to Watership Down; and even goodies like early printings of Charles Darwin's Origin of Species. All right there, right then! In the store! In Las Vegas! We couldn't browse enough. We walked up and down, staring up at the high wooden shelves, wondering at their miraculous contents. The proprietor (probably not Bauman himself, being young, sprightly, bearded, and bespectacled, but quite helpful and amiable) opened up whatever case we chose and let us look at whatever we wanted. He also exchanged book reviews with us; I'd name a title and he'd give me his two cents on it. It was great fun. I handled those books like they were glass. No, like they were nitroglycerin. I must be a hardcore bibliophile, because that store was like a treasure trove to me. How I would've loved to keep coming back, day after day, and peruse all of the volumes in the collection. Alas, we had no time. We thanked the proprietor and moved on. I caught a last titillating glimpse of a signed copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in the armored window, and then the store vanished from our sight. It was right about here that I figured I was long due for a whiskey sour. We settled on Samba Sushi, a low-lit and chic sushi bar a few yards down the hall, bellied up to the bar, laid down our burdens and sat down on the stools. There was a frizzy-haired man in a gray suit a few stools down from us, reading a newspaper, a champagne flute and a glass of ice water in front of him. By the looks of things, he'd been there a while. He ordered up another drink as we sat there (it looked like something creamy). Must've been a stock market crash or something... Anyway, to our own drinks. I knew what I wanted. The whiskey selection was rather bad, so I decided to have a Jameson sour. Bad idea. Here again I showed my true ignorance of the ways of John Barleycorn. You never make a whiskey sour with anything other than bourbon or Canadian whisky. Doesn't taste right. Has to be the right stuff, Jim Beam or Wild Turkey or Black Velvet or Crown Royal, maybe. Anyway, I dealt with that mishap as best I could while Allison had a look at the menu. She finally settled on Samba Juice, a house special, consisting of rum and a whole lot of fruit juices. I tasted it; it wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing. She loved it, that's the important thing. We had a quiet drink as we whiled away the last few minutes before the show started. When we got to the theater the line had already formed, but fortunately it wasn't too long. (Good thing we were there on a weekday!) We got in line, and got in fairly quickly. I hadn't quite realized just how close we'd be to the stage. I'd intentionally chosen seats that were just outside the splash zone (the first six rows or so, where everybody was sure to get hit by some splatter or other). On the digital seating chart, however, it had looked as if there was a substantial gap between rows E and F. There wasn't. Row F was right behind row E, the last row in the danger zone. So you may imagine that Alli and I felt a little nervous as we took our seats directly behind folks who had already donned their protective clear plastic ponchos. Our fears proved to be unfounded. We didn't get splattered. I won't say much about the show, out of respect for the performers' livelihood, but I will say this: go see it. If you've never seen Blue Man Group, you need to. As so many others before me have raved, their performance is what all other live shows aspire to be. It was hilarious, visually stunning, interactive, fun, engaging, astounding and captivating all in one. It was a festival of sight and sound I can't even begin to describe properly, so I won't try. Needless to say, those were two hours of our lives well spent. We laughed, jumped, clapped, and gaped all through it. It was brilliant, to say the least. The show got out just about midnight. So, therefore, here ends my narrative for December 17th, 2009. I shall resume at this point in the next entry. I apologize that this was so long; it's just that we did a lot of stuff, and I'm naturally garrulous. You have my permission to read this in parts if you have to. If you do read it all in one go, kindly time yourself and report back to me how long it took you. If you do, you get a cookie.

to blog or not to blog

That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...or to take up a keyboard, and by so opposing, divulge them. I've been casting around other people's blogs for a while now, and I've seen some pretty heavy stuff. And by "heavy" I mean very weighty, very personal matters. Stuff that you'd ordinarily think somebody would want to keep quiet. I stumbled upon this one blog once that dealt with nothing but the writer's sex life. The post I read was a meticulous 2,000-word treatise on the events leading up to her and her boyfriend's first attempt at anal sex. I'm not sure what good that kind of post does anybody, but that's not what I'm here to talk about. Being a blogger is kind of like being the editor of the coolest, wackiest newspaper ever written. It's all about YOU. It's anything you want. You, and you alone, decide what gets put onto the front page. Complete control over the whole process, that's what you've got: topic, writing, tone, voice, stance, revision, publishing, the works. The final slash-and-burn is the kicker. That's where you sit back, look at what you've written, and think to yourself, "Okay, is this worth putting up?" A few bloggers are shallow and uninteresting, writing without depth or merit. A large number of bloggers, on the other hand, are honest. They pour out their hearts and souls onto the web page. They speak on highly personal issues, things near and dear to their hearts, private matters that they perhaps would never have dared to bare in person. Sometimes this writing is brutally honest and gruesomely detailed. Oftentimes, even if the subject matter is not something a reader would ordinarily find interesting, the way in which its presented can win an audience over...if the blogger tells the truth and write from the heart. Quite often, however, the subject matter is both relevant and truthful. The result is something incredible: something deep, something resonant, something emotionally powerful. Reading these blog posts (about a dear friend who passed away, or a violent crime that the writer was a victim of, or even a beloved place or time) is cathartic. We feel transported to that place, introduced to that person, victimized by that crime. We feel like a bridge has been built between our soul and the writer's. Reading becomes a joining of hands, a meeting of minds. I have experienced this amazing sensation several times on the blogsphere, and never expected to. That, friends, is perhaps what this whole blogging gig is about. But I'll skip the commercial. This is not the point of this post. The point is this: there's a difference between being honest and truthful when writing, and using some...discretion. Not everything one does is newsworthy, no matter how exciting one's life may be. At some point, a blogger must draw the line at even the most brutal or hilarious details of his or her existence. But where should that line be drawn? At what point does a blogger cease being honest and truthful and is instead merely airing his dirty laundry in public? Being honest, truthful, open, or gut-wrenchingly detailed in your writing (or just writing about personal matters) is one thing. Using the blogsphere as a confessional is another. This is the crux of my argument. Be honest, sure. Be truthful, yes. Be gritty, even. But don't write about things that happened to you because you feel as if you'd be hiding the truth otherwise. Don't bare your soul just because you feel you need to be totally, unreservedly honest. Don't include all the gory details just for the audience's information. If you are doing it, make sure you're doing it for YOU. You're the editor, remember? There's two things that very recently happened to me that I was going to blog about. I was going to blog about them enthusiastically, in fact. But I'm not going to now. I can't write about the first thing because I might get somebody else in trouble. I can't write about the second because...well, it's a highly embarrassing, personal matter, and I think I'd rather keep it private. I'm entitled to a little privacy, after all. Be wary that you don't fall into the same trap. Write about what you want to write about, but don't compromise your privacy. Goodness knows it's hard enough to hold on to any privacy in this day and age anyway. Write by all means, just ensure that you're not doing it to assuage your insecurities. Do it to give yourself wings.

un-disclaimer

I've been reading some other people's (admirably incisive) blogs lately, and reading back over some of mine, and I've noticed some discrepancies between my intention and what comes out on the page. That is to say, some of you might have formed an impression of me and my personality that, while it makes sense in the context of this blog, belies my true nature.

For starters, I have a tendency to wax namby-pamby in my scribblings. I almost never do that in person, or in conversation. I try to uphold the standard set by my stalwart, stoic, upstanding father, who never talks about all those "girly" things like feelings, and impressions, and beauty, and soul-massage stimuli. I attempt to; sometimes I fail. Show me a sunset and you're going to hear my best shot at first-draft poetry. Give me a cool day in fall and I'm going to stumble about spewing complimentary meteorological platitudes. Give me a girlfriend and you might hear me whisper some of the mushiest stuff imaginable in her ear. Be that as it may, I tend to get a lot more philosophical (or just plain sentimental) when I write. Be aware of that.

Second, despite the self-enforced lack of swearing in this blog, I actually am—and have been for some time—violently profane. I was once a lingual teetotaler, never daring to say anything worse than "dang" or even the second "b-word" (synonymous with "illegitimate son"). In college and after, I loosened up. I now have no compunction about spouting obscenities. I'm still a little leery of the c-word (The Big One, as it were) but I'll use it in quotes without any fuss. Everything else (f-bombs to b-words to s-h-dash-dash to h-e double toothpicks) is all up for grabs.

Finally, because this is neither a political nor a religious blog and I haven't really mentioned many of my personal beliefs in detail anywhere, I think I ought to delineate for you my political and religious affiliations. I am a slightly liberal conservative (registered as an Independent), and have been an atheist for half my life. I see no reason to quit being either. I hope that clears up a few things around here.

this blog stinks lately

You know, if it's one thing I have a problem with, it's holding things in. I bite my tongue. I don't speak up when I should. I do this in conversation and in the literary arena. I'll often nix a story idea when everyone else says it's Pulitzer-worthy, just because I don't think it would come out right. It's a disease. Here I am, trying to make my way in a hostile world that does nothing but throw barriers in front of me, and what do I do? Throw barriers in front of myself, that's what. I've got to quit it. So, in recognition of that fact, I am hereby going to blog about something that's been on my mind the past couple of days. This blog stinks lately. No, really. You know that miserable little piece I did about my Halloween-themed cocktail party? That was originally going to be an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-Oscar-Wilde essay on the joys of Halloween-themed cocktail parties. And what did it turn out to be? A blurb. You know why? I couldn't be bothered. I went ahead and started writing it, stopped, loafed around the house for a couple of days eating leftover party snacks, and decided it wasn't worth my time. Eh, not much to say. People came. We drank. We sang. We made merry. We listened to some of my Bill Cosby stand-up albums. We broke up. Game, set, match. Nothing to report. Show's over, folks. I'd already written an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-a-hot-poke-in-the-eye essay on the joys of regular ol' run-of-the-mill cocktail parties anyway. Why get into a rut? So I typed up a brief and let it lie. Thankfully, some people were courteous enough to give me their feedback regardless. Or what about that thing I scribbled about Sour Apple Pucker? Did that have a compelling premise? Was there a reason for its existence other than my need to crow about employing apple schnapps for the very first time ever? Was there anything enlightening or worthwhile for the readers in it anywhere? Heck no. It just exists, without even a pretty picture hung on it to obscure its infinitesimal worth. Yeah, and those paragraphs that are currently in the works about me taking up flying again after 17 months on the ground? Rediscovering the thrill of flight and beginning to relearn the skills of a pilot in the clear skies and calm morning air over the Mojave Desert? Come on. That kind of stuff is puerile. Jejune, too. As if yards of similar drivel were never written by scores of moon-eyed, imbecilic, neophyte aviators before me! I'll finish it, though, much good may it do me. Don't try to deny it, people. I'm not having self-esteem issues, here. I'm not being insecure or fishing for compliments. Whether you agree or disagree, my mind is made up. I've gotten into a rut. This thing has stagnated on me. I need to go rob a bank or something so I'll have something really interesting to write about. Perhaps I need to get into another street fight or save a damsel in distress. Anything. Anything just so long as I get something vivifying to write about again...and actually write about it.