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.