In the words of Neil Diamond, "Hello again, hello."

I wish I could say my blogging absence was prolonged by a recent trip to Bali or something, but, no, I've just been really busy. I had the occasional fleeting thought to blog, but nothing came to me that was worth typing. Then I remembered that was hardly my specialty anyway. So screw it, let's blog, baby!

You know what I love? I love being wrong. I love the constant evolution of taste and opinion. For instance, I didn't discover olives until I was maybe 28 years old. And now? Love em. Devour them. Praise olives, I say! I also got a shirt for Christmas that I was not altogether taken with at first. I didn't think it was a color I would feel comfortable wearing. And now that summer has arrived, my fashion sense has thusly warmed and I am having to discipline myself to wear this shirt just often enough that it is not considered a uniform. I can be a man of strong opinions and convictions, most often on topics that are massively insignificant and/or annoying to others. I get great delight from looking back at a past proclamation, a real fist-shaking moment, and realizing I was just wrong. Some other things I was wrong about:

--Owen Wilson. Not willing to celebrate his entire catalog, but I now realize he's a good actor and can be quite endearing in the right role. I don't know who might have been better in "Midnight in Paris."

--Hefeweizen beer. Still not my favorite. Still not something I will opt for often. Yet I am willing to admit that, on a hot summer's day when beer may be imbided, it has its place. I favor Widmer over Pyramid or even Paulaner.

--Bon Ivar's "For Emma, Forever Ago." I'm pretty sure I railed against this album. I remember I was put off by the fact that no one could talk about it without mentioning the cute little story about how he holed up in a winter cabin and did the album himself. I think that maybe soured me a little and then the often unintelligible lyrics and falsetto just put it over the edge. All that stuff is still true, but I've come to really enjoy the album. There are some great melodies, which is the most important thing to me in music anyway.

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You want to know what the most maddening sound in the world is? Silence. Not across the board, of course. Believe me, I value silence as much as anybody and believe we need a lot of more it these days. No, the silence I speak of is very specific. My desk at work sits in a sort of bullpen area shared by my two female coworkers and an empty desk. Back in the old days, we had a grand old time. All day long, we laughed, we argued--we talked. I don't know what happened but these days I may as well be sitting here alone. That would be okay, actually. If there were no one sitting five feet away from me, I would not expect conversation or acknowledgement of existence. However, when there are two people within 49 sq ft of me but neither of them utter 6 words all day, it drives me insane. They both put their little earbuds in and are lost in their own worlds, worlds that are only connected to each other via Instant Messenger. What are they giggling about? I have no friggin' idea. Do I really want to know? Not particularly, but I do think it's rude to carry on as such. You would at least expect that if I initiate a conversation, I would get something back, right? Even if it's a brush off, you would expect that they would at bare minimum say SOMETHING. Wrong. "What are you guys doing for lunch?" Silence. "How was your lunch?" Silence. "After sitting on hold for the last 15 minutes, they just disconnected me. Can you believe that?" UTTER, FRICKIN' SILENCE! I know it's not personal. I know they are not purposely ignoring me due to a grudge of some sort. I honestly don't think they think of me enough at all to muster such feelings. It's like the old saying about how the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Well, I believe that to be true and their silence is a screaming torrent of indifference. I am starting to learn to cope, but it's a struggle.

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And now for the Acting Report.....It's going well. Still having a ball, still taking classes, still working on it. I'd like to think I've made some real progress, but I couldn't say for sure. What am I saying, of course I have. But it is very frustrating because it's a series of small successes followed by failures. And I'm just talking in terms of feeling like you did what you wanted to do in the scence, etc. I thought I had some nice momentum going into this week's class, but then I totally blew it. I was nervous because we had "industry guests" so I was all fired up and over-prepared and just choked, basically. As frustrating as it is though, it is not truly disheartening because every failure really is a learning experience and I always feel the desire to keep working until I get it right. Unfortunately, I don't always get the opportunity to go again because, alas, there are other people in the class too. Anywho, I just started in the "advanced" class which is arbitrary but something, I guess. I've got another class beginning Sunday so then I will have this going four nights a week again at two different places so I should really be rockin' it, so to speak. I also just got my first headshots last weekend. It's a small thing, but it was a big deal for me because that has, for some reason, always been a mental block for me. Maybe I never allowed myself to do it because that would be a way of saying I am really doing this, I am really hanging my balls out there. I think I was afraid to do that. Well, here I am now, balls out.

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My mood these last couple days has been indomitably sunny. Coworkers stone wallin' me? Let 'em keep their earbuds in; that just means I can play my music louder! I did two solid hours of Billy Joel yesterday and I was lovin' life, my friends. The skies are blue, the birds are chirping, the flowers are receiving their due smelling. Add in the music and wine and I am just happy, I tell ya.

I am planning to ride this Spartan spirit straight on through a beautiful 4th of July weekend. My playlists shall abound at parties and home time both! I can almost hear the Bruce(!), smell the BBQ, taste the beer, and feel the sun and pool as we speak. Not to mention Fireworks. I make my return to Vets Stadium this year, hosted by the good ol' Long Beach Fire Department. Their DJ can't be counted upon anymore though so I'll bring my own Lee Greenwood.

Bless you, my friends! Cheers! U-S-A!

Little Things

Do they mean a lot? Of course they do, sometimes. Then there are other times where they mean absolutely nothing, except to bored minds such as mine.

--Our parking lot at work is wide open. There a couple of reserved spots, but those are not relevant to this little nugget. Still, despite there being virtually no reserved or assigned spots, people tend to park in the same place everyday. That's to be expected, I think. However, one of my coworkers sometimes carpools with another woman whom apparently lives near her. I noticed this morning though that when she drives with her carpool buddy, she parks where the buddy normally parks. When she drives solo, she reverts to her normal spot. Neither spot offers any obvious advantage of shade or proximity to the door. I brought it up to her and she had no explanation or reasoning for this behavior. How does this extend or translate into other areas of her life, I wonder?

--While visiting the kitchen-ish area to wash my morning mug, I noticed the receptionist washing an orange. It occurred to me that I had never heard of a person washing an orange before. Obviously, the orange has a thick protective peel so I've considered there to be a need for washing. Am I alone on this? Has everyone else been washing their oranges outside the net of my awareness?

The Sounds of Summer, Part Deux

Yes, I'm talking about one of the greatest voices in the history of popular music, Mr. Sam Cooke. Is it fair to dub a collection of music approximately 50 years old as The Album of the Summer? Sure, why not. I never said it had to be something new.

I picked up "Sam Cooke: Portrait of a Legend" while at Best Buy to replace my alarm clock and I have since been convinced that that alarm going bad was an alarm going off! It was telling me that the time for Sam Cooke had come! There's thirty songs in this collection with such hits as "Cupid," "(What A) Wonderful World," and "Another Saturday Night,"and others you've never heard before that are every bit as beautiful. You can't not sing along to this music. This is spirit-lifting, soul-jump-starting stuff. It's ice cream cone from Thrifty's music. It's making out at the drive-in music*. This is bike-riding music. It's Sam Freakin' Cooke!

Do yourself a favor and go buy this album, post haste. If you are actually thinking about it, hell, I'll send you a copy. Just get these songs into your ears.

*Can I tell you how proud I am to be a part of the last generation to make out at the drive-in? I weep for these kids that know nothing but multiplex.

Staycation

I was reminiscing recently about the summers of my early teenage years, the carefree days when having nothing to do was naively construed as a bad thing. There was no real point to it, I was just recalling how long the days seemed and how I used to ride my bike over to Cruiser's every day with my swim trunks and basketball shoes, K-Earth's (oldies) top 500 songs of all-time playing on my Walkman. Walking to the liquor store for strawberry sparkle bars and Arizona iced tea was a common excursion. On an adventurous day we'd even catch the bus down to the beach. Our nightlife consisted of bonfires at Huntington Beach (first pit closest to Jack in the Box--uh huh, right), going to the movies, toilet papering (only our enemies), and going to the Mormon dances with Adam. While these days I love to cut rugs at all speeds, back then the faster songs were a formality, a period to scout our next slow dance target. Plans were never made farther than a day or two in advance because they didn't need to be. We just coasted and drifted, song to song, hour to hour, day to day. It was a great time.

Anyway, it was fun to really focus on those days, recalling specific memories I hadn't thought about in several years. I know I still had it on the brain when I was having lunch with Cruiser Friday, telling him he needed to have a BBQ/pool party. The saying says you can't go home again, and that may be true in many ways, but time is also relative and if you're truly open to it, it's really not that difficult to go back in time. Sometimes it happens without any effort at all, the smells of a certain perfume and a certain leather aligning in just the right way that I can instantly be transported back to the pale green seats of my late grandmother's Oldsmobile.

Where was I going with this...

The weekend, that's right. What a beautiful weekend. I felt like I was on vacation. I love to get out of town as much as the next person, of course, but as I've previously discussed when referencing the book "The Art of Travel," it's wonderful sometimes to realize that travel is a state of mind and that if you put your heart into it, you can have an incredible vacation without really going anywhere. The Staycation, as it's more cleverly dubbed. As I breezed into work this morning, sockless and relaxed, I realized I'd just had such a weekend. There were even moments when I could have sworn I was thirteen and carefree again, to make the hippy passage above not without at least a passing segue.

The music began Friday night. It was night number two of the LA Bluegrass Situation at Largo, a weekend festival of sorts with four nights of music benefiting music programs in local schools, and The Punch Brothers were playing. They killed as they tend to do. My favorite was a seemingly very personal new song titled "Don't Get Married Without Me." New songs mean new albums. This is a good thing.

Saturday morning we slept in. I cannot overstate the joy of this simple accomplishment. It was a nice lazy morning of reading the paper and having coffee. Only when we were absolutely rested and ready did we hop in the car and head down to Manhattan Beach where Nicole shopped briefly and I people-watched. It was an astoundingly gorgeous day of blue skies and 80 degrees. Had we stayed longer than twenty minutes, I might have treated myself to an ice cream cone from the old-fashioned creamery, but we were off to the beach.

Driving home along the beach every night, I had been telling myself I needed to make it a destination instead of a route of passage, for sanity's sake if nothing else. Finally, I was doing it, the sand in the toes, the warmth of the sun, the crisp hush of the waves, the whole bit. I had my ipod, my book, my chair, and my bride. I was lovin' life, my friends.

Alright, I don't want to belabor this or bore you any further with the blow by blow. There was a BBQ with friends and family, there were two more nights of bluegrass and comedy, there was a big fancy anniversary dinner, there was Stan Getz on the stereo all weekend long. The point is that it was relaxing and invigorating at once, as any good vacation should be.

I guess I do have to explain the time travel though, don't I? Okay, so I had about an hour and a half to kill before we left for dinner yesterday. I knew my neighbor was out in his garage messing with his bikes so I seized the opportunity to get my tires inflated and I--get this--rode my bike(!). What a novel concept, I know. Still, it was great. On my beach cruiser, touring the neighborhood in style. The intoxicating scent of a charcoal grill, the guy out washing his VW Beattle in the driveway, the big yellow lab laying across the threshold in the open doorway, the white roses in full, wild bloom, the warm, golden 5 o'clock sunlight peeking and shimmering through the cracks in the canopy of leaves overhead, the quiet peace of a summer afternoon. Such a simple, easy thing to ride my bike around my neighborhood and yet I had never thought to do it. I could swear I was thirteen again, weightless, free, and just generally in love. I realize it's hardly a stretch to say I could have been back in Long Beach since the two 'hoods look similar and it's only 30 miles away regardless, but I could have been back in Long Beach circa 1992. If I could have just closed my eyes, I think I would have been there, but my bike riding balance did not permit it. Close enough.

Anyway, that's it. I realize this post is all over the map, but, hey, this is a blog, not a magazine. Forgive me.

ENOUGH ALREADY!

I have been biting my tongue on this one because even I realize that this particular inanity is without even a hint of charm, but it's too much, I can't take it anymore. I lack the discipline to continue to turn the other cheek.

First of all, I realize I have a certain level of vanity, which I think justifies my cause in this instance as it takes the form of fashion sense. I fully understand and appreciate a fashion trend. I read the catalogs, I feel the same itch and temptation as the next gal. I am a loyal GQ subscriber for crying out loud. I get it. BUT! I think what we have here is a danger ever present with following fashion trends, but rarely realized. If a trend becomes hot enough and enough people jump on board, it overflows so to speak. You walk down the street and see half the people wearing the exact same thing. In that case, the point of fashion, to express oneself or at least project one's ideal image of oneself, is turned on its head. The desire to look special ends up making you look quite ordinary and humorously conformist.

In other words...

CAN WE FUCKING STOP WITH THE NAUTICAL-ISH BLUE-AND-WHITE HORIZONTAL STRIPED SHIRTS AND SWEATERS?!?!?!?!?! ENOUGH ALREADY!!! IT'S TOO MUCH!!! NO ONE IS SAILING!!! AS EXPLAINED ABOVE, IT'S A NICE LOOKING GARMENT, BUT IT LOOKS STUPID WHEN EVERY THIRD PERSON IS WEARING IT AND EVEN WORSE WHEN YOU HAVE THREE VARIATIONS OF IT AND WEAR ALL THREE IN ANY GIVEN WORK WEEK!

(Deep breath)

Sorry, I know that sounds petty, but I just needed to vent.

Can we talk about music for a minute?

Because, frankly, I am overwhelmed. Also, I woke up this morning to "I Saw Her Standing There" so this day was decided from the start.

I'm a big concert guy. Last summer, I barely went to any shows at all. There was nothing that I felt like I absolutely had to see, nothing that justified the cost, and it just kind of felt like a down year anyway. Apparently, that was merely an offsetting precursor to this summer. We are officially looking at the Summer of Music(Love), folks. Here are the shows that have so far moved me to put my cats and car in hock:

Paul Simon @ The Music Box

Punch Brothers @ Largo

Mindy Smith @ Bootleg Theater (not yet purchased, yet a foregone conclusion)

Steep Canyon Rangers w/Steve Martin @ Largo

Brandi Carlile @ House of Blues, Anaheim

Stephen Kellogg @ Bootleg Theater

Star Wars in Concert @ Hollywood Bowl

Alison Krauss & Union Station @ The Greek Theatre

Eddie Vedder @ Long Beach Terrace Theatre

The Avett Brothers @ Pechanga Resort & Casino

And that's not even counting Prince's 21-night run that is an irresistible $25/person including fees! Couple that concert mania with the fact that I have been flooded with new(to me, at least) music in the last week. My buddy T-Bone dropped about 8 new albums on me just before about 7 other new albums from some of my favorite artists came out on the following Tuesday. Thank the lawd for the Amazon MP3 store and their great sales. One in particular that I need to talk to you about is the new album from Brett Dennen, "Loverboy." I think the best introduction to the album is provided by the man himself on the inside cover of the CD jacket:

This is an ode to the wonderful feeling of love. Whether it be romantic, friendly, or just plain caring for people. This album is about having fun and letting go, even if it hurts. Enjoy it in the car, on the dance floor, in headphones, or even on your scrawny little computer speakers. If you love it, share with a friend. If you don't love it, listen to something else that makes you happy. Don't take it too seriously. Thank you for all your love and support.

Mark me down in the "love it, share it with a friend" camp. I lurve this album. Friends, I defy you to listen to the song posted above at a volume level exceeding social acceptance and NOT find yourself dancing. I was blasting this song on my way into work this morning and I was literally moved to tears of joy. This is infectious, joyous, life-celebrating music and, although it only entered my life yesterday, I am already eating it alive. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and declare "Loverboy," officially, The Album of the Summer*. There it is! Boom! I just did that!

*Honorable mention to Guster's "Easy Wonderful." Have no doubt, you will be right up in there, but you released just a little too early to take the title**.

**Story of my life.

I'm back with more pointless drivel!

--I really don't understand why my neighbors have such a hard time avoiding the snails on the sidewalk. Part of me thinks they are not trying to avoid them at all. Part of me thinks they are sadistic, serial killers of innocent, slow-moving gastropads. It's beginning to bother me, actually. As I am hunched over catching my breath after running, I've started taking a closer look at these little guys and I've taken a bit of a liking to them. They're cute. Sure, they eat the plants, but I don't exactly see the garden in dire straits. Just yesterday, I saw a little baby snail. He/she was pointed right at the crushed carcus of an adult snail. I know how ridiculous this sounds as I know snails are not emotional creatures, but, still, I felt for the poor little thing. SAVE THE SNAILS! Hey, that sounds like a great t-shirt.

----If you know me at all, you would probably guess that my alarm clock is set to wake me up with the radio. If I knew me and I were guessing, I would go so far as to venture that I probably had one of those Ipod alarm clocks, complete with its own wake-up playlist*. Well, we would all be wrong. For years, I've gone the way of the buzzer, thinking it was more likely to actually wake me up rather than provide a musical score to my dream state. Last week, I began to question this paradigm. I decided to try the radio. Friends, I will never go back. Isn't it incredible how often the timing of the alarm kicking on and the radio playing the perfect song are miraculously in sync? Friday morning, I woke up to the opening notes of "Grease," I shit you not. My other fear during my buzzer era was that my waking state could be quite volatile emotionally and the wrong song could ruin my day before it even started. Admittedly, I can't yet rule this out entirely, but I will say that the commercials I have encountered a couple of times have caused nothing worse than a snooze hit. And, of course, how could I have underestimated the sheer joy of waking up to the right song? Yes friends, I'm a radio waker now. Who says people don't change?

----The weather is conspiring against me it would seem. All week, as I am required to slave away indoors, the skies are gorgeous powder or royal blue, the sun is shining warmly and brightly, the slight breeze only serving to transport the smell of flowers in bloom. It's agonizing to the soul to see it out there through a 10-square-foot portal of tinted glass while I sit in this dank, swampy tin can of an office. Then the weekend comes and you can imagine me with my flip flops, short shorts, and beach towel, ready to catch some rays only to open the door and have it blown back in my face by a gust of wind from an overcast sky. NO FAIR, I say! In the words of Mel Gibson's character in "Random," GIMME BACK MY SUN!!** And we're right on pace for the same thing to repeat this weekend! ARGH! I'm going to my first baseball game of the season on Sunday and I'll be damned if I am taking a sweatshirt!


*As I think about this, I realize I need one immediately for the sole purpose of waking each and every morning to "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." I just can't imagine it gets any better than that.

**That's someone else's joke and I have been trying for years to remember where I saw it. I may never know.

If Not Now, When?

That's the question I saw painted over the door when I walked in. I wondered if it was really there for all to see or if my nerves had steered me into hallucination. Still unsure, I proceeded inside, took a seat in the black room and began talking to whomever was seated nearest me. It's a rare level of nervousness which manifests as outgoing. Once we got started and everyone was introduced, the tension began to release. These were nice enough people and they were no less insecure on that Saturday than I was. Within an hour, I was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger, holding hands and on the verge of tears. This was my reintroduction to acting.

It had been a long time since the glory days of high school drama. My dad and stepmom say they have never seen me as high on life as when I came off the stage from performing in "Hello, Dolly." They're probably right. Being eighteen years old, I took that feeling for granted, or perhaps I just didn't fully understand how rare and precious that feeling becomes later in life. I managed to sneak a few acting classes into my college coursework over the years, but it was really just a keep-in-touch sort of thing, as much as I still enjoyed it. I had decided that I wanted to be behind the camera, so film school was the route I chose. Thinking back now, I'm not sure why I made the choice to put acting off to the side. I think part of it was cynicism about what a theatre degree would "mean" in the real world. Maybe film seemed at least a little more practical without totally selling out my dreams. There was probably an element of intimidation and fear in there as well. Big fish finds himself in a giant pond with thousands of fish skinnier, prettier, and more brash than he, that sort of thing. To some degree, I think I chickened out. I do remember actually thinking to myself that I would pursue writing and then wiggle my way into my own projects as an actor.

The joke, of course, was on me. There is no easy way, no fast track to finding true fulfillment. I was naive and, I'll say it, weak in giving up so easily. Five years after graduating college, I found myself working in the film and TV business, but as an accountant, of all things. Turns out, writing is pretty tough to break into as well. As I would sit in my office, lost, idly wondering what I could have done differently, what I could do now to recapture that feeling of purpose, of pride and passion. I would think about acting. I thought maybe I could find a community theatre production and go for that. I didn't want to go pro, I just wanted to taste the feeling of acting again. Despite my googling for theatre groups, classes, etc., I never found the right fit. This went on for years.

Thank God for Groupon*. There it was staring at me right in the inbox. A three-hour acting class, offered as a preview of the full class, for thirty bucks. I checked my calendar, but there were no excuses to be found. I let it marinate for a few hours, which is to say I gave myself time to talk myself out of it. Luckily, that little voice inside that always tries to keep things safe and easy could muster no argument more compelling than the simple truth that I was more likely to regret not doing this than to regret giving it a try. I booked it.

The class was taught by the founder of the school, and I was instantly impressed by him. Everything he said was hitting me like a spear to the heart. Opening yourself up to your partner (and the world) and letting go of your fear of what may happen when you do...Focusing on your partner, finding all your answers in them...Keenly observing what they are communicating to you with their energy, their body language, their eyes, regardless of their words...Learning to let go of your preconceived notions of how something should sound and just live it without thinking about it...Resisting the urge to make it about you, to put on a show, to "feel" what you interpret the "correct" feeling to be...Acting or no acting, these were ways to live life. I was in. Also, the shit worked. At the start of class, we were paired up and given scenes to read on stage, in front of the class and a video camera. Then we spent the next hour and a half going through exercises designed to aid us in truly connecting with our partner. Thus the hand-holding and almost-tears. At the conclusion of class, we did our scenes again and then they played back the two versions. It was night and day. Don't get me wrong, we weren't miraculously transformed into Phillip Seymour Hoffman or Meryl Streep. The latter scenes were not "good" per se in that you would pay to see them, but without fail, across the board, they were absolutely more real. In three hours, you could see definitive progress in both the experienced actors and the people who had never taken a class in their lives. When I walked out of that class and you might have expected me to kick my heels in the air I was so overjoyed. I felt overwhelmingly like....myself, if that makes sense. More so than I had in a long time, I realized.

I may have paused again, but there was little doubt I was going to sign up for the full 4-week, 5-nights-a-week class. It was the rare risk you actually look forward to taking. I couldn't get it off my brain for the month/month and a half before it started. And now that it has...Let me tell you, I am not a great writer, but I think I have my moments. At the very least, I feel like I can clearly express my feelings. Not this time. As I write these words, I feel like a second grader explaining the theory of relativity. I have found myself, my friends. My heart leaps. My soul sings. My spirit glows with a tireless nuclear pulse that cares nothing for rest and has an insatiable appetite for work. I have been keeping a journal to track what I have learned as well as my feelings about the experience. On my second entry, I see that I wrote "How could I stop doing this?" Five nights a week, I am driving through some of the worst, most debilitating traffic known to man and I haven't groaned or shuddered once. All I can see is what's on the other side of it. I am alive! I was trying to track down my copy of "Outliers" because I wanted to quote it, but I'll rather badly paraphrase that it described a person's dance-in-the-kitchen moment, that moment where something clicks and they suddenly realize what they are going to do with themselves. I feel like I am having that moment after class every single night. It's a shame that it's so late and Nicole is asleep because there are jigs to be danced.

I know what you're thinking. The answer is I don't know. As giddy and exuberant as I feel, I am not naive. While I certainly can fantasize about quitting my day job and doing this full time, I realize my chances of making a living out of this are one-in-a-million. I'm not eighteen anymore. I'm thirty-two with all the responsibilities that entails (sans children). The beauty of it is, I don't care. I don't expect that I will be making this my job, but I know that I have found my work. I will continue to study. I will continue to work, in classes, student films, community theatre, or wherever they will have me. I'll act for my cats on the stage of my living room if all else fails. The joy is in the doing, not in the having. It's an incredibly liberating feeling.

We're just coming to the end of Week 3 with one more to go. It's going to be sad when it's over. It will be nice to get more sleep, see my wife, be able to watch a movie or a game during the week and ween myself off my burgeoning caffeine dependency, but I will certainly miss the invigoration of heart and the freedom from the constraints of self-consciousness I have enjoyed each night. I know I will be itching to get back at it. I'll make the most out of a short break and then start the next class in March. Assuming they'll have me, which I think is likely, but not a certainty.

I feel like Jerry Maguire at the copymat, mission statement in hand.

...And that's the big problem with Costco peanut butter.

The jars, while economical, are just too damn big. Even using your longest butter knife, when that jar runs low it's like staring down into an infinite abyss. I'm just trying to make a PBJ and you'd think I was carving a jack-o-lantern. I get back to my desk and I have peanut butter on my elbows. Come on guys, either shorten the depth or widen the mouth. The peanut butter public is begging you.

The Art of Travel

I like to read as much as the next person. I've usually got a book by my bed side and another in my desk drawer at work, but I am far from what you might call "avid." As much I usually enjoy the books I read, it's not often that I encounter one that hits me in the gut, that speaks to my soul, that truly touches and enlightens me. I was lucky enough to finish one such book recently, The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton.

I love to travel, not simply for the destination, but for the process as well. I love the anticipation that hangs in the air at any airport, the empowering anonymity of flying alone, and the freshness and curiosity with which new places inspire to be viewed. The Art of Travel examines how and why we travel with the wit, charm, and insight to make you realize that, with the right mindset, a voyage around your own bedroom can be as fascinating as a trip around the world. Divided into five sections, "Departure," "Motives," "Landscape," "Art," and "Return," de Botton weaves and relates his own travel experiences with the experiences and writings of fellow travelers such as Vincent Van Gogh, William Wordsworth, and Edward Hopper. A big part of why I found this book so moving was de Botton's analysis of the work of Van Gogh and Hopper, two of my favorite artists.

"Hopper also took an interest in trains. He was drawn to the atmosphere inside half-empty carriages making their way across a landscape: the silence that reigns inside while the wheels beat in rhythm against the rails outside, the dreaminess fostered by the noise and the view from the windows--a dreaminess in which we seem to stand outside our normal selves and to have access to thoughts and memories that may not arise in more settled circumstances. The woman in Compartment C, Car 293 (1938) seems in such a frame of mind, reading her book and shifting her gaze between the carriage and the view."

Which gives way to de Botton expanded on the idea...

"Journeys are the midwives of though. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape. The mind may be reluctant to think properly when thinking is all it's supposed to do; the task can be as paralysing as having to tell a joke or mimic an accent on demand. Thinking improves when parts of the mind are given other tasks--charged with listening to music, for example, or following a line of trees. The music or the view distracts for a time the nervous, censorious, practical part of the mind which is inclined to shut down when it notices something difficult emerging in consciousness, and which runs scared of memories, longings, and introspective or original ideas, preferring instead the administrative and the impersonal."

Can I get an "Amen?" I was two drinks deep at thirty thousand feet and listening to jazz when I read that and my heart practically sprang out of my shirt. Those moments are so special when you truly connect to an artistic work, when you feel that it represents your own thoughts or experiences so absolutely perfectly and articulates real meaning from what may have been abstract feelings or intuitions. Aside from my wallet, my phone, and my ipod, the one thing I always make sure to have on my person when traveling is my little notebook, for the exact reason described my de Botton above. Now are these musings any more valuable to the world than "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy?" Maybe not, but isn't there great personal value in at least charming or provoking yourself?

Some other pearls pulled from the many pages I dog-eared in this book:

"If we find poetry in the service station and the motel, if we are drawn to the airport or the train carriage, it is perhaps because, despite their architectural compromises and discomforts, despite their garish colors and harsh lighting, we implicitly feel that these isolated places offer us a setting for an alternative to the selfish ease, the habits and confinement of the ordinary, rooted world."

"I'm obsessed with inventing stories for people I come across. An overwhelming curiosity makes me ask myself what their lives might be like. I want to know what they do, where they're from, their names, what they're thinking about at that moment, what they regret, what they hope for, whom they've loved, what they dream of...and if they happen to be a woman (especially youngish ones), then the urge becomes intense."

"Decades later, the Alps would continue to live within (Wordsworth) and to strengthen his spirit whenever he evoked them. Their survival led him to argue that we may see in nature certain scenes that will stay with us throughout our lives and offer us, every time they enter our consciousness, both a contrast to and relief from present difficulties."

"There were bits of paper all over the car now. The standard of the word-painting was not far above that of my childlike drawing of an oak tree in the Langdale Valley. But quality was not the point. I had at least attempted to follow one strand of what Ruskin judged to be the twin purposes of art: to make send of pain and to fathom the sources of beauty."

I was about to quote one more when I realized it was the closing line of the entire book. There's nothing better than a great last line so, on the off chance you might read The Art of Travel for yourself, I don't want to deny you the satisfaction.

There are not many books that I read again and again over the years. This is certainly going to be one of them.

The Future's So Bright, I guess

Greetings, friends. I've got a bigger, better post in me still, but I wanted to take a second to talk about sunglasses. They are a privelage, not a right. If it were up to me, anyone who's abusing 'em would be losin' 'em (I feel so Sarah Palin right now). Obviously, we're all familiar with the primary offense of wearing sunglasses at night or indoors. Unless your name is Jack Nicholson, Jay-Z, or Kanye West, it's just not acceptable. I'm not even willing to discuss this. Period, end of story. A secondary offense, however, is growing in popularity and, I feel, needs to be addressed. Yes, I'm talking about these people that wear their sunglasses indoors, but rest them on their head like a hair clip or a headband. If you just popped inside for a minute between beach volleyball games or some yard work, fine. But if you are sitting at your desk for 8 hours in a windowless building, there is simply no reasonable excuse for keeping your sunglasses on your head.

Someday I'll get it right, a true story

One of the first gifts I ever gave my future wife was a pair of shoes. Since the size of her feet was not yet second nature to me at that point, you can understand how I could guess wrong on her shoe size. I went back and exchanged them for her. No problem. Then the new pair didn't fit quite right either so I returned to the store once again and exchanged for yet another half size difference. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but this episode would prove to be a harbinger of shoe buying shenanigans to come. As another example, take this scene from last night...

"I think they are just a little too small."

"But every pair of shoes in your closet that shows a size, shows this size."

"The shoes in my closet?"

"Every shoe in your closet."

"Oh, those are too small."

"Of course they are."

Long time, no see

It's not that I've had nothing to say, it's just that it's a difficult time. Anything I have thought about posting seemed frivolous and pointless at best and moronically insensitive at worst. However, I would just like to check in and dispense one piece of advice for the holiday season.

Do NOT watch "Toy Story 3" prior to decorating your Christmas tree. You are setting yourself up for a festival of guilt. As we began drawing ornaments from the huge spread on our dining room table and placing them on the tree, we couldn't help but feel bad for all the little ornaments that were not going to make it onto the tree this year. They only get unwrapped for a couple hours and are then stored away again for another year. We could hear their little voices in our heads, commiserating about how they weren't going to make the cut because we didn't love them anymore.

Thanks a lot, Toy Story.

With my compliments...

FULL FORCE!

First gingerbread latte of the season, folks! Drink. It. In. A tip of the cap and a boisterous "Cheers" to my contacts in the Rockies who inform me that Denver received its first dusting of snow today. I salute you with a fair share of harmless envy. The time has come, my friends. The time has most definitely come. In a related story, I am burning through my Christmas shopping with wild abandon and with great success. My old man laid down a dare to be done by December 1 and while I don't think that is possible for a working stiff, I embrace the challenge. It is going to require focus and decisiveness the likes of which I have never known, but I have faith in my shopping fortitude. Time to get after it!

(No, those strategically placed desk-size Yankee candles do not appear by accident.)

YOU LOST!!!

The Day After.

All I wanted to do was just post a couple of videos and leave it at that, but they apparently do not exist anywhere in cyberspace. Don't you hate it when that happens? I did however find the audio so allow me to briefly set up the clips.

These were SNL commercial/campaign ad parodies starring Will Ferrell as candidate Mack North. These are post-election campaign ads and I think the only other thing you might need to know is that at one point Mack North tracks down his defeated opponent in a grocery store parking lot. Enjoy.

http://planetwill.jt.org/media/sounds/wavs/macknorthad1.wav

http://planetwill.jt.org/media/sounds/wavs/macknorthad2.wav

And just in case you missed it amid all the hot air and posturing of the election madness, there was one measure that passed that I think we can all be excited about and proud of.

YES WE DID!

The Annoyance of Democracy

I VOTED! I VOTED! OKAY? I VOTED! NOW CAN YOU PLEASE LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE?

I am not passionate about any of the candidates in today's California state election nor any of its ballot measures. Yet I am almost as excited for today's election as I was in 2008 for no better reason than its symbolic end to all of the campaign ads popping up anywhere I cast a glance for the last 10 months or so. No more insultingly manipulative, childish, he-said-she-said commercials. For the non-residents, one ad actually pinned a Pinocchio nose on its subject. It was that bad. And that's just the TV ads! I get about 20 e-mails, texts, and phone calls a day. Last night I had just crawled into bed around 11:30 when I heard my text chime go off. I got up to check it, thinking any text coming in at 11:30 on a Monday is probably something I need to read right away. Nope, yet another text reminding me to vote. Thank God it's over.

A coworker said she saw Cheech Marin at her polling place. I think his silent presence alone qualifies as electioneering for Prop 19, doesn't it?

I do love the "I Voted" sticker. I wear it with a great deal of pride. Another coworker of mine said this morning that she "never votes." I was tempted to press for further explanation but who needs the aggravation?

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(SIDEBAR)

Is it just me or is it mostly women that enjoy Thai food? I can't recall ever hearing a man suggest "Let's go for Thai food" yet I hear women do it all the time. Maybe it's code.

All Hallow's Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve!

Halloween Week. Finally.

I went to BB&B to replenish my Yankee Candle supply today and I made a switch from my usual favorite, "Autumn Leaves." Well, I made a change with my little work candle anyway. I ventured out to "Pumpkin Pie" and wow am I ever glad I did. It is a revelation! Unfortunately, I have to keep reminding myself that I can't eat the candle.

My buddy Zach comes into town this weekend. This means I will be rocking the karaoke for the first time in I don't know how long. A year at least. I have to admit, I'm nervous. It's been a while, ya know? I'm sure I'll be fine once I get that first song under my belt, but which song do I choose? I guess I'll have to read the room, get a feel for what they want to hear. It would be a lot easier if Bill Brasky hadn't eaten my song list.

I feel I need to do some baking these next few nights. Gotta have something to bring in to work on Friday, something for the tailgate Saturday, and something to indulge in Sunday night. I wish I were a better baker. With cooking, I feel like I manage just fine. I can look at what we have and whip something up. I still have much to learn, but certain basic instincts have been developed. I can improvise. With baking, I am a slave to mixes and rigid instructions. Perhaps if I actually sought out recipes more often instead of being lured by mixes on the spot.

Things were a bit slow under the ol' fluorescents last week, so much so that we found ourselves coloring Halloween decorations for our department. One of the last ones I posted up was a picture of Charlie Brown in his mangled ghost costume pulling a rock out of his trick-or-treat bag. Since then, I have been shocked and disheartened at the widespread depravity that apparently surrounds me on a daily basis. Nobody friggin' gets it.

"Why does that ghost have so many holes in its sheet?"

"Is that ghost holding a rock? Why?"

BECAUSE IT'S CHARLIE FRICKIN' BROWN! AS IN, "IT'S THE GREAT PUMPKIN, CHARLIE BROWN"!!! ARE YOU FROM RUSSIA? HAVE YOU NO CHILDHOOD TO SPEAK OF!?!?

Forgive me, I don't really want to be one of those "you haven't seen (blank)?!?!" a-holes, but I guess I kind of am in this case.

I am really loving football this year. I love it every year, but usually my initial testosterone-laced enthusiasm wanes by about Week 4. Usually by then I don't want to sit inside all day unless it's a particularly good matchup. There is something in the air for me this year though I guess because I can't get enough. I actually feel a little post-football hangover on Tuesday mornings when I realize I have to wait a few days before it comes on again. I can think of no reasonable explanation for it, but I am not fighting it. Are you ready for some football? Yes I am, Hank. Yes, I am. If only my fantasy team shared my zest for the game.

I went to the movies by myself Saturday night and that is always an interesting experience to fly solo among the clouds of couples on a prime date night. It's sort of like being invisible. Or like being an ax-murderer, as it turns out. The movie let out around midnight and I had to go down to the bowels of the parking structure to get back to my car. As I got down to Level Three, it was just me and the couple a few steps ahead of me on the escalator. We all got off at Four and it did have that sort of slasher-flick vibe. The girl looked behind her nervously a few times, clearly wondering what someone would be doing at a movie theater alone on a Saturday night. I pressed my keyless entry as soon as I got in range so she would see the lights blink on my Prius and know I was completely harmless.

I just got a hankering for one of those candy cane martinis I was mixing last Christmas. Back into the closet, Christmas! The world is not yet ready for all the joyous splendor that is you! It's not your fault! Your time will come! Somebody hand me something pumpkin, STAT!

Due to contractual obligations with the National Football League, we will now be leaving this blog and moving to Monday Night Football....TOUCHDOWN ROMOCOP!

Riptide/Open Door

You know that feeling when you're standing in the ocean and the tide starts to pull you out with it? You are trying to stand tall and balanced but it just keeps pulling. You have to keep giving little steps further and further if only to keep from getting swept off your feet entirely. You don't even realize how those steps are adding up, how much ground you have sacrificed. Suddenly, you're neck deep and it takes all you have just to keep your mouth above the surface, just breathing. You try to stand but you're too deep now. You try to swim but you are simply denied by the current. You swim with everything you've got but you don't gain a stroke. So you tread water and look to the horizon, waiting for that one big wave that will carry you back to shore.

Yeah, that feeling. It sucks, right?

On a more pleasant note, I am very pleased to announce that I have adopted an open door policy on Christmas music. This is not to be confused with Open Season, which means deliberately playing all xmas tunes all the time. No, this open door policy merely stipulates that should a Christmas song occur randomly within an all-song shuffle, it will be allowed to run its course at normal volume. Call it Phase One of the transition to Christmas.

Mixed Bag

--Do you ever want to ask people to explain their ringtones? There is a lady at work whose ringtone is some sort of bastardized, uncool imitation of the "Airwolf" theme. It's not funny, it's not subtle, and it's certainly not the default. It does represent a clear choice being made. I just wanna ask her, "What are you going for here? What are you trying to say with this ringtone because I am not receiving the message."

--Is it okay to be angry with coworkers that come to work sick and refuse to go home? I hope so, because I am peeved. My boss was out yesterday with a violent stomach flu. He had gotten it from his daughter who had gotten it from his wife so this thing was no flimsy thread. This baby had legs. And yet here he was the very next day. I took one look at him and put my shirt over my mouth. He still looked peeked, sickly, pale. He even confessed to not being "totally fine." SO THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! Who brings an infectious agent like the flu into a limited air circulation and then hands papers back and forth all day? I have been sterilizing like mad, but wouldn't you know it, my stomach doesn't feel quite right. Grrrrrrrr...

--I'd like to announce my latest great crush...singer/songwriter Brandi Carlile. I've listened to her music for years and thought she was a good-looking woman, but she didn't seem like my type. She was never smiling in any of the pictures I saw so I got the impression she may be a serious, depressive type. Then there was the concert. She was quite personable, funny and, I dare say, endearing. Did I mention that she closed her set with a heart-shattering cover of Alphaville's 80s classic "Forever Young?" There was a link to the show I went to but the recording quality is better on this one. I'm smitten.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDVwtPAqgGc


--I've noticed a couple guys in the office sporting plaids or flannels without undershirts this week. It's a bold move, but as long as the button situation doesn't work out to be too low, I think it might work. What the hell, I'll try it.