Category: Life

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There’s No Such Thing As Ghosts

There’s not much to say about what life was like when I was 12, or where we lived. Our house was next door to a non-denominational church, a half mile away from Wichita State University, just a few blocks away from a new fast food joint called Church’s Fried Chicken, and haunted by the ghost of a murdered wife. Now, that last part is a complete lie, but when I was 12 my life was pretty boring, so I might as well entertain you with something made-up.

Our house was built in 1901, and occupied by one Phineas Densmore and his wife, Felocity. A couple things to note: Phineas is one of those names one only sees nowadays in Steampunk novels, although Mr. Densmore himself (no relation to the Seattle city councilman of 1882) was about as sci-fi as the long-grass growing in the fields next to his new home. And yes, “Felocity” looks like a misspelling of “Felicity.” That’s because it is. On her birth certificate, anyway, and her death note, although most folks just called her “Fel.”

It’s seems that Phineas, a bank clerk, was having an affair, and was racked with guilt. And, like many men staggering under the weight of crushing anxiety, he projected his guilt onto others. He convinced himself that his wife, too, was having an affair. And so when his own lover took a risk and sent a letter to his home, addressed to “Msr. Densmore,” he took one look at the envelope and decided “Msr.” stood for “Mistress.” He dashed his poor wife’s head in with a rock. Then he ran for the local constable, letter in hand as proof of the justice of his dastardly deed.

When they opened the letter, they found that “Msr.” stood for “Monsieur,” as his lover felt that their affair was so “European” as deserved a more sophisticated form of address. Proof, yes, but proof of motive, and Phineas was hung by his neck. Until dead. Which is how the execution order was spelled out, in those days.

Fast forward several years to 1984, and watch the rest of Wichita creep up the hill, building more and more houses until the big yellow house is surrounded by others homes and, as I said, the university, the church, and the chicken shack. And finally, a family of four moves in. One of them me.

In those days I was obsessed with books about poltergeists (this part is true). In the summer I would ride my bike to one of three libraries within ten miles of our house, and head right to the 133.1 section. Grab as many book as I could. Load up my backpack and take them home, and read all day. And all night, until I was exhausted.

Now, my bed frame and my brother’s were old antiques, built by my mom’s grandfather. Our mattresses, however, were more recently acquired, used beds from an old nun-run hospital Perfectly sturdy, but too long for the old frames. My dad’s dad, a cabinet maker, was taking the summer to rebuild them.

So here’s the scene: me on my mattress on the floor. The window open to let in a modicum of breeze. A tall stack of books, sitting on the edge of an old easy chair, the chair itself on four splayed legs and a fat, crusty rusty spring. All is quiet, still, calm, dark. Until:

Creeeeak.

My eyes pop open. The room is bathed in yellowish gray, from a streetlight penetrating gauzy curtains.

Creeeeeeak. Thump.

I sit up. That overstuffed chair looks like it’s shaking just a bit. There’s a book on the floor in front of it.

Creeeeak. The chair leans forward a bit. Sshshsss as a book slides forward and THUMP! Lands on top of a book on the floor. I leap up like a shot and my legs start kicking. I’m wrapped up in bed sheets and cold sweat.

Creeeak sshh thump! Creeakshshsshthump! Shshssthump! Shshssthump! Thump! Thump! The books are flying off the chair. I’m out of breath. I’m thrashing my arms and legs. I’m finally free of the sheets, bouncing off the door frame, falling into the hallway, shooting forward and slamming into the door of my parent’s bedroom. I open it with slick hands, fall down, drag myself to the foot of their bed, and curl up, fist rammed into my mouth stop keep from screaming.

And that’s all I remember. Get this—when I woke up, I was back in my bed! And the books were stacked up on the chair again. Did I dream it all? Did my dad carry me back before he went to work? In later years, I would decide it must have been a breeze, and the weight of the books was just enough that they tipped the chair forward. I mean, after all, there’s no such thing as ghosts.

But eventually I turned thirteen, and stopped reading books about poltergeists. When I was 17, we moved out of the house. I don’t know who lives there now these 26 years later. I just hope they don’t have any affairs, murder anyone, or get that house really haunted for whomever lives there next.

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The Recipe Isn’t Difficult

Potatoes, eggs, mustard and mayo. People think the secret ingredient is the parsley, but it’s really the dill in the chopped pickles.

Nowadays 19 is fairly young but back in the early seventies, 19 was old enough to join the Navy, meet a nice fella, get married, get knocked up, start raising a few kids. And so on a nice summer day in Wichita, Kansas a bunch of years later, one boy on the front porch reading a book, the other in the back yard swashbuckling with ninjas, the husband catching up on some paperwork, why not break out those old 3X5 cards with your mother’s recipes on them, bright blue ink in a flowing cursive.

Boil potatoes just enough that they’re still firm. Use that creaky chopping machine on them, and on the boiled eggs too. Mustard and mayo, give it a stir, starts to make that sticky sound and the smell is family, nice weather, full bellies, quiet hearts. The pickles have to be chopped by hand. Toss them in, sprinkle in dried parsley, mostly just to give it color. Salt, but no pepper. Now put a few hot dogs in the new “micro-wave.” A lot faster than boiling them, and the cancer’s still five years away.

Call in the kids, tell the youngest to set the table, the oldest to make a pitcher of lemon kool-aid. The youngest fetches out those Looney Tunes collectible glasses, the ones from McDonald’s. He always chooses Daffy Duck for himself. He’ll grow up, join the Navy too, but he won’t meet a nice girl; Nothing bad will happen to him, but life will take a little longer to get started.

The potato salad goes in an enormous green plastic bowl. That bowl has seen some action. That bowl was purchased at a Tupperware party in Springfield, Massachusetts, made its way across the country to Bainbridge, Washington, then down to San Diego, California. Now it’s here, smack dab in the middle of the country, smack dab in the middle of the supper table, heaped to overflowing with potato salad.

The youngest has that permanent grin on him, eyes wide, trying to grab ketchup for his hot dog and a spoon for the potato salad and a glass of lemonade, all at the same time. He says, who’s birthday is it, because he associates potato salad with parties. The oldest smirks, cause he knows better, and because he’s a little smart aleck. He’s going through a phase; no ketchup or mustard for him. But plenty of lemonade, and heaps and heaps of potato salad. Growing boys.

The husband gets the lion’s share, though. He’s a good 210, working on 230, and his desk job doesn’t help any. In a few years the cancer will knock him down to 175. But they’ll catch it early, it’ll back off, and never return, not for thirty years. Potato salad will put the pounds backs on. Potato salad and nice weather and quiet hearts.

He says, oh, it’s probably somebody’s birthday somewhere. The youngest laughs at that. Everything delights him. The oldest smirks again. He’ll come into cynicism, the smart ones always do, its own kind of cancer. But he’ll get over it. How can anyone be a cynic, for very long, with potato salad likes this stored in the memory banks?

He’ll get a copy of the recipe, more than a bunch of years later. His own wife will make it for him. Will it be as good? Of course it will. The recipe isn’t difficult.

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Archaeologists Speculate that Beer Was Instrumental in the Formation of Civilizations

“Archaeologists speculate that beer was instrumental in the formation of civilizations.”

-Wikipedia entry for “Beer.”

Beer. When was it invented, why, how, who knows. Actually, I’m certain quite a few people know. Probably know the exact day, the very minute. Some monk sitting in a chilly monastery, hands cupped reverently, holding a beautiful brown heap of barley. Ah.

beer at toronado

This bar is a monastery, the glass in front me a chalice, an icon of worshipfulness. I have a slight buzz. It’s quiet in here, middle of the day. Dark. The smell of stale beer from the floor, a sweet smell, a little sour, as familiar as the sweat on the back of my neck, rapidly cooling. I walked here, for a beer, and I’ll walk back home again when I’m done. What’s a few miles. Monks balanced kegs on the backs of donkeys and walked further to get that golden stuff to their other brothers in other monkeries.

This table where I sit almost every Tuesday. That waitress. No, we call them servers now. Jeans and a t-shirt with the bar’s logo on it, hair in a pony tail, toothy grin. Probably in college. No, probably dropped out of college. No, probably never went. Why bother. A few roommates, a three-a-month novel habit, discounts on bar-burgers. It’s not a bad life. I’m not jealous. But as I hold that cold glass in my hands, consider the bubbles rising, consider the deep yellow, I think, I could do that. I could work in a bar.

Over there in a booth a guy and a girl are in deep conversation over a plate of French fries. He looks too old for her. A dozen scenarios run through my head. He’s her older brother, and they’re trying to figure out what to do about Grandma. He’s her lecturer at the university, they’ve been dating for two semesters, and they have to end it, his wife is getting suspicious. He’s her boyfriend’s best friend from college, and they’re planning an intervention. I take a sip of my beer.

Scratch that: gulp. More like a quaff. My glass is empty. Sunlight manages to negotiate a few clouds and the tinted windows, coats the foam left behind.

At the bar itself, fella in sweats, sweaty, running-shirt, sweaty, ball cap, sweaty. After he finishes his beer, when he gets up to hit the head, that bar stool is going to be sweaty, too. I know this from experience. I’ve run to bars before.

Never ran from one, though. This is no biker bar, there will be no fisticuffs here. It’s quiet, old Sub Pop concert posters on the walls. No pool tables, a menu full of foodie food. And pulls too hip for townies but not redneck enough for hipsters. My server comes over, points at my glass. I just smile. She smiles back and takes the glass away.

Behind the bar, the owner, big fella, pear shaped until you get to his head, that beard, those black-rimmed glasses. On a Tuesdays if the server’s not there, he serves me himself. When I’m done with one, he’ll say, how’d you like that IPA? And I’ll sort of nod and smile and say something like, I hope you’ve got more.

Another beer appears in front of me. I watch the server walk away. She stops at the booth with the couple. They look up at her, almost startled. I can’t hear what they say, but she takes away their half-eaten plate of French fries. Must be serious, if you can’t even finish your fries.

My phone makes a noise in my pocket. I fish it out. Text message from the wife. Grocery store on the way back home. Milk, bread, eggs, something. I quaff once more. Before I leave, I drop too many bills on the table. Maybe it’s a four-a-month novel habit. I don’t want to assume anything.

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There’s No I in Barbecue

It needs to get warm soon. I need to sit on my back porch, next to the grill. A beer in one hand and a book in the other. Or a baseball game on the radio. Birds twerping, the sound of the distance highway a dull buzz, like the quiet roar of the ocean. But mostly that barbecue, ribs and pork shoulder and burgers stuffed full of onions. Just thinking about it makes me hungry.

I’m sitting here at a kind of barbecue school. Mostly it’s a bunch of folks sitting around folding tables, watching a power point presentation on how to smoke meats. Across from me, turned to watch the slides, are two guys who couldn’t be more different. One of them I know. We’ll call him James—he went to MIT. He works for SpaceX. He’s got a wife who flips houses for a living. No kids. He’s maybe 32 years old.

Next to him, the other fella, I can only guess, but, early sixties? Gray pokes out from beneath his Mariners ball cap. His satin jacket is black, has a patch on the shoulder that reads “National Softball Championships, Las Vegas, 2014.” I got money that says he went there to watch his daughter play.

James is a friend of mine—we met in a coffee shop about 10 years ago. He was fresh out of school, working for Microsoft. It’s the same coffee shop where I met my future wife, and where he met his future wife. I guess that’s a Seattle thing, coffee shops and all.

The other guy, though, if I had to guess, gets into the Seattle city limits maybe twice a year. And even then it’s only the southern tip of Seattle. I’m not trying to stereotype, and I could be very wrong. But me, I’m from Wichita Kansas, originally, and you kind of get a knack for knowing your own. Graduate high school, maybe go to trade school, work in machine shop for twenty years, finally get promoted to management, kind of like retirement but the coffee’s not as good.

James, for what it’s worth, is taking notes. His got a yellow legal pad, and he’s writing down pretty much everything the guy giving the presentation says. Temperatures for different cuts of beef, how to caramelize with a hot skillet, tricks for making a marinade that isn’t too salty.

The other fella, the one in the soft ball jacket, just nods his head every few seconds, like he knows it all already. He probably does. I wonder why he’s here.

Me, I’m here to learn, sure, but also to eat. My wife signed us up for this class, because we’re going to eat what we cook. Of course, some recipes require more time than we’re going to be spending in the class, so there’s already meat on some of the grills. And the aromas in the smoke are making me drool.

I didn’t go to MIT, but I did go to college. I never worked in a machine shop, but I’ve gotten my hands dirty more than a few times. If James wanted to strike up a conversation about, I don’t know, quantum state bubbles drives to shave another three ounces off a booster rocket, I could listen. If this softball fella wanted to tell me about the time his daughter met fast-pitch ace Jenny Finch, I’d be interested.

But I think those conversations would have to happen on my back porch. With a beer in our hands, birds twerping overhead. On that grill, a couple of pounds of prime tip, smoking away, making us hungry, something we all have in common.

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A Different Kind of Work Out

Ten oh five on a Saturday morning, and it looks like Dave isn’t going to show up. I’m standing in a parking lot with three other guys. A Crossfit gym, a “box” somewhere in Seattle. At least it’s trying to be a nice day. The rain is down to just a few drops and the sun occasional peeks from behind bored gray clouds.

We’re all pacing, geared up and ready to get in there and wreck our bodies. Me, I ran here from my house, just a mile or so away. On one of my first days at the gym, Dave said “we don’t do the same workout twice. That’s the problem with runners—always doing the same thing, over and over again, their bodies adapt.” I wish. I’d love to adapt enough to survive the half marathon I signed up for next month.

One of the guys says, “Had to wake him, last week. I showed up at nine, had to bang on the door.”

I furrow my brow. “Wait, does Dave live here?”

The guy nods, and the other two guys look up, paying attention. “Yeah. He moved out of his old place a few months ago.”

I think about why I’m here. I’m getting old, getting fat, need a shock to my system. The good life has made me comfortable, I could say, if I was given to that sort of musing. Maybe I should live in a gym too. Nothing to do all day but pick up heavy weights, cleaning up after every class. Arms like a gorilla. Calves like tree trunks.

One guy checks his watch a few times. I’m tempted to go up to the door, cup my hands against the glare and peer in. What am I going to see? A guy in sleeping bag, laid out next to a pile of dumb bells, his dog curled up at his feet?

Another guy says, “I saw him after the last class, yesterday. He was heading to a bar with my roommate.”

We all chuckle. As if that explains everything. I can’t imagine what a 6 foot, 250 pound guy with 5% body fat has to drink to get too drunk to be up by ten in the morning. He’s not paying for drinks with the money I’ve given him—I used a Groupon.

Ten past ten. Our pacing has slowed a little bit. By now we would have been through our warm-ups. Dave would have given the Crossfit vets their Workout-of-the-Day, and they’d be doing some preliminary exercises. Us newbies would be picking up an empty barbell and putting it back down again. Concentrating on form. Dave would be adjusting his glasses, telling his dog she’s a good girl for staying out of the way. I’d be thinking about that stupid half marathon, and how losing ten pounds would sure help a lot.

A car drives by the parking lot entrance, and we all turn to look. And then I realize I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t show. I want to work out, I want to feel the burn, I want to be a little bit proud of myself. I also want to, well, not.

“God damn it,” the guy, the one who said he’d woken Dave up last week, mutters to humself. Then he smiles “Well, I guess I can always come back at noon.” He turns and wanders towards his car.

The other guy, the one with the roommate says, “Alright fellas.” He looks at his watch, smiles, shakes his head, and walks off too.

Me and the only other one remaining stand there for a few seconds. A moral victory. When Dave’s timing us on burpees and Russian kettle-bells, he never shouts. His voice is loud above the heavy metal blasting from the speakers, but he’s not screaming. You got this, he says. 15 more seconds, he says. You can do this, reach in. Last Thursday, when he did that, even though I was whipped, I managed a few more reps. Felt it all day Friday, but it felt good too.

I want to wait this out, but I don’t. I want to be here when he shows up, forgive him for being, despite a 400 pound bench press, only human. But I want to go home, have a Saturday, do nothing. My wife’s working, won’t be home until 5, so I mean: really do nothing.

I take a deep breath, look the other fella in the eye. “Monday, I guess.” He just smiles, nods, turns and walks to his car.

I decide to compromise. I ran here, so I’ll run back home too. I’m hoping Dave doesn’t have a hang over. But just in case, I’ll commiserate. I stop at the 7-11 on my  way, grab a bag of onion potato chips and two Cokes. I plop in front of the TV, and before too long I’m sugar-and-grease queasy. A different kind of work out

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Suicide is Painless, My Ass

I made a mistake, and decided to join a Crossfit Gym. I believe “mistake” is the proper nomenclature, since people who are already fit don’t need to torture themselves further, and people who are not already fit would do better to take a cyanide pill.

But I did it, perhaps due to some sort of mid-life crisis thing. I’m 43. I don’t know if I’m old enough to have a mid-life crisis yet, but then, I was always an over achiever. I don’t much care for sports cars, I find people younger than my wife dull to speak to and the only ones who are better looking are artifacts of expert Photoshopping skills. Therefore I’m left, in this crisis, with reshaping my body. Hey, Play-Do’s easy to shape, and my body looks like it fell out of a Play-Do can, so this is the right thing to do, right?

So I did what any red-blooded American man with a beer belly and 2004 Kia Spectra would do: I got a Groupon. 15 classes for 40 dollars. What a bargain, right? That’s, what, less than 3 dollars per class? No. It’s 20 dollars per class because even though I am going to go back, it’s only so I can revenge-die on my instructor.

I admit I had some masochistic fantasies before I showed up. I imagined a 28 year-old blonde named Cynthia Killstrong in tight yoga pants and wrist-wraps shouting at me and a dozen other flabbies:

PICK UP THAT BARBELL!

PUT IT BACK DOWN!

PICK UP THAT BARBELL I SAID!

I SAID PUT IT BACK DOWN!

WHY IS THAT BARBELL ON THE FLOOR?

I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO PUT IT BACK DOWN!

I’m sure you can see the appeal, but it wasn’t like that at all.

First of all, there was a dog, a cute little thing, hanging out in the doorway, basking in the sun, Only later did I realize what that look on her face was saying, “Too bad you’ve got opposable thumbs. Those medicine balls aren’t going to pick up themselves. Sucker”

And the guy who runs the place, Dave, seemed like a decent guy. He took my Groupon without a second glance, handed me an iPad and had me sign a waiver. I’m not sure, but I think the fine print said something about Dave no being responsible for exploding lung syndrome, sudden heart failure, or spontaneous combustion.

But my point is, walking in, that was easy. And the people there were nice. And encouraging. You know what I’m saying? I was all so very seductive, which is the very definition of evil.

Actually, I think I can sum the whole experience up like this: the gym is in the gutted remains of an old DMV building. I am not making that up. I used to go there when I was feeling good about myself and needed to be brought back down to earth, as well as new tags for my Kia. Now it’s just a hollow shell. But still filled with pain.

We did some warm-up things, the usual low-impact exercises, like walking back and forth while kicking our legs above our heads. Apparently, what we were warming up was the nerve endings in our spines, to make us feel the pain better. We did some “grapevines,” which I did in an aerobics class once, so that triggered some nice, comforting PTSD. Then we grabbed barbells, balanced them on our shoulders, and did some squats.

Listen to me very closely: all those pictures you see of people doing squats with actual weights on their barbells? Photoshop. Has to be.

After our “warm-up,” Dave explained the Crossfit philosophy. We were going to do some exercises, and then weren’t going to do them again for months. We didn’t want our bodies to get used to any one set of movements, you see. By continuing to shock our systems every time we came to the gym, we were guaranteed to be in the maximum amount of pain every single day.

And then we did the “workout of the day,” which that day was “Wallballs and Burpees.” I know what you’re thinking—wasn’t that the name of a discontinued kids TV program from the 70s? No. Actually, it’s the name of the two devil-beasts Satan keeps next to him at all times. I think.

Burpees: crouch down, throw your legs back, do a push up, bring your legs back in, jump up in the air clap your hands. Sounds easy, right? I would laugh right now if I wasn’t hopped up on so many painkillers that the FBI has started a file on me just in case it has something to do with local Meth sales. I’m not sure what the hand clap is for. A sharp sound to reassure others you’re not dead, yet, maybe.

Wallballs: take a medicine ball (medicine in the sense that theses balls will cure you of that certain ailment called “not feeling extremely awful”) throw it up about eight feet against a wall, catch and drop down into a crouch, stand up and throw again. (I was careful of my wording there. I did not say “throw UP again” cause that’s a given.)

21 of each, then 15, then 9. It took me 8 minutes and 22 seconds. This is good, because now I know how it takes to die of combined heart lung and soul failure.

But here’s the worst part. There I am, trying to pull my intestines back into my mouth from where they had tried to escape my body. My skin all blotchy red from simultaneous oxygen deprivation and overload. My vision down to pinpricks. And then Dave walked over to me, with his dog by his side. And he gave me a fist bump. And he said nice job. And he said, “See you on Monday?”

And I said yes.

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I’m Sorry, Joel Porter

Postaday for January 10th: Call Me Ishmael. Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.

Call me Russel Wren. I like to steal. I stole my name, stole the heft and weight of it, and stole its meaning. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what scholars say when they say my name to each other. I don’t read books. You can’t cross the same river twice, they say, and you can’t read the same book anyone else has ever read.

Have you read Thomas Berger? I have. He died last year. No one told me. I’d been checking the web for years, seeing if he’d written anything, or died. Neither, for years, and then I stopped. And then I wrote the above, and decided to check one last time. His last novel, ever, was ten years ago. My favorite is Who Is Teddy Villanova? That’s where I stole that line from.

Listen to me. I’m Jason Edwards, but call me Russell Wren. I’m a fictional character. I’m a bumbler stumbling from one made-up mystery to the next. I don’t read books because I am in books. Joel Porter died too. I didn’t know that, either. I met Joel in grad school, and his writing was exquisite.

Thomas Berger, Joel Porter, Percival Everett. A handful of writers who makes sentences I want to steal. Joel went crazy, or was already crazy, literally crazy, committed suicide, and I didn’t even know until two years later. And I want to steal his words? I do. I can’t, but I want to.

Percival Everett is still alive. I’d steal from him too if I could. “I will begin with infinity.” That’s the first sentence of Glyph.

Joel Porter was like David Foster Wallace, but readable. “I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” Infinite Jest, my ass. I never saved any of Joel’s stories. Maybe if I’m lucky I can find one in an old email. And steal it. Steal the weight and heft. DFW killed himself too, that coward. That overrated coward.

Thomas Berger died of old age. I’m going to die of old age. But call me Russel Wren. I’ll die of being forgotten about. Jason Edwards will not die of being forgotten about. He’ll never die because no one will even remember they’ve forgotten him.

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The State of the Jason

Going to start the new year the same way I did 366 days ago with an attempt to write every day. That attempt failed, although I think I made it as far as March or so. I do recall being desperate to find a good wifi connection when I was in Puerto Rico so I could submit my “words” to 750words.com. So I made it last three months, I think. That’s not bad- I mean, to do at least that, I still have to start today. So here goes.

94 words down. And now 99. 100. Damn, this is easy.

I’ve been trying to prepare for this– during the week break last week I went to Starbucks and the library and other places with free wifi, and my new Chromebook, and did lots of writing. You know, to sort of have a buffer ready so that publishing could be consistent if output wasn’t always a daily accomplishment. Because, you know, simply stabbing at the keyboard for half an hour doesn’t mean what’s being written is worth reading. Like this for example.

186 words. 188. Flying along.

The plan is to write fiction, write opinion pieces, write about running, write some book reviews. The book reviews are the easiest and the hardest. Hard because what does one say about a book. Easy because I read all the time. I mean I want to read all the time. I mean I want to want to read all the time, and I want it to be that I read all the time. There you go, that’s what I meant to say.

The running writing is tough because there’s not much to say except I love it I love it I love it. Hard to write what I know will only be barely interesting to other runners…. I mean it will only be barely interesting, and in that, only to other runners, not that it would be, to others runners, only barely interesting. You see what I’m up against here, this writing thing? I can’t even make sense to myself. Sheesh. 353 words now.

And opinion pieces– home skillet please. I have opinions, to be sure, but how does one make them topical? Or interesting to other people? That’s what I’m up against, with all of these, that truly stupid compulsion to be interesting to readers, except that means walking the fine line between preaching to the choir and saying something convincing. It’s next to impossible.

And honestly it’s not an endeavored to be labored over too strenuously. One should just write for writing’s sake. One does not run only races, and one may try to train on every run, but will get benefits from a run that’s just a run for run’s sake. And since my goal is to write every day, it doesn’t matter if no one ever reads it. In fact, on most does, no one should. So I should just stab at the keys and if a little structure to get things going helps, so be it.

I’ll write about running, I’ll write silly stories, I will write about my opinion. For example: we just watched a movie, called Abducted, I think, starring Taylor Lautner. Not sure if I am getting the name of the movie correct or even the spelling of his name. It was truly bad. He had his shirt off within the first few minutes. Is that why they called it “Ab”ducted? Maybe. It was mentioned to us by a friend of a friend at a new year’s eve party, and at the time we were excited to make new friends. Now I’m not so sure.

Then again, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to stop being a prick about what people like, to not only accept, to embrace, to humble myself before people’s likes. Not just their passions, but the incidental things they enjoy. So maybe this was serendipity, seeing this terrible, terrible moved, a chance to practice this resolution. I’ll have to give it a go when next we see that person.

But, just between you and me, the movie was so bad it wasn’t even so bad it was good. It wasn’t beyond bad, just bad. 709 words written so far, 714, less than 50 to go, and now less than 30.

I guess I could apply this idea to myself, to quite being so judgmental of my one desire to write, of the potential output and it’s lack of readability or value, and just, as I said, do it. Like Nike wants me to. Which reminds me of running– I didn’t run today. 2013 is off to an awful start. 783 words, now. One day down, 364 to go.

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Random Coincidence Usually Isn’t

Here’s this: “Not Allerigc to Adventure” to run-inspire you, write-inspire you, and love-whatever-you-do-inspire you. It’s the blog of ultramarathoner Sabrina Moran, and if you don’t delight in her running 100 miles or 24 hours at a time (guess which one is longer) then delight in how funny she is. Know what’s funny? I wrote the above before reading her post called “You’re Not an Inspiration.” Ha!

I have been lax in my writing. So what I’m doing is taking an email I wrote to someone and using it to write a blog post. I don’t know if that’s kosher, but I just read a quote from Johnny Depp who said “Just keep moving forward and don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks.” That resonates with my favorite Robert Downey Jr. quote: “Listen, smile, agree, and then do whatever the fuck you were gonna do anyway.”

You see what I’m doing there? I’m associating my attitudes with the attitudes of two very talented, very good-looking men. (Both of whom are older than me! But can you guess who of the two is oldest?)

Speaking of kosher, we had Hebrew Nationals last week. True Story. Here’s an ironic link, brought to you by Yahoo, now run by my wife’s sister’s old boss, who I have never formally met, but who I walked by once as she entered a house I was exiting, all 300 million dollars of her. (You see what I’m doing there?)

I’m sleepy. We went to Portland on Sunday, and I opted to drive back rather late instead of crashing and driving back the next day. It’s getting harder and harder as I get older and older to recover from bad or no sleep. While I was there, a friend of mine (call him Charles) told me about a friend of ours (call her Hanna) who had a severe psychotic break as a result of a misdiagnosed bipolar disorder and a serious case of sleep deprivation. Not that I’m at risk of that, but still. Sleep is so needed.

I know I’m not sleeping well when I have vivid dreams. I don’t like having them. Not because they’re bad, as such, but just because the imagery lingers and it makes the day’s thoughts cloudy. I read a theory that dreams are an interpretation of your brain re-arranging neurons to move memories from short-term into long-term. Last night I had a dream I was running around a deserted vacation resort, and then it turned into a casino and I saw an old (ex) friend and then another (current) friend chased me because he thought I was ignoring him. He caught me, and said “stop, damn it.”

That dream has no meaning; more telling is how vivid it was, that the resort was sort of all bed-rock and tarnished brass, the casino was plush red velvet, and my friend’s hands were very strong. And what it tells me is I am not sleeping well, probably because I’m drinking too much caffeine. But Ragnar is in a few days, and I’m excited, and I won’t be sleeping well that night, or the next night. Isn’t it weird how having a bad night’s sleep can make you have another bad night’s sleep the next day? It’s silly.

And lends itself to… a thing that there’s a name for, when you start seeing coincidences all over the place. For example, on Boing Boing, there was a post about Nocebos which are like placebos but make you feel bad, not good. Add to that that ultramarathoners blog, where she in a post mentions “Doxastic penetration” which “refers to when your beliefs color your perceptions.” Now can I add those ideas to a TED talk I saw the other day, by the founder of SuperBetter, and to that add a blog post at the Happiness Project called “Want To Have More Fun? Go On a Mission.”

And shall I add to that those quotes by Depp n’ Downey? And you see where I’m going with all these? Can you see what I am doing there? WELL I CAN’T BECAUSE I HAVE NOT SLEPT ENOUGH.

But I don’t care because Ragnar is in a few days. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I will not sleep well but so what: I’m on a mission, a mission to do one of things that makes me happy like no other, and I think Johnny and Robert would approve. No, really, I genuinely think they would provide applause.

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What a Terribly Written Article

Logged into the internet today (i.e. turned on my monitor) and went to Google News, like you do. Boom, right there, an article from Forbes titled “Facebook’s Email System Does *What* Now?” So I clicked on it with alacrity. (Alacrity™ brand clicking, brought to you today by 5-Hour Energy Drink).

What I read was, to put it plainly, difficult to read. I mean, short of giving you a word-by-word scan of each sentence, it was just hard to parse. Please. Go read it yourself and then hope along with me this man is not a successful novelist.

Not to mention the content he was trying to put across. Did you not bother torturing yourself with his cumbersome use of syntax? I’ll sum up: he claims Facebook is changing e-mail addresses in your cell phone. Balderdash.

I didn’t believe it for a second, so I searched for other, hopefully better written articles. Sure enough, I found another, which said that if you’ve given Facebook permission to sync your contact list with your phone, and if one of your contacts on Facebook did not list an email address on Facebook itself, and was therefore given an @facebook.com address by Facebook, then a bug in the API will indeed have Facebook sync with your phone and change the email address of some of your Facebook contacts.

In other words, that Forbes writer lied by omission. Now, go ahead, call me a fanboi, a Facebook white knight. I know it’s cool to hate on the ‘book and it’s nerdy to say how great the damn thing is. But come on, Forbes, I thought you were about rich people. And rich people are supposed to be smart and educated and stuff. This is not just bad writing, it’s bad journalism.

Or, hey, maybe it is me. Maybe I am too stupid to read Forbes, and what I am calling bad writing is just my own inability to read it. And to read between the lines and glean the truth that the writer left out. Maybe I’m the pot calling the kettle stupid, maybe my own writing is inefficient and misleading.

Whatever the case, the plain truth for us plain folks is: your phone is fine, unless you gave Facebook permission to mess around with it. And if you did that, and you’re rich enough to read Forbes, I don’t know what to tell you. Or how. But I bet you’ll survive this. Go get a 5-Hour Energy Drink, soldier.

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