My other arm.

I didn't get any tattoos until I was over 30.

I got the Maggie one first. When I told her I was going to get it, she said "That's very sweet, but I hope you don't think I'm going to get a 'Rich' tattoo."

I didn't. Different styles, you know?

I also told her that I left room under the "Maggie" to write "left" if she ever took off.

Ha ha. Ha. Yikes!

The daisy, tulip and first four stars were next. The daisy is for my oldest boy (long story), the tulip for my daughter, and one star for each of us. When our youngest came along, I added the sunflower, and one more star.

I'm thinking about what to do next. I've got a six-month rule... I've got to want a tattoo for that long before I get it. That rule has saved me a bunch of times. After witnessing 9/11 first-hand in NYC, for example, I was going to get an enormous eagle across my back. Excellent thought, bad idea.

I realize that I have the least manly tattoos ever. A dove for the Holy Spirit on my right shoulder.... three flowers, a heart, and five stars...

...but that's what makes me so damn hot. It takes a real man to sport a daisy.

Love to all: even you, 2005.

World of Seethe

Something strange is happening to me.

It’s not the gray suddenly sprinkling through my beard.
It’s not the fact that my last few crushes have been on women 15-20 years older than me.
It’s not that I’m launching into yet another economically challenging adventure.

It’s that I no longer enjoy seething over perceived bad behavior of others.

I had a couple things happen this week: an employee was disrespectful and inappropriate, a client was/is seriously delinquent… a couple other things… all of which used to be the kind of thing that I would obsess over: Did I respond correctly? Did I get the last word? Did I WIN?

This isn’t to say that I don’t care about these things. I do. But I care less about the latter two then I ever have before. I even let the employee get the last word in, obnoxious as it was. And I didn’t pull out the Patent-Pending Rich@Championable Written and Verbal BeatDown Stick. I stated my point and that was it.

Bonus: None of these things kept me up at night, and none of ‘em are bugging me too much today.

This is kind of huge for me. My family LOVES to seethe. My father LIVES for it. He stays furious for days… even months at a time. And he can hold a grudge for decades. This is no exaggeration, and it’s sad. My father defines people in two categories: good and evil… and you can go from one to the other instantly and irrevocably.

The thing is: most people aren’t good or evil. It’s not that simple, and thank goodness for that. But what's more important: I seriously doubt anybody out there obsesses over their little contacts with me... so what the hell am I obsessing over, anyway? My energies are better spent on work, family, and annoying the crap of those I actually love.

Love to all. Even you, the guy on the 5:30am train with the super-loud headphones.

Putting it out there.

I hereby declare that I'm going to try and buy a small house in Vermont for my family. I figure it's going to get way too expensive soon, and now is the time.

I have to put my entrepreneurial brain to work on swinging this.

(Insert smoke effect and sizzling noise here.)

Love to all.

3:50am - smart Richie and an unexpected confession.

I put my head down at 7:30pm last night... I wanted to make sure that if I got up super-early to give my youngest his asthma medicine, I wouldn't be walking around looking like I just came off a 72-hour speed run. Smart Richie! Good boy!

Actually, I've never done speed of any kind. Back in my teens and twenties, I was about 379% more energetic than I am now... and I'm pretty damn peppy as it is. Also, I was radically unhealthy: my standing pulse rate at age 20 was 108. And my blood pressure was once measured at 170 over 120. You know the saying "speed kills?" Well, in my case, it would have... right away.

My friends used to give me bong hits for my birthday, just to calm me down.

Drugs I have tried: Mescaline, LSD, THC, Psylocibine (sp?) Mushrooms, Alcohol, Nicotine, Caffeine.

Drugs I have tried in the last 12 years: Alcohol, THC, Nicotine, Caffeine.

Drugs I have tried in the last few years: Caffeine.

Funny: I had no intention of spelling out my drug history in this post. But now you know. Hope we can still be friends.

Love to all. Even you, the folks who might need to give up some things they don't want to give up. Yet.

Politics: What people are forgetting about America.

The beautiful, glorious, and frustrating thing about America is this: you are absolutely required to be uncomfortable.

What I mean is: we are required, as Americans, to accept opinion, lifestyle, and activity that we personally find repugnant, as long as it exists within the bounds of the law.

That is not to say that we shouldn’t express opinions about things, but to be American is to revel in a country which is defined by diversity of opinion and culture.

I’ve got more to say about this, but I’m too tired right now.

Love to all. Even you, you neo-fascist scumbag.

4:10am: Asthma vs. Albuterol

Whenever my youngest has an upper respiratory problem it usually triggers his asthma. So last night, we had to use albuterol (via nebulizer) twice. He's such a trooper, lying there half-awake and keeping the mouthpiece just so, hugging his Teddy Bear.

Poor little guy.

Now that he's back to sleep, what to do? Play Madden 2006? Take the earlier train? Oh, the possibilities!

Love to all.

A real baldness breakthrough.

I used to have the greatest hair ever.

It was super-long, curly, thick, and nearly black. I kept it in lots of different ways: tied above my head in a sumo-knot, box braids, triple pigtails, the Jesus look, and a plain-old pony tail.

In my drumming days, I could do some wicked head-banging moves when I came down hard on the crash cymbals. WHAM! It was an explosion of curls.

Now, though, I'm receding. And thinning. The worst of it is right on top of the back of my head. Angled correctly, my webcam at work becomes a BaldingCam. I try not to do that anymore.

This used to depress me. I'm on Propecia, which has frozen the loss in it's current state, but Rogaine is insanely scary and intense, and I'm not having surgery until they perfect follicle cloning... so I'm stuck as is for the forseeable future.

Sometime over the last month, though I went from being in a weird state of denial and low-grade depression (maybe it I look in the mirror this way I won't be balding) to: hey! I'm a guy with thinning hair! It's just the way it is! I don't know what happened, but it's a mild self-acceptance for which I'm thankful.

It's a breakthrough for me of no small proportion.

So love me. Love my thinning hair. I do. Sort of.

Love to all. Even you, Goldilocks.

Merry Christmas, yo!

A little while ago, Maggie told me that I can't come upstairs until she tells me it's cool to do so... Something present-ish is going on. However, much time has passed, and I think she might have forgotten that I'm in the basement.

So this is a good opportunity for me to say "Merry Christmas" to my Christian pals, and "yo, yo, yo!" to everyone else. For me, this is a season of joyous capitalist splendor and some real thanks for the grace of my life.

Love to all.

I like Jesus AND Presents.

Everyone's freaking out over Christmas.

From Air America to Fox News, Randi Rhodes to Bill O'Reilly, everyone's upset over Christmas... and how the forces of, um, evil, are conspiring to destroy it.

Christmas may be in trouble, but it's not because a statue of the Ten Commandments isn't allowed in a courthouse, or a Christmas tree isn't allowed in a public square. I think it might be because when I go to Church on Christmas, it's absolutely packed. When I go in April, I can get a 2nd row seat, even if I arrive thirty seconds late.

It seems like the O'Reillys of the world are up in arms over symbols, not spirituality.

Me? I separate the two. I LOVE giving presents, and yes, I admit it, I REALLY love getting them. I think it's super, duper fun. That said, I hold Jesus as my spiritual guide. I think it's sweet that we celebrate his birthday. But then again, if Jesus is God... that celebration is misguided. Albeit with the best of intentions.

[Note: I vew the Trinity according to the Catholic catechism... a trio of related-but-distinct beings. Some friends of mine feel that they are *one.* Which would make the whole birthday thing a little silly.]

Love to all. Even you, you last minute shoppers.

Bye bye, Dreamhost.

I've had it.

DreamHost is made up of the nicest bunch of folks to ever run a fairly bad ISP. On the surface, their offerings are fabulous. Lots of disk space, unlimited domains, cheap pricing... but most importantly, they (for a little while) created a successful veneer of People Who Care.

Of course, if they were really that concerned with their users, they would have phone support. Or they would answer questions posted to their support site in a timely manner.

Or they would be able to keep email running for a whole month without major problems or outages.

Shit.

Here's an excerpt of their tech responses: "We understand your dissatisfaction with email recently, and we're really embarassed about it. We're trying so hard to get these machines to work properly, but it seems every time we nail down one problem, another crops up."

So I did some research, consulted some friends/experts, and HostGator came up.

As of today, all 20 of my domains are on HostGator. I'll let you know how it goes. I can say though, that their equipment speed, tech support, and management tools blow the doors off of DreamHost.

I'll keep you posted.

Love to all. Even you, Dreamhost.

Smart little sentence.

I overheard someone say: "It takes a tremendous amount of energy to isolate from the world."

Ain't that the truth.

Love to all. Even you, the ex-husband who thought it would be a good idea to attempt a reunion during the holidays.

My ex-Girlfriend.

So, I called my ex-girlfriend today.

Before anyone thinks "Rich, you fucker!" I think it's important to say: my wife knows. And approves.

You see, this spirtitual journey I'm on involves righting wrongs. Or, at the very least, making amends for harms I've done. There are other ex-girlfriends I'll never talk to again. In fact, I've been told that in most cases, the best way to make amends to an ex is to never, ever, speak to her again.

This case is different.

I dated her for three years. And I loved her tons.

She was a decade my senior, and she was damaged goods. Abused as a child, she had successfully recovered from a variety of addictive disorders. She had intense problems with certain personal and physical interactions. She was smart, beautiful, fierce, troubled, delicate, and pained.

As the child of a mentally ill parent, I was utterly boundaryless. I broke the walls of relationship confidence over and over and over again. When we fought, which was quite often, I would tell everyone. Everything. I would make sure my friends were on my side. I would make sure EVERYONE was on my side. I didn't have the self-confidence or self-understanding to exist inside this couplehood on my own, I had to have the perceived approval of everyone I knew. This was how I was raised: all or nothing. No in between. No gray areas.

She disliked my father. My father hated her. He wouldn't even say the name of a nearby city that had her name in it.

We broke up many, many times. Always, I would sleep with someone else almost immediately. Once it was within two hours.

It was only towards the end that I started to get a glimmer of what a real relationship should be like. It was way too late, and it probably would have never worked under any circumstances... our problems were much too negatively synergistic... but it was the three-year relationship with this woman that led me, eventually, to Maggie.

(And no, Maggie was not the woman I dated immediately after.)

So I want to tell my ex-girlfriend how much I understand the role I played in things. I want to tell her how I regret my behavior. I want to hear if I forgot anything else. If it's right to do so, I want to tell her how much she helped me for years and years af

I want to make amends for the harms I've done, if I can. Not only do I want to do it (although I'm very nervous), but it's required of me.

I left a message on her home machine. We'll see what happens.

Love to all. Even you, the woman who showed me what was wrong, and what was right.

A new kind of "watch your language."

So, I'm playing Halo with my older son. He beats me. I say "Wow. You whipped my tushie!"

Two days later, Maggie tells me that he was really upset by my saying this. He talked to Maggie about it, saying: "If he says that to me when I win, is he thinking that when he wins?" He was actually crying about it.

I feel both bad and flabbergasted: I knew he had been frustrated at losing (in both ping pong and Halo) so I've backed off in both and made sure he beats me at least half the time. This takes more work in ping pong than in Halo, where he's quickly catching up to my slowly-atrophying video game skills.

I had no intention of hurting his feelings. It just never, ever occurred to me that he would reverse and mirror my sentence into thoughts about his performance when I win. It's just way beyond my preprocessing scope. Also, I was kidding. It was supposed to be joking praise.

Anyway... I'm not sure what I'm going to do with this, but it's just another reminder that kids are continuously affected by the words or their parents.

Love to all. Even you, Mr. Sneezy.

A birthday haiku for my honey.

Maggie, my sunshine
You tough, gorgeous cutie-pie
Happy, happy day.



Love to all. Even you, the folks who haven't found their own Maggie yet.

What a weird day.

Time since last barf:

Daughter: 15 minutes.
Elder son: 1.5 hours
Wife: 12 hours
Youngest son: 20 hours.

I'm the last man standing... but I've been down for the last 48 with that crazy respiratory thing that makes it so I have to sleep sitting up, on pillows.

The cool thing is: I'm so tired I feel stoned, which is pretty much the only way I get to feel that way.

Love to all. Even you,the lady who tried to speed past the car accident this morning.

Sick math: updated.

50 guests + 1 daughter who threw up 6 times last night + 1 son with diarrhea + 1 wife who isn't feeling well = Rich making lots of phone calls to cancel tonight's holiday party.

Unless everyone makes a miraculous morning recovery, that is.

Love to all. Even you, the folks who didn't RSVP so we don't know who to call.

UPDATE: I've called everyone I know who was coming, or who was on the maybe list. I wonder who'll show up tonight? Yikes.

Massively in love.

There are these moments with my daughter when she becomes this amazing bright light, turns my heart to diamond, and shoots me full of this fantastic energy. It prisms, gloriously, over my entire spirit. It bathes me in rainbows. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before… and I’m a guy who loves Love.

My daughter had her first piano recital last night. She’s six.

She wore a dress that we bought at the American Girl store. Her doll has the same outfit. It’s a velvet, Princess Blue number, and it has two big white pom-poms and a fluffy white collar. At one point (while she waited on stage with the rest of the performers) she caught my eye, smiled, and winked at me.

Boom, boom, boom goes my heart.

When her time came, she sat at the piano, posture perfect and poised. She played in a measured, thoughtful way, and she held her final chord for a full four-count. This was a sublime moment. My six-year-old girl, holding down the last bit of her song for a 1…2…3…4. Rest.

Boom, boom, boom.

Found writing: 1992.

"With sunshine in his coffee and petals in his hair, Richie steps into the shower! His heart is racketing around his chest like an overdriven superball, and his toenails quiver like startled mice....

Oh, oh, the day. Look at the day."

- Me, 1992, scribbled into my college house's "bathroom book"
- Found today, 12/14/2005, during Winter Cleaning.
- Clearly, I was a goofball then, too.

Love to all.

Iran: "Peaceful" nuclear weapons.

So, the Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has now reiterated (in public) that he believes the Holocaust was a myth.

The truth here is this: how could someone like this be trusted with nuclear technology? Clearly, he isn't rational. Clearly, if he believes the holocaust didn't happen, he could easily believe that developing nuclear weapons is a "peaceful" action, because, in destroying Israel, it would bring great peace to the region.

Does this sound any crazier than saying that the Holocaust never happened?

I am starting to believe that we should go from Iraq to Iran. I'm starting to believe we should have gone from Afghanistan to Iran, and skipped Iraq. But then again, what would that do, really? Ugh. I just don't know...

Love to all.

$1,000,4000.00

My little company just broke a million dollars in sales for the year. Mind you, that's not profit, not by a longshot. Still, it was my goal, and we hit it. It's amazing how my personality is such that, when things go well, I get kind of freaked out.

Still: Yay, us.

I fully realize that I didn't get sober... didn't accept the grace that turned my life in a new direction... to be a successful entrepreneur. But I do think that making an attempt to be a somewhat better dude has helped me work harder and, sometimes, be nicer. And I guess when you add a little luck, you sometimes get some results.

Whoa.

Love to all. Even you, the deadbeat who took 140 days to pay us.

Why parenting is the hardest job ever.

Two words: immediate effect. Two other words: immediate requirements.

Wait... that's actually three words, in two parts, and... and... oh fuck it.

The difference between parenting and everything else is this: every action you take has immediate and irrevocable impact, both great and small. Every thing you say to a child, and how you say it, redirects their life in development in tiny or huge ways, depending...

Combine this with the fact that you cannot delay children's requirements. They will not and cannot wait for a response (as they get older, sure... but my kids are teeny), and so you have to immediately mitigate irritability/tiredness/angry responses as best you can, without having any of the tactics/comforts of distance, delay, or delegation (hey, three Ds!) that are options in nearly all adult interaction.

So it's a tough fucking job. I'm glad I'm realizing this now, vs. later.

Love to all. Even you, whoever discovered the reason why asparagus make your pee smell.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

So, I'm at Whole Foods on Union Square. There are three lines for 20 registers. The lines are long. There's a "line director" who directs which person from which line goes where. They are supposed to go:

Line 1, then Line 2, Then Line 3.

They went:

Line 1, then 2, then 3, then 2, then 1, 2, 3, 2... etc.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Love to all. Even you, Mr. Line Director (who clearly didn't want my math help).

Five things in the last 48 hours.

1) Sledding at the park with my in-laws. My four-year-old was the daredevil, awe-inspiring marvel of the hill.

2) Cleaning up dog poop.

3) Playing the djimbe in church, although the song got cut short because choir went all batshit on the melody, causing the director to shut it down.

4) Cleaning up a huge amount of broken glass from a sink full of dirty dishes.

5) Blogging while in the bathroom, on the potty.

Love to all. Even you, Mr. I'm-being-polite-not-surly Train Rider.

The Holy Spirit vs. Stage Fright.

So, I was about to play drums in Church, and my old-time rock-and-roll panic started to set in. It didn't matter where I was playing, previously: Biker Bar, Pizza Hut, Dive Bar, CBGBs, whatever, I would get totally stiff and panicky... and often couldn't play loosely until the last song, if ever.

This time, though, I took a few minutes and prayed. And I thought to myself, "Dude, how lucky are you to have gotten through what you've gotten through and made to the point where you're being asked to play drums in Church?"

The answer, of course, is very.

Love to all: even you, the wacky kid with the bells.

Reader Question: Am I pro-Palestine?

Hey, someone posted a question to me. How cool is that?

The question was: Am I pro-Palestine?

The answer is: absolutely. I think the Palestinians need and deserve a stable, independent country.

I find it interesting that people focus on Palestine as being "areas of Israel that Israel needs to give up." What about the rest of (and the majority of) Palestine? Palestine was WAY bigger than current-day Israel. Why does everyone demand Israel give up land, but nobody asks Jordan to give up land? How about both?

I think the answer is obvious. Being pro-Palestine and Anti-Israel have become confused. They are not supposed to be paired items, yet for many, they are. Considering that the wholesale slaughter of Palestinians has been largely inflicted by Arabs... the worst by Jordanians... Perhaps Jordan's best method of atonement would be to give up a small amount of land for Palestine.

At this point, it's become clear that Israel is trying to effect serious and peaceful change. Hell, when Ariel Sharon creates a centrist party to facilitate peace... well, that's just amazing.

But is it possible? Has Anti-Israeli sentiment become SO entrenched in the Pro-Palestinian cause that they are now inseperable

If so, all is lost.

Love to all.

Iran's President is evil, but not insane.

Oh my god.

Fresh from the mouth of the evil-ass guy who wants to wipe Israel off the planet, comes the idea that:

1) the Holocaust never happened, and that
2) Israel should be moved to Europe.

The answers of course are:

1) Only the uneducated believe this, and the anti-semitic (too weak of a word, here) espouse this.

2) Yeah, pal: like you lobbied Jordan to give up land for Palestine.

Can you imagine... can you even imagine... what will happen if this country gets nukes? Makes one shudder to think.

Love to all. Even you, the hugely hateful.

The arts are killing me.

Saw the nutcracker at Lincoln Center tonight. It was totally sweet. We didn't take my youngest because we thought it might be too long for him. Apparently, before Maggie left (I was already at work in Manhattan), he said "You're going somewhere without me?"

Heartbreak, heartbreak.

I've got to slow down. I stared getting sick monday night, took Tuesday off from work... but went to Carnegie Hall to hear my unbelievably talented sister-in-law perform... felt a bit better this morning, so like an idiot I went to the gym, did the cardio thing as well some weights... and now, getting back from the city, I'm all sick again.

I've got to let myself operate at 75%... it doesn't have to be 0% or 104% ALL of the time.

Does it?

Love to all. Especially you, the puppy in the doggie hospital.

p.s. I promise to be more coherent after this post.

Morning in paradise. (aimless rambling)

So I'm home sick today. I'm trying to make sure I don't have a repeat of last year, where I got pneumonia once and asthmatic bronchitis three times. No more of that shit for me, please.

Mornings here are utter chaos. It takes forever to get everyone ready for school. My daughter usually becomes upset about something, starts crying, and then will refuse to talk about anything other than how mean I (or whichever adult is in the room) am. My oldest thought it would be a good idea to dump a shovelfull of snow on my youngest... getting him totally soaked just before they left for school... on the day he has an outdoor class trip.

Whee!

Normally, of course, I miss all this: I'm on the 6am train to NYC.

Oh, Did I mention that the Corgi was up all night with, uh, stomach problems?

So now everyone's left, except me and Mimi, the Flat-Coat puppy. I'm sitting in front of our newly decorated Christmas tree, listening to Jina La Bwana, which I'm supposed to play in Church but probably won't due to stage fright. I feel terribly guilty about that, because I said I'd do it... but just the thought of getting up in front of people makes me my chest hammer like crazy.

So, with all this, I feel kind of peaceful and happy. I've got a nice life here, and it's good to take a moment to remember that.

Love to all. Even you, the puppy who *just* passed gas. Ew.

Zube Girl kicks it freestyle.

Zube Girl just wrote an amazing post on what it really means to be pro-choice. I could barely even comment on it. There was no reason to. It was that good.

Love to all.

Four things God made for my daughter.

Written by her.

1. Herself.
2. The sun.
3. Food.
4. Fire alarms.

Love to all.

Do NOT read this post.

Q: What's the only thing more icky than your dog eating her own poop?

A: When she throws it up onto the carpet.



L2A

I am a collections machine.

I run a small company, with 2005 billings of approximately 1 million a year. In fact, this year, that's going to be almost an EXACT figure. Last year, we billed about 600k, so we've grown. And that totally rocks.

The fun thing about owning a small business is the same as the least fun thing about owning a small business: you get to do everything.

Big client decisions? Me.
Shopping for paper clips? Me.
Writing the direct marketing materials? Me.
Checking the phone bill? Me

Hardcore collections? You guessed it. Me.

So I went to a client today, and basically said: "I have to sit here until you give me a check." While I had called and emailed them that I was coming, they never responded. Nonetheless, I managed to walk out of there with a check for $12,000... which is a half of what they owe us, and the full amount that was overdue.

Sheesh.

The client loves our work... they say we do a fabulous job. So why do they make me act like a freakin' thug? Maybe it's because they know I'll keep coming back for more, capitalist dog that I am.

Years ago, when I had really long hair, I could do collections under the guise of being a completely different person. THAT was kind of fun. Alas, I'm a moderately close-cropped papa, now.

Love to all. Even you, the confused office person with the copper hair.

It just gets worse every moment.

I just re-read the cracked-out hatemongers post again. It just gets worse and worse ever time I read it. I don't think I've read many posts that were more disturbing.

This UnChristian Chritian is:

1) Anti-American. He claims that immigrants are causing our children to "throw away centuries of faith" Hey, Jackass: When did YOUR family come to America? With the exception of native americans, it's a country of IMMIGRANTS.
2) Blatantly racist. Reread the part about how he loves Asians... especially where he could "see the unease in the Asian’s eyes." And check out his references to the Third World as "Ghettos of the World."
3) In utter contradiction of the Word. This man clearly doesn't know his religion's texts or history. Although my guess is that his favorite gospel is John.
I won't even get into his misogynistic rant about why women shouldn't be President. It was a different post, and I decided to stop finding out more about this shameful AmeriNazi's fucked-up opinions. Yeah: AmeriNazi.

So why does this bother me? Because he is doing all this in the name of Jesus Christ. This man is one of the most Anti-Christian people I've ever had the misfortune to come across.

Okay, enough from me on this. I've spent too much time on this sicko.

Love to all. Once again, even to the cracked-out hatemonger. Note: I am not actually saying he's on crack... in this case though, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. Crack would at least explain his delusions. A little.

The UnChristian Christian.

This post is tremendous example of a "Christian" writing in direct contradiction to my understanding Spirit of Christ. It just blows me away.

How can someone read the Gospels, and then act like that?

Some of his writing is manipulative, contradictory and hypocritical: he says Christianity is "superior in both intellectual and spiritual manners" and THEN says, in the next sentence, "I will not call other religions inferior." Clearly, he thinks his readers are idiots.

Worse, though, is his utter bastardization of the Christian message, as well as Christian history. The dude needs to read up on Christian history, with some special emphasis on the evolution of the Christian canon.

Love to all. Even THAT guy.

Weird.

The dude diagonally across from me on the train just whipped out a ruler and... although I guess he was scratching his back (sans any perceptible vertical motion, though)... it looked like he was measuring.

A few minutes later, he became intensely interested in something else on the train, got up, and walked away.

If being gay was a choice...

If being gay was a choice, don't you think that society would have developed in such a way as to allow men of a certain age... say, the 18-32, hormonally overloaded range... to randomly get it on with other dudes whenever they wanted, thus ridding the world of 95% of it's crazy-ass excess sexual energy?

I mean, considering how orgasm-focused men are, if being attracted to men was a choice, 95% of the dudes would be, at the very least, using other men for stress relief while trying to find an appropriate ladyfriend.

Shit, I would have.

But I just don't find dudes attractive, for the most part. I mean, if you're attracted to guys the way I'm attracted to women, god bless you. But for the life of me, I can't think that way.

Love to all. Even you, the guy with the guy with the girl with the guy with the girl with the girl.

Where am *I* supposed to sleep?

I mean, there are five animals in there already. Sheesh.

Hey. Thanks.

Hey, world.

Thank you for the ever more complex and engaging Maggie, my sexy-ass "partner" (as she made me call her in the 90's) and freshly re-vowed wife of 10 years.

Thanks for allowing my life to take a serious u-turn.

Thanks for allowing my life to do this before I did any serious damage to my family.

Thanks for having my Borderline father (along with my mom) move 3000 miles away, even though it hurt me terribly. I love that fucker.

Thanks for my soccer teams.

Thanks for my daughter, who has taught me all new levels of Love.

Thanks for my older son, who is a true gentleman and complete maniac.

Thanks for my younger son, who is a wonderful challenge and utterly hilarious.

Thanks for making me an impulsive entrepreneur.

Thanks for Mac OS X, Flat Coated Retrievers, the Holy Spirit, Metro North, Tivo, iPods, hot water heaters, sex, rock and roll, and Alcoholics Anonymous. No necessarily in that order.

Thanks for this blog.

Love to all. And I mean it.

Incoming!

Patience, Richard. Patience.

My in-laws are inbound. For me, that's a little like knowing that someone's going to wing a hand grenade into the room... eventually. It puts me on my guard.

They're not bad people... and I love them dearly. But rarely does a visit go by where my father-in-law doesn't casually insult our house, town, parenting, dogs, food, schools, and/or any other important-to-us thing. My wife's parent's are divorced... and we're having her mother, father, and stepmother over. That mix can either be neutral or tense. Also, one of Maggie's brothers is coming over, along with our next-door neighbors.

Her brother. Oh my god.

I think he's got Asperger Syndrome. I really do. It's the only thing that explains his affect, lack of physical awareness, or the crazy-ass gaps in logic that occur when you talk to him.

I'm not being very Jesus-like, I know. I've got to be more pre-emptively loving, rather than worrying about the fact that my brother-in-law, who is 42, single, and lives with his aunt... couldn't be bothered to volunteer to cook anything, and will have to be strongly prompted to help clean up his own dishes, let alone anyone else's. I'm working on it.

And frankly, I should thank God for the family I have. My crazy fuck of a father, God bless him, is in California with my mom, and I haven't seen or spoken to either of them in about 2.5 years. But I think I'll cover thankfulness in my next post.

Love to all. Even you, whoever stunk up the 6 train this afternoon.

NYC Marathon - 2006.

By running my 9th race of the year, I qualified for the 2006 New York City Marathon. No lottery for me! Whoo hoo!

(Oh, shit. That means I have to run another marathon next year. Yikes!)

The state of the dogs.

The Corgi is Georgette. Psychologically, she's kind of a bridge between Carter and Mimi. She's a good girl, and Mimi has made her quite a bit more puppy-like. Before Mimi, she was kind of Old Lady of a dog... I think this partially because Carter was getting really slow, and partially because she's an Old Lady by nature. The great thing about her is the way she growls when she plays. I swear, she sounds like she's just going to kill you. Like she's out her her mind with fury.

Mimi, the new girl, is really coming into her own. She's insane... and you should know that up front. She jumps off the bed four paws at a time, and she likes to collect things. She's the happiest dog I have ever met.

These pictures were taken today... so they're damn accurate.

Love to all. Even you, that freak in the Sonata who almost hit me on the Saw Mill Parkway.

Maybe YOU should call a plumber.

I'm sure he didn't mean it that way, but the way the guy at the hardware store suggested I get professional help implied, to me, that he had assessed me as a totally inexperienced wannabe with little home repair experience.

And dammit, he was dead on.

Give me a broken PC or a faulty Mac, and I'm gold. But when it comes to plumbing, I'm utterly clueless. But hell: this is my house, and I'm gonna ruin it if I want. So in spite of his suggestion, I went ahead and bought some new drain pipe, a pipe wrench, plumber's putty, and a drain... and I set about replacing the pipe assembly that had worn through and snapped off underneath the kitchen sink (causing a minor waterfall at 6am this morning).

I even read the directions on how to do it. In computer-speak, that's called RTFM.

So here we are, an hour later, and I think everything's cool. I even pulled a huge clump of unidentifiable crap from the trap... along with two full-size plastic cutlery pieces: how did they GET there?

Anyway: the kids are requesting sandwiches. Must go and make.

Maggie and I have a date night tonight: think I'll get lucky?

Love to all. Even you, Mr. Vila.

What's next, a new Jesus Lizard single?

I associate certain music with specific parts of my life. So do you.

Sometimes, it's a good thing that certain bands die. I mean, Mr. Mister was, um, okay... and they certainly defined an era, but I'm glad they're not putting out albums anymore. Some bands, like the Talking Heads, broke up after a long and amazing run. Just after the turn of the millenium, three of my favorite bands split up: Soundgarden, Rage Against the Machine, and The Jesus Lizard. I was sad... but they, like me, had gotten older, and moved in new directions.

So my point here is that Kate Bush just released her first album in like, 12 years. And it's messing with my musical head. I mean: for me, she was done. She had given me weird, interesting albums like "The Dreaming," an absolute classic in "Hounds of Love," and CDs scattered with occasional gems with "The Kick Inside" and "The Sensual World."

By way of preliminary review: Ms. Bush ruined a bunch of songs by interspersing maniacal laughter (once) and layering overbearing bird noises (a whole CD of the 2 CD set). In general, though, I'm finding it surprisingly disconcerting to process new music from her...

Just a minor ramble from a stressed-out papa.

Love to all. Even you, Mr. David Yow.

No right at all.

Everybody's got moods... don't get me wrong.

But once I had kids, my right to be a miserable, unhappy person went out the window. I no longer have the right to be a depressive. Or someone driven by anger. Or a pessimist.

Crappy parents can often lead to crappy kids. Or, equally likely, kids with crap-esque qualities or challenges. It's my core fucking job to do everything I can to be a genuinely happy guy, in order to pass that on to my kids.

Love to all. Even you, you angry fuck.

Almost.

Breakfast: 1lb raw fruit, rice cakes.
Lunch: Rice cakes, 3/4lb raw vegetables.
Dinner: Rice cakes, and a Coke!

Oh, well. Nobody's perfect.

Love to all. Even you, Ms. Suzy Q.

Di niente.

It's 4:30am, and I feel that's it critically important that you are aware of this: my puppy Mimi has the stinkiest poops of all time. My goodness.

Love to all.

Frequency-hopping.

Supposedly, one of my talents is that I'm able to lock onto to a person's vibe and kind of parse where they’re at any given moment. It's empathy, I guess. It's helpful to many of the roles I play: employer, soccer coach, dad and husband.

Some folks are frequency-hoppers. They’re impossible to get a lock on because their energy shifts all the time. These kind of people bug me... not in a "they annoy me" way, but in a "I just don't *get* them" kind of way.

Love to all. Even you, the 7:30am yoga lady I ran into who frequency hops like a madwoman.

Suppression vs. Anvil-style Affirmation.

The thing about growing up with an Us vs. Them, borderline father is that there's no gray area.

This morning, I was listening to two people talk about how, in their family, their feelings were dismissed as inappropriate or stupid. In response to some hurt, the parent would say "You shouldn't feel that way." Or, "Suck in that lower lip, that's just stupid." And the child's response was to learn that their feelings were incorrect.

My family was the opposite. My father, being unable to process the idea of a gray area, would respond to mild or moderate situations with by dropping an anvil on it. Let's say "Linda" hurt my feelings. The response was: "Well, Linda is an evil bitch."

Now, Linda (who is fictitious) is not an evil bitch. She just hurt my feelings.

Life is the gray areas, man.

Love to all. Even you, "Linda."

Tipping point (or, smell the love)

We got Mimi soon after Carter died. Too soon, really. I still miss him intensely, and I still tear up every time I look at his pictures. He was a smart, funny, tolerant dog... and a truly handsome gent, at that. He loved me in spite of all my faults, and he was a faithful guardian of my children. And, of course, he kept Maggie company for twelve years.

Mimi is a really sweet puppy. She's a purebred flat-coated retriever... and flat-coats are my kind of dog: silly, joyous and smart. I liked her from the start, but I didn't fall in love until a couple of days ago, when I realized I had memorized the smell of the top of her head.

Now, call me strange (as if you need another reason), but I've been known to walk up to Maggie... or any of the kids, and just take a big whiff of their hair. Animalistic, sure, but it makes me just surge with affection.

All of a sudden, Mimi's gone Core. She's part of my life, now, and I'm happy about that. Carter would have loved her.

Love to all. Even you, the lady on Lexington with the two teensy pseudo-dogs.

Yay, Vatican!

I've been saying all along that the Bible and Evolution aren't mutually exclusive. And today, the Vatican came out and agreed.

Love to all. Even you, the priest who didn't show up for confession today.

The girls get the drift.

Last week, my U7 Girls soccer team got creamed. The reason was simple: the other team spread out, and one person stayed back on defense. My girls, on the other hand, rushed around like a school of fish... getting in each other's way and impeding each other's progress.

So, today, we ran one drill several different ways... for the whole practice. Spreading out, avoiding the defender, and passing to the open girl. ("Girl," by the way, is their choice. I asked if they wanted to be addressed as "women, ladies, or girls." They unanimously chose "girls.") The thing about running drills with 1st graders is that you can't always tell if they are listening. It's slow going, and the kids tend to space out.

But when game time came... holy shit! They spread out, kept the ball moving... the defender cleared the ball to the sidelines... and we had scoring opportunity after scoring opportunity. If the goal was six-inches wider, the score would have been 8-0. As it was, it was 2-0. I felt bad for the other team... they nearly scored twice, but didn't.

The lesson I learned is that lessons are learned. I'm really, really proud of my team. They showed a LOT of heart... and even though I thought they were barely listening, it turns out I had their attention.

(My daughter, by the way, had an assist.)

Oh, daughter.

If you haven't noticed, I've been a little depressed recently. I realized that I fucking HATE going to people's houses to fix their computers (something I've been doing while trying to staff up the consulting business). I also feel like I've been ignoring my core company (the one that's much more established and actually profitable) in order to launch the smaller company. It's mismanaged effort and it's bringing me down.

So, when I get in these moods, I start feeling depressed about everything. I suck because I don't write music or stories the way I used to. I suck because my soccer team loses. I suck because my core company bills 1/2 of what my last company billed.

Blah, blah, blah.

Anyway... so I come home last night at 8pm, and my daughter's in bed. For some reason, she starts asking me all about work. "Are you in charge? How do you get to be in charge? What do you do all day?"

So I talked to her about it for a while... and in the midst of it my daughter said to me "Daddy, I would love you if you didn't have any job." And I started CRYING. Just for a second, before my Man-Defenses kicked in and I stopped. I was SO touched by her.

So, message to Rich: Get over yourself. Life kicks ass.

Defeated.

So, about a year ago I was offered a job. It was with a competitor. Long established. And I really considered taking it. The main plus was that it was run by a high-energy salesperson who really loved her industry. I felt her strengths dovetailed perfectly with mine. I could both learn *and* contribute a ton.

I finally said no, due to a mix of about 80% numbers and 20% fear. I figured if I could do *okay* with my company, I could do better than doing very well with hers.

So, I ran into her today. It turns out that she's now approximately 12 times the size of my little firm... she has been getting all kinds of business from my many folks I try to work for (she named all these people, and I was like: FUCK), and has even been asked to audition for the same TV show I did. And she's the one person in my industry I'd pick over me for a show like that. Sure, I've been working full-time at my company for a year and half, and she's been open for twenty years... but ARGH. It makes me CRAZY.

So, yeah: I'm fucking depressed and whining about it. Sorry.

Love to all: even you, Ms. Almost my Boss.

A friend of mine said to me...

"Balance is dynamic."

What she meant was this: instead of looking for that perfect place where all is right and well, without further effort... realize that the perfect place is one of continual corrections. Balance is fluid and ongoing. There is no magic spot.

Coolness.

Big party, no hangovers.

It was a black-tie affair, mostly. Every now and again, someone walked by in drag, in leather, or in jeans. I'd peg the formalwear-to-not ratio at about 97:1. All told, we were two-thousand people at 200 tables in the Grand Ballroom of the New York Hilton at 54th and 6th. The mood was raucous. Peals of laughter rippled across the floor with great and wonderful frequency. Every speaker was met with loud and boisterous approval.

But no hangover for me, this morning. Or for any the two-thousand people at last night's shindig. Why? It was the Bill W. 71st Anniversary Dinner, and every single attendee at the $100-per-person affair was sober. Even the guests.

To sit in the ballroom, look across at the thousands of attendees, and think: "all of these people lost the same battle I did, all of these people reached their own point of desperation, and all of this people are having one hell of a time..." Well, it was pretty fantastic.

Very few problem drinkers make it to AA. Fewer stay. Last night was, as one speaker put it, possibly the biggest room of blessed people in New York City... at least at that moment.

How lucky are we?

Faith Converter 2.0

I just discovered Faith Converter 2.0.

"Found an admirable tome but it's in praise of the wrong god? Faith Converter is a godsend for priests, vicars, rabbii and holy men of all descriptions. Preach next Sunday's sermon from the Vedas, Noble Eightfold Path, Torah or Das Kapital!

The premier theological plagiarism solution for OS X, Faith Converter converts text between twenty-seven different religions, encompassing Atheism, Biopsychosocialism, Buddhism, Christianity, Communism, Confucianism, Druidism, Falun Gong, Hinduism, Islam, Juche, Judaism, Keynesianism, Linux, MacEvangelism, Mahanism, Maoism, NIMBYism, Roman, Scientology, Shinto, Sikh, Stalinism, Taoism, Thatcherism, Trotskyism and Veganism."

Try it out. It's awesome.

Sometimes....

Sometimes you just have to say "fuck the damage." Seriously. I was in this AA meeting a couple months ago, and this lady I really like (friend-style) was all depressed, and saying that she didn't feel like she had the right to be happy.

So I went up to her afterwards and said "Dude, God has personally authorized me to tell you that you have the right to be happy." And I MEANT it.

Everyone has a right to be happy. Although people's definition of happiness can be wacky. For me, happiness is the absence of fear. Period.

Everything else is gravy. Fortunately, I have lots of gravy.

The saddest syslog.

My system logs seemed very sad this morning. My translations are in brackets.

Oct 26 06:17:18 SymMissedTask - parent[185]: waketime is: Wed Oct 26 06:17:18 2005
[forgot to wake up the kid]
Oct 26 06:17:54 mDNSResponder: Advertising AntiPickle. IP 70.200.79.180
[whose kid is this, anyway?]
Oct 26 06:17:57 mDNSResponder: ERROR: Only name server claiming responsibility for "AntiPickle." is "."!
[nobody wants this kid]

So sad. And yes, my computer is currently named “AntiPickle,” because, at the point where I got it I was tired of dealing with petty problems… aka “Pickles.” I have a new machine coming in today, so I have to think of a new name.

Yeah, I’m a geek.

Love to all. Even you, the lady who blamed my friend for her own mistakes.

Wife on steroids.

Maggie is much better. Phew.

If you go to the hospital, bring an advocate. Bring someone who will politely(!) talk to the doctors and nurses about what they are doing and why. Don’t be a prick. I repeat: don’t be a prick. Regardless of how competent or incompetent the people are, you’re going to need them on your side.

This is the advice that was given to me, and boy... it's dead on.

Case in point. Maggie was in the hospital. She was sent home with steroids and benadryl. They didn’t work. She was in the hospital again the next day, really fucked up this time, and they put her on an IV drip of more powerful steroids. And benadryl. But they said they’d switch her to Atarax.

So, they go to send us home, since the IV steroids were working very well, and they gave us a prescription for the SAME USELESS MEDS that didn’t work the first time. We said, “Do you think that’s a good idea?” The doctor said “Well, we can send her home with a prescription for what we’d give her if we admitted her to the hospital.

“Good idea,” we said.

While her physical symptoms are a lot better, I gotta say: These steroids made Maggie a little wacky. The doctor actually said “I have to warn you [pointing at Maggie]… or rather, I should really warn YOU [pointing at me] that these drugs can make you loopy.”

Look. This is my blog, so I’m gonna just say it. Maggie was wacked. She was up all night doing stuff, marching around the house. She was really hard to talk to, quick to anger, and generally nutty. Honestly, seeing her like THAT was harder than seeing her covered in hives.

The last time I talked to her, she seemed a bit better. We have a babysitter tonight, so I’m going to go play Paddle Tennis. Even though I’m exhausted, I could use the exercise.

Love to all. Even you, the nurse who doesn’t like people from “our town.”

Shit, shit, SHIT.

Maggie is back in the hospital. She woke up this morning with her lips, mouth, and eyes totally swollen. Her body is covered in hives. I've never seen anything like it. She started to feel faint again, so I packed the kids into the van and took her to the ER.

Listening to this fucking doctor, I almost lost my shit.

"She's not going to die from this," he said.

I said, "You just told me that if her throat starts to constrict, she could be in real trouble, right?"

"Right."

"Then, are you saying that she's past the point where her throat might constrict?"

"Not necessarily," he said.

"So, what you're telling me is that she's not going to die right this very second?" I was incredulous.

"Right."

I went home to drop off the kids. I called Maggie. After I left, her throat started to constrict, and now they are taking things a lot more seriously. My in-laws are inbound, and I'm heading back to the hospital as soon as they get here. When I last talked to Maggie, she told me she was going to take a nap, and that I should come by in a couple of hours.

Love to all.

The best laid plans...

My business partner (and one of my better friends) is getting married right now. Literally. Right now. I was supposed to be there, but clearly I'm not.

Maggie woke up this morning with a severe allergic reaction to antibiotics, which wound up with her in the emergency room via ambulance. Truth be told, it started Thursday night, and wasn't much improving over the last day or two. She tried to call her doctor, but was only allowed to talk to her nurse. The nurse was rude and dismissive. She called the kids doctor, since he's an allergist, but he refused to get on the phone.

Way to go, Mount Kisco Medical Group. Nice fucking job.

So this morning, when her eyes and mouth were swollen, we decided to go to the ER. But as she started to get ready, she nearly fainted. She asked me to call 911. The EMT guys, and the police, were totally stellar.

She's developed an allergy to pennicilin. She's never had one before. Nice that the folks at Mount Kisco Medical Group wouldn't take her seriously enough to actually discuss this with her.

Covered in hives as she is, she's in no condition to go to a wedding. And I'm not going to go more than 15 minutes from her. I'm taking the kids to a movie and dinner out, but I'll be in cell range AND within a short drive the whole time.

Ugh. Double ugh. One because I was really looking forward to the wedding. The other because Maggie is super-uncomfortable.

Love to all. Even you, the MKMG nurses who don't take female patients seriously.

Some Dog Shit Named “Glade.”

Are you furious over the Harriet Miers nomination? Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Green, Conservative, Liberal, whatever: You should be.

George Bush thinks you’re stupid. He always has. He thinks he can get away with shit just by NAMING things differently… Unfunded mandate that will bankrupt local school districts? Call it “No Child Left Behind.” Want to reduce pollution controls? Call it the “Clear Skies Act.”

He would name dog shit “Glade,” thinking that you wouldn’t notice the smell.

But the Miers nomination… this takes the cake. It shows a complete lack of understanding and principal. And it’s not whether she’s a nice person, or even about whether she’s pro-life or not (clearly, she’s pro-life), it’s about the fact that she’s completely unqualified to be a Supreme Court justice. Period.

1) She asked for a delay in her hearing so she could “learn constitutional law.” OH MY GOD. You don’t cram for a Supreme Court nomination hearing! Clearly, folks other than judges can and should be nominated to the Supreme Court, but Constitutional expertise is a requirement. That’s the fucking JOB!!!

2) Her answers to the Senate’s written questions were returned by Republican and Democratic Senators alike as being “incomplete” and “insulting.” She was asked to do them over. Hey, man, I only got to submit my college essays once. Why does she get a do-over?

It’s pathetic and scary. Bush has proven over and over that he’s driven by cronyism, but this is just BEYOND.

And it’s beyond politics and issues, too.

New Aphrodisiac!

Married? Long-term relationship? Things getting a little dull with in the bedroom? A little "by-the-book," as they say? Have you recently opened your eyes in the middle of lovemaking only to find that:

1) Your partner is playing on a PlayStation Portable?
2) So are you?

Well, folks: I have the CURE. It’s nearly-instant, and all it takes is a few minutes of your time. And best of all: it’s FREE! That’s right: FREE!

It’s all detailed in my new book: “How to turn your partner into a crazed nymphomaniac by doing the dinner dishes and keeping the bathroom clean!”

You’ll see, in a few easy steps, how YOU can turn YOUR partner into a ravenous, over-sexed love-junkie who will stop at nothing to have you.

Here are just a few of the tips you’ll find inside:

1) Secrets to effective rinsing.
2) Flushing: what is it?
3) Why dry sponges/paper towels are ineffective.
4) And more!

Buy it now! Make checks payable to Rich | Championable, or simply send letters of immense appreciation to rich at championable.com.

Sources.

So. Why the outburst yesterday over long-over crap with my parents? 9th-step stuff, I think. At this point in my whole self-assessment deal where I’m supposed to seek out those I’ve harmed and make amends for the injuries I’ve caused. Assuming, of course, that doing so wouldn’t harm the “amendee” or others. Clearly, my parents are on the list of people that I’ve harmed in the past. But the idea of making amends is hard to swallow when the at least one recipient of such action is mentally ill. And mean. And partially hates me.

Oh, well.

“It’s a sin,” Maggie quoted to me today, “to wish upon someone a life without grace.” And as soon as I heard that, I remembered my father saying “How dare you breathe?” I remembered him saying: “Every since you were a child, you’ve been trying to destroy our marriage.” I remember him saying: “Evil. Vile.”

So, it’s hard for me to thing of them in terms of the harm I’ve done. But heck, that’s the challenge here, isn’t it? Not to mention: I’m not exactly free from that sin, am I? No, sir.

Anyway, thanks for putting up with my crazy-ass self. I’ll be back in form presently.

Love to call. Especially you, with the half-broken mouse..

Dear Kids

I don’t care what kind of shit you do to yourselves, how strange you make yourself look, or what kind of weird stuff you do to your hair: I will absolutely buy the class photos from your senior year of high school.

Why didn’t my parents get copies of my high school picture? Something about me having a very silly-looking orange stripe in the very back/left of my head, where I applied a bunch of peroxide. No pictures, because I did something that deviated from their big Rich Recovery Plan, which was basically the Rich-is-the-Root-of-All-Evil,-But-Has Admitted-It-So-It’s-Cool-Now Plan.

The other day, I was riding the train across from an archetypical Westchester Dad. A clean cut, well-dressed dude. His teenage daughter was with him, and man, was she decked out. Enormicon-style pants, multiple dyes in her hair, some piercings, and, well, she didn’t look good. Even in a goth-chick kind of way, it was kind of off. Did the Dad seem to care? No. They chatted away and did their thing.

Smart poppa, that one. I salute you.

Shit. It doesn’t matter now, anyway… my parents threw away every piece of my childhood memorabilia they had in their house just before they moved to California without telling me. And I’m sure, just like he did with his mother, my father has physically cut me out of all the pictures he has hanging up in his new digs in California.

Fuck them. Fuck them. The older my kids get, the more I’m absolutely disgusted with my own parents. Assholes. Idiots. Losers. Fools. Weaklings. Sick fucks.

So anyway, my point: Kids, you have every right to get crazy. My job is to keep you alive and as happy as possible. I’m going to try and do that.

Love to all. Even you, Mom and Dad.

Chew with your fucking mouth CLOSED.

Holy SHIT. Three separate times today, I found myself sitting (trains) or standing (subway) with some jackass who was chomping wetly and open-mouthed at a wad of gum, smacking so loudly that I’m still stunned they didn’t soak down the other fucking passengers with their rude-ass saliva.

This is one of my biggest peeves, personally. It’s up there with timeliness, professionally. That is all.

Love to all. Even you, the people who chew with your mouths open.

WTF?

"The adobe updater must update itself before it can check for further updates."

It sounds like something for which I should avert my eyes.

Love to all.

Six second dispersal.

If I can wait six seconds before reacting to things that annoy me, the level of Peaceful Vibe in my house goes up by about 79%. If whip out the Dickhead Guns and shoot from the hip, well… status quo. It takes about six seconds for my self-monitoring subsystems to wake up from whatever they are doing (probably watching women-friendly pornography, if I know my internal moral gyroscope), and say:

“Whoa, brother. No big deal.”

Love to all. Even you, the dude with the enormous gold rings.

Tamiflu-resistant Avian Flu

Ever since I read the book "The Coming Plague," I've been a little bit microbially-paranoid. Mutiply-resistant TB, Ebola, Hantavirus, the Various Heps... it's kind of amazing that any of us are still alive.

But this Avian flu, man. This has me worried. Since it's not a variant of an existing virus, we've got no defense. And it's an equal-opportunity killer. This flu doesn't just kill the old, infirm, and immuno-compromised (not to say that this would be a good thing if it did)... but it kills everyone. Equally.

The death estimates range wildly: the UN initially said up to 150 million people worldwide, although they took that back. . The CDC said that the next pandemic flu could take out 700,000 people in the US. It seems that the general consensus is a wide range: 2 - 10 million people, planetwide.

So what do I do? Stockpile Tamiflu? Maybe: but the first case of Tamiflu-resistant Avian flu virus was reported yesterday. And yes, it seems that someone was given low doses as a "preventative." When are people going to learn how to take their fucking medicine? Every single time you go off anti-virals or anti-biotics early, you are simply creating a stronger disease. Think about that, the next time you by an "Anti-microbial" hand soap, please.

Scary shit. All I want is for my kids to outlive me. Seriously. This is one thing that makes me worry that it won't happen.

Anyway.

Love to all. Even you, the person with that wet, icky cough.

So. I auditioned for a TV show.

Through the crazy-ass social network that is New York City, I was approached by a cable channel to audition to be on a new reality TV series. I would be a panelist, not a contestant.

The audition was at 3pm yesterday. On camera.

You should know, first of all, that I get stage fright. If I am even ASKED to do some kind of acting (I’m talking Company Skit, here) my hands sweat preemptively and my just just HAMMERS. It’s not pretty. Back when I was a rock drummer, I would sometimes be so panicky and stiff that I didn’t have FUN until the last song of the set. And then I was like: "FUCK! Now I want to play!" And then it would be over.

So, this time, I actually prayed. I said “God, if I’m supposed to humiliate myself, let me humiliate myself. Just let me do the job I’m supposed to do.”

And I had a blast.

They surprised me a few times. Asked me to do parts of my job on camera, in a roleplaying mode. I did. At the end, they said "Rich, you were amazing. If you don't here from us in three weeks, call me." So that's a good sign. After this, they said, they'd do a callback with the full panel of finalists.

Hmm. Strange what comes knockin' at the door.

Back from the Dead: Universal's Halloween Horror Night

My god, I’ve missed you. Each and every one of you. But I’m back, now. And after a really, really stellar strip to Universal Studios Orlando with my 9-year-old… it’s time to revert to being the Engine of Economy that I’m supposed to be.

Traveling with my 9 year old was a dream. In fact, he’s a tremendous companion in nearly every aspect. He's adventurous, an excellent conversationalist, and pretty flexible. His only “difficult” quality is his insanely high energy level. Score one for MY genes! He’s constantly climbing, jumping, balancing, sprinting, or just, well… vibrating in place.

The parks rocked. While Universal is no place for the under-48-inch-tall set, they put a lot of thought into the rides. Get an Express Pass, if your budget allows for it. You get to go on each ride once, relatively quickly. Although they don’t always scan the pass, meaning that, depending on your moral code, you can ride Express again. My favorite rides: Spider Man, the Mummy,

Halloween Horror Night at Universal Studios was a mix of Totally Awesome and What Are They Thinking? Although the latter is probably due to Age (Late-Mid-Thirties) and Position (Protective Parent).

Here’s the deal: Throughout October, Universal closes the parks early, and transforms the Island of Adventure into a huge spook zone, with seven different haunted houses. Each house has a theme… whether that theme is “grinding up human remains” or “house full of dead family members,” it is sure to include lots of fake blood, and dozens of people hiding behind every corner who try to scare the living shit out of you. Again, an Express Pass is even more important item here. Regular lines were 45 minutes, while Express was walk-on.

Also, throughout the park, there are tons of actors dressed as murderers (with real chainsaws), ghouls, ghosts, or enormous demons (stilts included). And if you act scared, they will follow you.

My son thought it was fantastic. In fact, sitting on a park bench sipping a PowerAde, he looked at me very seriously… fireballs from the gas jets reflected in his eyes… and said “Dad, I love it here. I would live here if I could. This is amazing.”

And I thought “Shit, kiddo, you’re gonna LOVE college.”

I had two problems with the setup. One was the way alcohol was pushed SO excessively. Now, I realize that I’m a total teetotaler, but I’m also very Laissez-Faire (sp?) when it comes to what other people do. But micro-mini-clad ladies walking around an amusement park with trays of Jello Shot syringes was a little much.

The other problem I had was the R-rated-ness of the way women were presented. Kind of uncool for kids. Beyond skimpy warrior-demoness costumes, there were actually women pole dancing in cages suspended about eight feet from the ground. THAT, I think, went a little to far. I understand trying to appeal to the 18-29-year-old set, but in an amusement park, I think strippers cross the line.

Details, details. I got to spend four days with my older son, and we had a tremendous time together. From the parks to breakfasts to bus rides to beating the crap out of him in Epic Hotel Room Battles, getting four days with him was amazing.

Love to all. Even you, the kid who kicked my seat on the airplane.

See you on the 11th!

I cashed in my SkyMiles, got a couple of free flights, and I'm taking my oldest to Universal Studios in Orlando for a few days. Yeeeeeehah!

Love to all. Even you, the lady who hates roller coasters.

Okay: Check this out.

This guy I used to work with dates this woman from a major financial institution who knows this TV producer who is working on a pilot for a cable channel. The show is a reality show... loosely based on the American Idol format (panelists and hopefuls), but for something totally different than singers. In fact, it's in my field.

So, the guy told his girlfriend to tell the producer that I should be auditioned as a panelist, and the producer called me yesterday to ask if I would come in next Wednesday for an on-camera interview, to see how things go.

I said: sure!

Now I'm terrified.

Renewal of Vows, Part II: Micro-honeymoon.

Me and Maggie. Alone.
Drive into Manhattan.
Arrive at the Essex House. (View from the room pictured here.)
Dinner at the Park Avenue Cafe.
A long, uninterrupted sleep.
Morning.

Running together in Central Park.
Breakfast in the Cafe.
Strolling through MOMA.

...home in time to pick the kids up at the bus stop.

Love to all. Even you, the cabbie with an attitude.

Renewal of Vows, Part I: Lost in Blue

October 2nd, 2005 was a lot like October 1st, 1995: warm and sunny and beautiful.

As people arrived at the church, I felt nervous. And as people sat down, I began to feel self-conscious: was this whole thing a bit egotistical? What did people think of us for doing this? Was it too much?

The ceremony started. My boys walked up the aisle in perfect cadence. My four-year-old moved more slowly and deliberately than I’ve ever seen him. They both held pillows, upon which were our original wedding rings. My daughter followed the boys, slowly dropping handfuls of rose petals from side to side.

Father Mark started the service by addressing the fact that there are many faiths and many spiritual paths and that we should take a moment to consider how we, individually, coul move closer to God.. Clearly and rightly, he was acknowledging the fact that about 30% of the people in attendance were Jewish. He went on to talk about why we were here: that I had continued my spiritual journey, which had brought me to Jesus and the Spirit, and that two years ago, it was suggested that was take the Sacrament of Matrimony in the Church.

Then the ceremony got a little rough. My four-year-old started EATING the rose petals, and he and my daughter began bickering. One thing about my daughter: she does not quiet down. If you ask her to lower her voice, she repeats her complaint louder. My youngest alternated flower-eating with Pew Gymnastics. It was hard to concentrate on what was going on. Our friends did the readings, Father Mark read the Gospel. Maggie and I were called to the altar, leaving the kids to be managed by relatives in the row behind us. We stood in front of the altar, faced Father Mark, and were asked to confirm our intentions. We did. Then we were asked to face each other.

And suddenly, without transition, I was lost in the deep and perfect blue of Maggie’s eyes.

What had been a religious ceremony transformed into a true profession of unity, love, and mutual service. A Sacrament. I have never been so present and in the moment, and while I’ve taken vows before, I don’t think I really knew what that meant.

I do now.

Over the last 10 years (until two years ago), Maggie has watched her husband change, and usually not for the better. An alcoholic husband can create tremendous uncertainty and fear and instability. And while I kept it together from a parenting and financial standpoint, Maggie and I were solidly on the path to Not Making It. These last two years have been much more than a return to sobriety. It’s been a rebuilding. And it’s not a coincidence that I came into the church a few months before I got sober.

Over the last two years, I’ve come to understand what it means to be present, to be a husband, and, slowly, to realize that being happy is more important than proving my point all the time.

Please note: I suck at this, a lot of the time. I can be grumpy, irritable, self-seeking, and impatient. But I’m honestly trying to do better on a daily basis. And I can see the changes. The best and greatest sign of this, though, was when Maggie told me:

“You’re becoming the man I married again.”

The Sacrament of Marriage is all about helping your partner get to heaven: whatever heaven may be. And regardless of what heaven turns out to be, my job remains the same.

Love to all. Even you, Mr. No-Way-Out.

10 years. New commitment. New rings.

Love to all.

So I’m getting married Sunday.

Maggie and I were originally married in a Jewish ceremony. We were going to do a combination-type thing, but the Rabbi we were going use wouldn’t officiate at a two-religion deal. Besides, my family would’ve freaked. They pre-freaked, so the full-on freakness was assuredly to follow. However, we did add some Christian elements ot the Jewish ceremony: intercessionals, for example.

Fast forward 7 years. Maggie, having found her way back to the Catholic Church, asks me to go with her to mass (For company. Truly nothing else.). And in the midsts of my mentally-ill father’s crazy-ass Borderline Personality Disorder-driven onslaught, I get hit with the Jesus stick. In April 2003, I convert to Catholicism. Sometime over the next few months, one of the priests mentions that we might want to have our marriage blessed by the Church.

[Sidebar: Yes, that’s right. I got hit with the Jesus stick, and now I’m a full-on Holy Spirit fanatic. Admittedly, I have real issues with how ostensibly Christian folks misuse the Gospels (and the rest of the Canon) to bolster stupid and dangerous political and social agendas… but bring it on, people. I guarantee you that I’ll have you talking circular arguments within 3 rounds of discussion. I'm that good. And that confident.]

Fast forward another 2.5 years. Present day. Our 10th Anniversary is this Saturday. On Sunday, we’re having 46 people to our renewal of vows. It's sort of a "first" wedding, too... since we were never married in the Catholic Church. After all the things we've been through, and the amount of shit I've put Maggie through... the fact that she's doing this AGAIN is huge.

And I'm taking it seriously. It's a big deal to me. In some ways, it's a bigger deal than the first time.

Love to all. Even you, the serially single.

Thank you, Digital Objective!

My crazy-ass contact in Montreal wrote an impassioned post about flossing... which I can't seem to find on his blog anymore. Anyway: it inspired me. Anything written with such pure belief has to be considered seriously and immediately. And I’m fully aware that this is one area in which I sorely lack. So I went and bought a Reach Access flossing kit, and got busy. My teeth feel stronger already.

All of which gets slotted into the category of: Evidence that I Need Ever-More Maintenance Not to Fall Apart at the Seams. Oh, Lord.

Love to all. Even you, the transplanted Albanian.

My last three obsessively-played songs.

“Let it Dive” by And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead
“Destiny (Photek Remix)” by Zero 7
“Godless” by The Dandy Warhols

DUDES. I ran a mile in 5:50!!

That's WAY better than I thought I could do. Holy crap.

The race was the "Fifth Avenue Mile" in NYC. It's the first short race I've ever run, and it's the first one I've been in that has heats by age. I swear... it was the craziest race I've been in. While I was trying to figure out how to get my breath back, and whether I could keep up the pace I was running... I saw the finish line up ahead. So I bore down and took off... I ended the race full-on screaming for the last 10 paces.

Rock on.

Love to all. Even you, that lady who was giving her daughter a hard time on 86th Street.

Justifiable anger is so fucking useless.

You know, it doesn't matter if I'm right, sometimes. It just doesn't fucking matter. I think I'm finally learning the meaning behind the expression:

"Which would you rather be: right, or happy?"

I think I'd rather be happy.

Love to all. Even you, yeah, YOU.

Vague depression, mild justification.

I'm off kilter.

Today, I read about these little earthquakes in California, and I checked to see how close to my parents they were. (They were 60 miles away). I've never been to my parents California house. They moved a couple years ago without telling me. Part of me always wants to give them a ring or shoot them an email saying: "Hey, if you need help, let me know."

But I've been there, done that, and I don't have the constitution for the hate-laden filth that my father shoots my way when I'm the current Evil Focus of his Borderline Personality Disorder.

Anyway.

Maggie and I are having a little tiff. I feel justified in my reactions and position, but that's not going to make the situation any BETTER, is it.

No.

Me and my business partner. Seriously.

I'm on the right.

Mild panic.

Three kids.
Two dogs.
Two cats.
Two companies.
One spouse.

Even though I'm doing a lot of work on a lot of different things, I just can't get with the idea that I'm doing ENOUGH. And the more successful I am, the more this feeling of mild panic grows. It's really silly and frustrating and affects my whole deal. I have to learn to chill.

End of complaining.

Love to all. Even you, the woman who clearly spilled crap all over her jacket.

More power to you, but...

If you're one of those folks who likes to drink, and it doesn't fuck up your (or anyone else's) life in any way... more power to you. In the same way that I'm hugely in favor of legalization of marijuana in spite of the fact that I don't use it at all, I really believe that people should pretty much be able to do what they want, if it doesn't hurt others.

Me, though... I'm not that good at the drinking.

Two years ago today, I quit. And while it's not the kind of thing for which I'm going to throw myself a party... I'm pretty freakin' happy that I did. So: yay, me.

Love to all. Even you, the woman who thought "I'm am NOT going to drink today. And did, anyway."

Play. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I'm going to run in the Fitness Magazine 4-mile race now. It's a qualifier for the NYC 2006 marathon, so that'll leave me with only two more to go! For today's experiment, I'm going to run it listening to Zero 7's "Destiny," the Photek Remix. On repeat.

Love to all. Even you, the people who start at the 7-minute mark when they do 11-minute miles.

My life is shit.

Wait. Scratch that. My life is POOP.

Between this puppy, who clearly believes that a walk outside is a precursor to pooping inside, and my 4-year-old, who has suddenly decided that he no longer needs to poop anywhere but in his pants... well... you get the idea.

But I'm being dramatic. Maggie's home. I'm at work. So really, it's much worse for her.

Love to all. Even you, the sloppy dude who used the men's room before I did.

Hey, God.

Hey, God.

I was in St. Vincent's hospital this morning, where a friend of mine was nearly killed by a cocaine overdose. Lying in that bed, he was a man who has been beaten, repeatedly and with baffling ferocity, by his addictions. He seemed stunned.

So, God, I guess I want to say "thanks." I don't know why I've been given this reprieve from my crazy-ass upbringing and problems, and I don't know why I've been given the opportunity to do the things I'm doing, but I'll do my best to be the person you want me to be.

So, God, I guess I want to say: Thank you for my challenges and joys. Thank you for my petty annoyances and my little moments of bliss. Thanks for the pain, the hurt, and the tears I've had, and will have in the future. Thank you for giving me people in my life that I love so much that it actually hurts to look directly at them.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Why I love New York City.

This is the reason I love New York City: all I have to do to acquire some serious energy is go outside. The moment I hit the street I get slammed - absolutely slammed - with the rocket-fast vibe of a thousand different people all at once. Every race and religion and level of sanity broadcasts its signal, and all I have to do is walk down the street and simply RECEIVE.

Love to all. Even you, Bostonites.

Maggie, there's another plane.

On September 11, 2001, I was sitting in my old office on 38th Street. We had a direct view of the Twin Towers, and one of them was burning. At that point, we thought it might be an accident. I was on the phone with Maggie when a second plane came into view, heading downdown.

"Maggie, there's another plane... why would they let another plane into this airspace?"

Love to all. Even you, the people I'm never going to meet.

Theory: All men would be bisexual, if they could be.

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In light of Katrina, Iraq, etc.

Can everyone just take a moment and realize how utterly silly it is that we give a crap about who is gay and who isn't? Can everyone take a deep breath and say "Wow, marriage is a great thing for everyone who wants it." Could everyone use the current state of things as an opportunity to put silly-yet-dangerous prejudices to rest, now and forever?

Gay marriage is an issue? Please.

Love to all. Even you, the closeted man who can't figure out why he's so damn angry.

Who knows where the puppy poop is?

She does. And so do I, since she pooped directly on top of a braided belt of mine... I'm not sure if it's possible to really, truly clean it. At least on the first pass. Do I dare think I did a good enough job and wear it to work? I think not. The potential for "what the hell is that smell" incidents is simply too large.

So, meet Mimi. My oldest picked her, my daughter named her, and my youngest think's she's aces. I like her, too. A lot. I've already had a sit down with her about Carter, so she knows a little family history. I've slept on the floor with her for the past three nights, since that keeps her from crying. It's a tradition that started with newborn humans (the babies slept on my chest the first night or so), and continued with puppies (including Georgette).

It's 5:37am, and I've got to walk her again before I catch the train to NYC.

Love to all. Even you, the cat-biased person with the mismatched shoes.

Afterlife: Matthew 22:23-33

Carter’s death has got me thinking about the afterlife. For all the Christian talk about life after death (especially Christian evangelists' talk about individual existence in heaven), Jesus made it abundantly clear that while there is a kind of “life” after death, it’s not the kind of thing that we think about in order to assuage our fear of dying. I think most people think of their own consciousness, still intact, lolling around heaven – only without vice and in total happiness.

I’m a believer in the Spirit. And I believe that we all have a bit of the Spirit in us. Some less than others. And we can choose whether cultivate that part of ourselves or not. The light is within us, but we can hide it if we want.

External guilt, northward bound.

"Sometimes, opportunity knocks." Maggie just said this, and it's very true.

My friend wrote me a wonderful note about the dogs he's had over the years. He currently has a tremendous pup that volunteers with him at a local hospital, doing "pet therapy." Patients get to hang with this wonderful dog, and it makes them feel better. At the end of the letter, he said "I look forward to meeting Carter's successor, but not replacement."

Thinking about Carter over the weekend, I decided to look up his breed, the Flat-Coated Retriever (he was either a purebred or a dominant mix). I put myself on the "rescue" list, and shot some emails off to the Flat-Coat Society about local breeder resources. They got back to me fifteen minutes ago and said "Flat-Coat rescues are extremely rare, but there's a breeder about a hundred miles north of you. They have a puppy for you, if you want one."

My first thought was: "Man, that's quick." Carter was sick for 4.5 months, but he only passed on Friday. But then I realized that this thought was driven by what I felt OTHERS would think. Not by reality. I love Carter SO much, and always will. Acting on an opportunity like this is separate from Carter. I openly admit that I want a dog to love, no matter how goofy that makes me sound. (And I do love our other dog, but Georgette isn't really my type of dog. I like her, but as part of the pack, as opposed to a super-personal connection.)

Maggie said that she felt we were honoring Carter by looking at another dog in his breed. I disagree. I think they are completely separate. I'll honor Carter by trying to be more patient. That's the lesson he taught me. If I get this puppy, well... the Adventure Continues.

Love to all.

Katrina: UPS, Wal-Mart, McDonald's.

I haven't mentioned Katrina yet, because I believe everyone knows what a complete national fuck-up the whole thing has been, and what a disgrace it is to our government that the response was so poor. And if you disagree with me, nothing I say here will convince you.

However:

Utah's Salt Lake Tribune is reporting that UPS, McDonald's and Wal-Mart have stopped paying employees who were nailed by Katrina. I don't eat at McDonald's, I rarely shop at Wal-Mart, but I do use UPS. No longer.

I run a small business. And the goal of my business, like every business, is to make money. But when my employees encounter unavoidable personal situations (or even avoidable one's, depending on the situation), I pay them. Because paying them when they are down means they will work really hard when they are up. Kindness breeds results.

So dammit, people, even if you're a through-and-through asshole, being nice is SMART.

Love to all. Even you, the guy in the Permanent Bad Mood.

Carter: 1993 - 2005

As I mentioned back in April, my dog Carter was diagnosed with liver cancer. Although he was given three to five weeks to live, he stayed with us for another four and a half months. Yesterday, he took a turn for the worse. He stopped eating and couldn't walk. We put him down a little over an hour ago.

Carter died at home, in his bed. The children all got a chance to say long goodbyes, and Maggie and I were petting his head as he left this world.

Carter was Maggie's constant companion, and the Great Constant of my life.

We'll miss him terribly. In fact, we already do.

Love to all.

Rich

Montauk, Continued: Sunlight, Pulmocort, and getting lost.

Today was gorgeous. After two days of crappy weather, we got one of the best days I’ve ever seen out here. 85, perfectly sunny, not a trace of humidity. Yum.

Of course, this being Real Life, there were problems. My youngest came down with a cold, and that, as usual, triggered his asthma. This happened last night. It turned out that the nebulizer he uses was missing a few pieces (I angrily blamed Maggie for this. Very chivalrous, I know. Shit.), so we couldn’t give him his normal medicine. My oldest has the same medication, but with a big-kid delivery system, so we tried that. It was really difficult, but worked fairly well. I was going to make the 6-hour round trip to pick up the missing pieces (starting at 1am), but we realized that I’d get back around the same time that pharmacies opened.

The only place that carried the needed parts was in South Hampton, so I took off in the van this morning, as early as possible. Stupid me, I didn’t realize we never drove THROUGH South Hampton on 27 (like you do all the other Hamptons), so I hit Riverhead, a few towns west, before I realize that I had fucked up. And traffic the other way was bumper to bumper. Ugh.

Made it back. Delivered the goods. Went to the beach with the family. Bliss ensued for two and half hours. I have the pictures to prove it.

Then my youngest started running a fever. We tried to go out for dinner... but after we ordered drinks he got all queasy and threw up on Maggie. We left the restaurant and came home.

Maggie changed her shirt, took the other two kids, and went out. I put on Peter Pan, and am writing this. In two minutes, I’m going to see if he feels good enough to strap on the nebulizer for two doses of Pulmocort.

The adventure continues.

Love to all. Even you, the too-blonde waitress with the sad eyes.

Quote of the morning.

“I am SO good at lying in bed.”
- Maggie

Room for improvement.

Oh, man. Yesterday was NOT my finest day of fatherhood, husbandhood (is that a word), or general human being-ness. I was irritable, prone to saying angry things, and generally miserable. And I helped everyone else be that way, too.

Admittedly, I’ve been stressed. It was pouring here in Montauk, we were stuck in a small studio, my main person at work has taken ill (possibly for the long term), and I was trying to get work done here under non-work conditions. (I won’t even mention my visiting father-in-law insisting we walk to a restaurant for breakfast in the rain. That made for happy kids, I can tell you.)

Shit.

We DID try to come up with some fun things to do. We went to the Riverhead Aquarium, which was okay. It tooks us two hours to get there, though. Hamptons’ traffic. We played lots of games. But my fuse was about a micron long.

I called a friend of mine, and he gave me this advice, in re: speaking in anger. He said to ask myself:

1) Does it need to be said?
2) Does it need to be said now?
3) Doe it need to be said by me?

Smart people, my friends.

Love to all. Even you, older lady with the monogrammed towel.

Checkmate.

My five-year-old-daughter just put me in checkmate in four moves.

Greetings from, um, Vacationland.

Must… fight… despair. I’m sitting in a small studio co-op in Montauk, NY. It’s pouring. The place is a little small for five people. Well, actually, it’s REALLY small for five people. My two oldest have been up since 5:15am. Maggie is conked out. My youngest is still sleeping... but it appears he wet the bed. Whee! (Or is that wee?)

The cool thing is that I’m posting this with my PowerBook via my Verizon 710 bluetooth phone. Yay, technology! The other cool thing is that I’m wearing boxer briefs, and look fairly fetching.

It’s supposed to rain today and tomorrow. Possibly more, if Katrina’s remnants come this way. I’m not sure what the point is of staying here, if it’s raining. I’ve got to find something fun for us to do today, or we’re going to kill each other.

I know, I know, I’m lucky to have the chance to take a vacation. Screw you.

Love to all. Even you, the lady who probably should buy a slightly fuller suit.

Manhattan Half-Marathon, August 28, 2005.

I just got back from my third half-marathon of the year... and my sixth New York Road Runner's race, also of 2005. Only three more races before new year's, and I automatically qualify for the 2006 NYC marathon. Rock ON.

I ran this race at a slower pace, which was planned. Between the various stressors of my life, the halt in training from Ehrlichiosis, and the fact that it was drizzling and 91% humidity today, I decided to just go easy. I did 8:39 minute miles for 13.1 miles. Good enough for me today.

You know what's fantastic? I don't NEED to set personal records every single race I run. Hell, I'm someone who used to get fired up about things for a day or two... and then forget them completely. I've been running consistently for 2 years, now. I've run a total of 123.1 miles of races, which clearly doesn't include training. That kicks ASS.

Although for the Staten Island half-marathon in October... I actually WILL be going for a personal record. So, um, I'm a hypocrite.

Love to all. Even you, the lady who blew a snot rocket on my foot today.

Editing SUCKS.

This is one of those moments where I wished that the six or seven people who know that I'm the author of this blog didn't know it. There's shit going on that I'd love to write about, but I can't. FUCK. Change is afoot in my life, I think. We'll see what goes down.

Love to all. Even you, the nameless dude behind Door Number Three.

Intelligent Design vs. What, exactly?

One of my online friends was writing, somewhat negatively, about the idea of Intelligent Design. You know: the idea that biological- and physics-based systems are so complex that they HAVE to have been created by God, and that this idea should be taught in schools either alongside or in place of evolution. This is NOT a response to her… just a comment on the whole thing.

There are two separate issues, here. Let’s handle the easy one first:

Keep God out of the public schools. If you want to teach God-based education, either leave the country or go to private school. It’s constitutionally mandated to be this way, so drop the argument. Nobody has any right to use public funds to teach children about any group’s view on any form of God’s involvement in their lives. We have church for that. Or parents. Remember parents?

The land was made for you AND me. And THEM. You know? Even if if God snapped his fingers and created it all, teach what happened in the aftermath. There’s a lot of ground to cover, there.

Second: Why are God and Science are so incompatible, anyway? Maybe God started the ball rolling, and then things developed. I dunno. I just don't think they're so different. Unless you’re a biblical literalist.

And shit, yo: How long is a day in God's mind, anyway? 7 days could be 4 billion years, for all we know. Hubris, hubris, to think we know otherwise.

Love to all. Even you, the dude with the argyle blanket, sleeping on 31st and Lexington in NYC.

Pat Robertson: Holy SHIT.

What's worse?

1) Pat Robertson calling for the murder of another person?
2) Pat Robertson lying and saying he never use the word "assassinate?"

I'd say they go in order. Or maybe not.

Sheesh.

Love to all, even misguided "Holy Men" who clearly have forgotten the Word.

Suddenly, the Age Thing kicks in.

WARNING: This post makes reference to pubic hair.

But not yet.

My eyes have been bugging me. I've always been proud of my vision... I've always been able to see things that other people couldn't, and from some pretty great distances, too. But over the last six months, I've had a harder time focusing on things both near and far. So today, I got my eyes examined. Glasses! I'm getting glasses! Apparently, I've got a mild astigmatism.

Now, I have to be honest: I was sort of HOPING to need glasses. But only for reading/computer stuff. I mean, I think glasses are so cool. But now it turns out I'm getting glasses to wear ALL THE TIME. Be care what you wish for, indeed.

Add to this my slowly thinning hair (Admittedly, this is relative.. I just used to have LOTS of hair. HUGE hair. Long, curly, crazy-ass hair. Now I have regular hair. Short. Boringly normal.), my suddenly shot-through-with-gray beard, and my first GRAY pubic hair... and I'm feeling a little like walking, talking ONSET. Did I mention the hearing damage from my drumming-in-dirtbag-bars days? What? Could you speak up?

But then again: I'm running another half-marathon this weekend. I've lost 15 pounds (I'm now 5 pounds from the weight I was when I got married 10 years ago), and I've been going to the gym in earnest... Add to that that I quit smoking in 2000, and quit drinking in 2003... and I'm probably in the best shape of my life.

Ah, fuck it. I've spawned three times over. I'm rightfully being replaced by the younger, superior, next generation.

Love to all. Even you, the kid who plays too much CounterStrike.