You freaks piss me off

First off, at some point, it is retarded for adults to celebrate Halloween. Seriously, costumes after age 7 is just silly, after age 23, it's generally a sign of pedophilia. Now, I am all for fake holidays. Just last Valentines Day I purchased a huge heart shaped box of chocolates and gave them to Becky, who in turn thought enough of me to downgrade our relationship from friends with benefits to friends with texting.

Just as the sun was setting yesterday, which is you would be nice enough to check your calendars, you would notice was October 29th, some little street urchins wandered up to my door and said "Trick or Treat sir." I gave them some candy. I then did what I thought any right thinking adult in such a situation would do. I turned off all the lights in the house, turned on the burglar alarm, took a long hot shower, shaved, called the Professor and went on a date.

When did parents begin taking children on the candy run two days in advance of the 31st? How could this happen? How do you even justify it? Do you just have an inkling for some bite sized sugar blobs and you are too lazy to go to the corner store? I do not celebrate Halloween, never have, never will. I once dated a witch, learned my lesson, enough said.

Well, not nearly enough. Here's the thing about dating a witch, oh sure, a witch is not just magic and freaky and willing, if you know what I mean, but also with the freaky secret potions and stuff, things go from wild to super wild with a sip of frogs wart and mink tea like you would not believe. Here is what you never think about. When someone has a flying broom, what do you do with said broom when you are trying to sleep? Yeah, think about that.

So, I am not the sort of person who complains about much, but the date with the professor went from banal to sublime when I was foolish enough to ask if there were any exams I might be able to help grade. I ended up driving down Liberty by myself around 11PM last night and at a red light I looked over to the car on my left, where I noticed the driver was indeed a zombie. Oh, I thought, zombies no longer wander the frigid streets looking for brains, they now drive Ford Focus sedans listening to Lady Gaga. Fabulous. I think the zombie made eye contact, realized that I too had made some sort of eye contact and at the next light I was prepared to document the interaction via my cellphone camera.

Lucky for me I rolled up to another red light a few blocks later and I snuck my camera up to the window and pointed it at the zombie and flashed a picture. I did not want to look at the zombie, I did not want to acknowledge the zombies presence. I have seen just enough zombie related movie to know that if you look at them just enough times they begin to lust after eating your delicious brain, and lord knows my brain has a particular taste that zombies have feasted on often. Then the car next to me rolled forward and I realized it was not the Ford Focus sedan that had held the zombie. No, this was a newer Mercedes with an elderly and feeble man in the passenger seat, staring at me, Sadly, pleadingly looking at me as if my lone camera shot had somehow stolen what remained of his faltering soul. He stared at me until the light changed, almost begging me with his eyes to explain why I found it necessary to take his picture like that, all secretively and everything. Shamefully I gunned it when the light turned green and raced home.

This is why I hate halloween.

In memory of Andrew

There is a beautiful and sexy woman from my kids bus stop who began talking to me about the skiing adventures she has seemingly been going on every weekend of late. She had joined some local club of hipsters and athletes and on one weekend she might be touring the Mount St. Helens volcano on ski's and another she would be down hilling in Montana.

She told me how met this guy named Andrew who would join her on her weekend adventures. She was always talking about how handsome, smart, sexy and wonderful he was. Apparently he just happened to be gay. There is always that nugget that removes men from total and complete perfection. Usually is goes something like, "he is swell and smart and successful and, Married." This time she got to build Andrew up with how perfect everything about him was, and then, Gay. When she would talk about Andrew, I often would ask her why she did not set me up. I thought it would be fun. There was talk of a date, and then there would be recollections of late night skiing and a dinner in a diner off some beaten path, it was all so adventurous and romantic.

This went on for a month or so. Andrew stories, skiing, semi-romantic dinners, long drives back from semi-romantic dinners and skiing. Ir really did seem almost perfect. I mean, think about it, those long days of physical exertion have a way of bringing out the best in people. I have found the best people I know are athletic. We ride bikes together, or kick soccer balls, or just sweat. It is hard to be creepy when you are exerting yourself.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by my friends house and she came out and hugged me and started crying. Big heavy crying. Dangerous crying. Andrew had been hit while riding his motorcycle. He was dead.

We sat there, awkward. I never have proper words in cases like that, so I tend to choose silence. And listen. She sobbed, that pained sobbing that people do when all of a sudden someone who should not go missing is gone. We all pretend to be profound at moments like that, as if death and dying is something we understand, but we don't, or at least I don't. I do know that not having the answer to immediate loss of someone important is no excuse to being cold, so I sat and offered my hand, and my ear and my heart.

-

There is a house on a hillside in Seattle that over looks the cities industrial area, and to the right, the baseball stadium and beyond everything, all of Puget Sound. But it is also right above the busiest freeway in the Pacific Northwest. A sad trade off. The house is on a very steep road that leads to my friend Glenn's house. I would ride my bike up that steep hill and often stop for water and a rest in front of what had become my favorite house. For many years that house had been deserted and sometimes I thought about looking into buying it, and fixing it, and enjoying the view.

I never actually looked into buying it, but Andrew did. He bought the house, painted it, cleaned it up and ripped out the wild growth of blackberries and planted a beautiful garden filled with flowers, native shrubs and a wonderful collection of herbs.

About a week ago my friend told me that Andrew's mother was going to come to Seattle to clean out his house, and to do the things people do when they lose a family member. I offered to help and asked where Andrew had lived. That's when she told me that he lived in the house that for years I have adored.

My help was not needed. But two days ago she asked if I could drop off a jacket at Andrews house, and that there would be another waiting for me, left hanging at the back door. A simple drop off and exchange deal. I would not have to interact with the grieving mother, which would be best for me, because I am nothing if not terminally shy when it comes to interacting with emotional people.

I rode my bike into the city, thru the industrial area and up that steep challenging hill. Stopping as I have done dozens of times at the house I adore. The view was everything you would want, a busy industrial area, the Mariners stadium sitting alone and quiet and off in the background, a dark storm blowing around the Olympics on the other side of Puget Sound. The jacket was on the door, and I exchanged them and stood at the dark and lonely door. I could hear a voice in the house. I knew it had to be Andrews mother. I wanted to knock, but I knew better.

I took the jacket and folded it up and put it in my backpack and quietly closed the screen door. Then I did something that is completely against my character and something that I did without even bothering to think. I pressed the doorbell. I don't even know why I did it. Soon enough, Andrews mother opened the door. She has lite gray hair, a warm beautiful face, her eyes dark with circles and a deep red from lack of sleep and countless hours of crying.

I told her who I was and that I was just exchanging jackets. She opened the door, leaned toward me and we hugged one another, deeply and in that moment, for me, everything changed. I had not given any thought to what I would say, and maybe that was a mistake. I started to tell her that I was sorry for her loss and that I was a father of a son and when I heard what had happened...and then I started to cry and she started to cry and she hugged me some more and we stood there, embracing and that storm that was brewing slowly started to rain down upon us.

She held my hand and invited me into the house. We talked for quite a long time. She showed me the poster from the memorial service that the hiking club had put together for Andrew. There were about 15 pictures of Andrew on a poster board. Always with snow or mountains or bikes around him and he an incredibly handsome man, always smiling a large, beautiful infectious smile.

It was inspiring to be near her. I can not even imagine the pain she was feeling and the strength it takes to dismantle her sons life.

Tomorrow I am taking the day and driving Andrews mother around, there are packages to ship, a lawyer to talk to, a bank account of some sort, paper work and necessary busy work. She has no car. I offered to help and she accepted. She told me I was an angel. I reminded her that I too had a son. She kissed me on the cheek and I got on my bike and I was on my way.

Addicts

Found video

Love for readers

Dear people who read this blog -

First, thank you, who ever you are, those people, you people, the people who happen by here between porn stops and shopping for shoes, and reading this gibberish.

Yesterday, which is today as I write this, has been the busiest day ever on this blog, not that I pay attention to such things, but I do because I am ramping up the big news.

Did I mention the big news? I should, because this involves you. That part is true. Speaking of true, I have received some email, to be clear, Beth, my lesbian lawyer and dog is not dead, yet. She is not suicidal, yet. She is not single, yet. So stop with the emails. After all, and I know this will illicit even more unwanted emails, she is a dog, when not filing meaningless legal briefs, she spends countless hours actually licking herself. Seriously, I am not making that up, lately she has taken over my bed and she can be found there 90 percent of the day, either sleeping, or licking herself as if that area of her body was prepared by Martha Stewart.

Look, November First I am rolling out some sort of big time announcement thing and I will be selling some new paintings to raise money for what will be a new life changing project, and just with that sentence I have given away the whole thing. I'll stop there.

Filled with hate

It does not pain me in the least to admit that I currently hate Christiano Mexicano. I do, an awful lot.

First off you have to understand that Mexicano is a genius with his hands and he has a face that only Picasso could have imagined, but he gives me this look of such contempt that I can do nothing but respond with pure and complete hatred.

I hired Mexicano to do some labor for me this past summer. I wanted to expand my tiny backyard garden and I was suffering the effects of a pulled lower back muscle. Mexicano answered an online advertisement, showed up the next day in old dirty jeans and a sweat stained white t-shirt and since that time he has pretty much been here every day, sometimes working, sometimes drinking beer on the front porch and leering at the pretty girls who sometimes walk by.

Mexicano is an illiterate idiot, but a genius with his hands. I did not know that when I hired him to hand till the back yard. He did that in a weeks time, for 20 dollars. Did I mention he is not good with money? Either not good, or just a moron, I am not sure, and to be honest, I don't care. Here is a recent example. He completely rebuilt my kitchen. He hand built all new cabinets, added a beautiful hand built island, new plumbing, a Mexican tile back splash that surrounds the entire cabinet area and the island shares the same tile design, except he put the sink in the island along with a new dishwasher. All of this was done for 300 dollars. I had to buy the wood.

Mexicano is a genius with his hands. That much is true. I paid him in small bills, as he requested, but when I would pay him, he would leer at me with disdain and ask if I had any more beer. The utter contempt he had for me seemed to drain out of his every pore. He must sense my deep hatred for him. His jagged cheek bones almost seemed weaponized when he would look at me, asking if I was paying him completely. "Completely?"

"Yes, completely."

"You mean, is it all there?"

"Yes, completely."

"Well, if you remember, I paid you 100 dollars when you started. Then I paid you 50 dollars a couple of weeks ago. So, I only owe you 150. That is what I am paying you."

"Right."

When he said right, I think he spit a little, in my general direction.

I turned and started to walk out of my new and incredibly beautiful kitchen, I turned a little and over my shoulder, I said, "the kitchen looks great by the way."

"Right." He spit out, managing to fill that single word with disgust.

I hate Christiano Mexicano.

It was always going to be that way. Mexicano talked me into growing watermelon plants this summer. I had never thought to grow watermelon before and probably for good reason. The plants spread like wildfire, devouring all the other plant growing area, drinking in all the water and soon enough, the watermelons were the only plants in our entire, expanded garden. Just last week I paid Mexicano 25 cents to harvest all the watermelon. We had over 50 watermelons. He carried a bushel into the new kitchen and set it onto the beautiful new island. "You must love the watermelon, yes?"

"Actually, Mexicano, I hate watermelon, that is true, I hate it."

"Why did you grow the watermelon then?"

"I did not," I said to him, with the sort of disgust I would only reserve for a corrupt gay republican who on one hand would fight against equal rights and marriage equality for homosexuals during the day and then at night go dancing with his Latin lover and end up getting arrested having some sort of illicit gay sexual encounter in a park somewhere in a boring suburb in Maryland.

Recently my dog committed suicide. I called Mexicano and asked if he could come over and dig her a grave and help clean up. He was soon at the front door, with a shovel in one hand and a bag of some sort of beans and ointment in the other. I led him to the dogs office, where she lay on the floor, he picked her lifeless body up, slung her over his shoulder and carried her outside. I went up to my bedroom, closed the door, ran a hot bath and quietly began to mourn the loss.

About an hour later I was dressed and in my beautiful new kitchen, when Mexicano was standing at the island, washing some dishes. "Did you take care of the burial?"

"I did yes, I did."

"Out in the back?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, thank you for that."

"Yes, of course."

"I wanted to put a little something on the grave, where did you bury her?"

"Bury her?"

"Yes, you buried her in the back yard?"

He stopped washing the teflon frying pan and looked down at his hands as he scrubbed the last of the barbecue sauce from the charred bottom of the pan. He looked up at me, a small dollop of barbecue sauce was visible in the corner of his mouth. His wild, Picasso cheek bones seemed to point to the ceiling, an expression of utter disdain crept across his face.

I so hate Christiano Mexicano.

Beth's dead

Operator: 9-11, what's your emergency.

Me: Did you say this was 9-1-1?

Operator: Yes, 9-1-1, what is your emergency?

Me: Beth's dead.

Operator: Beth is dead?

Me: Yes.




Want the rest of this story?

The Many Deaths of Beth - available in 2012 on Amazon

Modern times

What is really interesting about living at this moment in history is how easy it is to stand next to a friend and have a conversation, from thousands of miles away.

Last night, from the comfort of my bed, I was chatting with a friend from college whom I had not actually talked with in 3 years. She was in Hong Kong. I was in my bed. She was wearing a beautiful dress and I was in a black t-shirt. Just a few years ago, if I had wanted to have a conversation with my friend and see her facial reactions, I would have had to put on pants, get on a plane and fly to Hong Kong. Of course, she could have flown here, but that has never happened, such is our friendship.

This modern thing, the ability to communicate, the ability to chat and talk and seduce online is something that is such a new thing and so completely without historic perspective, that my sense is, it is out of control. See, in the past, there were rules and those rules were enforced by others in society. If I had flown to Hong Kong and met my friend in the bar of her hotel, and I said something incredibly mean and disgusting and she threw her drink in my face, someone would have noticed, and if my reaction to her thrown drink was overly aggressive, someone would have called the police, or stepped in, and then all hell breaks loose. Online, there are no friends, no one else is watching, there are no internet police you can call to complain about unruly behavior. In some ways that is a good thing, no third party means there are no rules. It also means that people have to actually be adults and be kind, which means unkind people have a whole new playing field to bully, cheat or just be sketchy.

I was thinking about this recently as I was looking over some internet personal ads. These are always funny because they are written by the individual posting them, for others to read and judge and hopefully find them enticing enough to respond to. Here is the given catch in any profile advertisement, everyone lies. Everyone. I have posted a number of such internet personal ads over the years and I can honestly say, in each and every one there was something that was a stretch, almost always my age was at least a year or two, or a decade lower than reality. Now, in my mind, I justified this by knowing that I was much more immature than my actual real age, so I figured I should estimate my age in my level of maturity.

My friend from Hong Kong is a single woman and she has an online dating profile that lists her age as 41. This is not true, nor are her breast size, her education level (she dumbed it down, men don't like smart women) and her income (same, men apparently don't like women with cash). So I asked, when you go on a date and people can kind of tell you might be a little older than you promoted, or that your breasts a little smaller, do you ever get called on that. The answer was no. "It's not the same as in the gay world."

Oh, the gay world. I had forgotten.

Gays lie in profiles on pick up sites all the time. Sketchy the addict had the funniest profile ever. Sketchy is this psychopath I met many years ago who appeared to be a somewhat healthy person, but soon came out as a scary monster. One day Sketchy left a laptop open to a Manhunt (gay online anonymous sex pickup site) open, with his profile left flashing. I sat and read it and one of the descriptions was penis size. Sketchy had somehow stretched this description to 7 inches, which is larger than the national average and at least twice the size of Sketchy the addicts actual penis, at least according to rumors, legend and the current gay blog posts of "I slept with Sketchy The Addict and all I got was this disease" blog. Which always begged the question, if you were unlucky enough to actually sex it up with this pathological liar and ended up having inadequate sexual relations, how long would it take to notice that instead of an above average American penis implement, you were instead being met with some sort of Eastern European micropenis?

So my question to my friend in Hong Kong stood out there. When you lie to someone about something they may soon see or experience, a breast here, a small penis there, what do you do when you don't measure up to your profile promise? She laughed from the hotel room on the other side of the world and said, "when someone is finally in the position to judge, they never seem to care."

Gay marriage is here

If you are like me, and chances are you are exactly like me, you will have already noticed what I did this morning. You, like me, read the New York Times and thought to yourself, damn, the World Series is really shaping up to be something. No, seriously, are they even playing the World Series this year?

Then again, I wonder how my good friend Muammar el-Qaddafi is doing? I wonder if he got my Ramadan card.

Still, on Sundays, as I always do, I check the wedding announcements, because I, like you, love love. I love to see people in love. I love to see people in commitments. I love to see people in public say things like, "I do."

Mostly, in the New York Times they have these wonderful wedding listings of couples in love, ready to get married and they have the wonderful stories about how they met, first dates, plans for the future, all that sort of romantic stuff. A few months ago, when New York, of all places, started allowing the Gays to marry, more and more gay people were featured in the Times section with proud pictures and equally fun stories of how they met and their future plans.

This morning, while I was having a cup of tea and thinking loving thoughts, I chanced to view the wedding announcements and there, for the first time in history, the top two announcements in the New York Times were gay people getting married. Now, this may not be a big deal to you, or me, or anyone else, but if you step back and think for a second, it is kind of a big deal. See, just a few months ago, gay people could not even legally get married in New York and this morning, gay people can still not get married in the vast majority of states in America. It does make you wonder when bigots still use that argument that if you allow gays to get married it will ruin marriage for everyone, and then a state like New York is allowing gays to marry and it doesn't seem to impact anyone except the happily married gays, that argument becomes null.

There it is though, right there on the front page of Style, two gay couples, happy gay couples, getting married. Proudly getting married, not damaging the fabric of America, not trying to disrupt the religions or anything else, they just want to commit to one another, to proudly be a couple and be married. How nice is that? Of course, there were other couples, straight couples, happy couples, colorful couples and funny looking couples and all sorts of people getting married. Marriage is wonderful and people get married all the time. This morning, some gay people are getting married and that just seems peachy.

On the road, again

I got a call early Friday, "want to go the Iowa?"

A friend works as a journalist in New York, and I never say no to Iowa. He needed video coverage, but my new Hi-Def camera is packaged and sitting in an artists studio in Los Angeles, waiting for an interview that will happen next month, it's a long story that I am not even sure how to tell.

Suffice to say, I took off with an older standard definition camera, flew to the Midwest and checked into a hotel and sat.

In Des Moines a million years ago I was sitting in a hotel room when I decided there was a woman in Seattle that I just had to marry. It was a wise decision in retrospect because it ended with three wonderful children, it also ended in divorce. Children good, divorce, not so much.

Over the past few weeks of intense travel and equally intense interaction with friends and disease I have come to an understanding. People are filled with both love and forgiving, as am I. This was news to me, it might not be to you, but for me, it was and is.

I played college soccer in the Midwest a long time ago, there was only one other player who liked to play physical, oh fuck it, he and I both liked to play dirty. If you were stupid enough to try and score on our side of the field you might score, and when I say you might score, I mean it was doubtful you would score, but let's pretend you scored, you paid a dear price for scoring. In fact, Roberto and I made sure that any player dumb enough to bring the ball down our side of the field paid a price for even entering our zone, in both intimidation and ankle pain. For that I am kind of proud. We did not cheat mind you, we played rough and tough and for the most part we played legal. Neither of us ever received a red card, which is the worst penalty available to a soccer player. Yellow cards? Yes, we got a couple of those, each.

Roberto was from Columbia, I was from Southern California. I was coming off a season of playing in a men's league in Los Angeles, populated by ruthless Mexican players who cheated, kicked and beat you in any way possible. It was a glorious way to play soccer, at least for me. The nice thing about the Mexican players was they would do almost anything during the game, and then, at the end, we all had beers and laughed and kicked the ball around and chatted. Roberto came from an equally agressive outlook when it came to playing the game. We both looked at it as a way to play, it was nothing personal, our goal was to not permit offensive players to score goals, pretty simple actually. We played for a Midwest team populated by dumb plump farm boys who had no real soccer skills and were equally untalented when it came to closing off a teams scorers. Roberto and I were the only people on the team willing to play the sort of buzzing and dangerous defense that could stop an all American player, and that is exactly what we did when we played Notre Dame.

Notre Dame back in those days, even now, was known more for a Football and Basketball program, but they still had athletes in other programs that were outstanding and in soccer back then they had one on the men's team that was outstanding. He was a handsome, perfect athlete who played forward with passion and skill that was unmatched in our experience. We had been warned that he was capable of scoring goal upon goal in a single game, from almost anywhere on the field, such was the power of his foot. It was true too, we watched as he warmed up and he was launching balls directly into the goal from anywhere on the field. It was inspiring. Roberto and I were slowly stretching and laughing. This was the way we played, nothing too serious and nothing too intimidating. Roberto looked at me and said, "if he gets past me, you stop him?" I smiled broadly and said, "that would be my pleasure."

Lucky for us the coach of Notre Dame took our team as seriously as he should, which was not seriously at all. We were a sad sack of bad players and stupid farm boys. The All American lined up on our side and was fed the ball a couple of times right at the start, coming down the far side of the field, where Roberto almost immediately took the ball away from him and sent it down the field to one of our players who almost as quickly lost it to a skilled Notre Dame defensive player. This would be how the entire game would go, we would steal the ball and as quickly one our somewhat retarded players would return it just as quickly.Our internalized goal was to not allow any scores from our side of the field, because the rest of our team was too ill equipped to stop anything, even a five year old first year players team from dismantling them with skills.

Shutting down the All American was easy and I do not say that with false pride, I say that because we brutalized the poor guy. I believe it was his third time bringing the ball down the side of the field, the first two, Roberto had expertly removed the ball from the player and sent it down the field to one of our players. This time, he had passed to one of his players, moved past Roberto and received a pass back, avoiding Roberto completely and now the All American forward from Notre Dame was in front of me, I was the last defense between the All American and the almost open goal, since our keeper was nothing more than a one armed blind idiot from a small farming town near the Capitol. If the All American could get past me, he would score with ease. I knew it, he must have known it and he looked at me and the goal and must have thought, in his All American mind, goal one for this game. I caught the ball with a long slide with my right foot and followed through and laid the All American out on the field. He was face down as I got on my feet, went after the ball and kicked it up the field. He jumped up and ran up after me, saying something like "gonna play dirty like that all day?" I kicked the ball hard to mid-field and turned and caught his eye and said, "yeah, every chance I get."

He came down our side of the field a couple more times that game. Roberto took him out once, I did another time and soon enough we noticed that he was switched to the other side of the field, where he ended up scoring 6 goals. He never scored from our side of the field, no one did during that game. We lost by 15, maybe 16 goals, We scored none. That was how our season went.

Last night I had dinner with Roberto in Nebraska. He lives there with his wife and four children. He has aged, not so well. I told him this, so writing it is not a betrayal. He is balding and he has a belly, almost pregnant belly. I pointed that out too. He pointed out that I too have gained weight since soccer. We had hugged when we met at the sweet little restaurant he had recommended when I called. We spent a few hours catching up. We had been wild friends for a short period of time, because that season was my last as a player and my only at that college. He had stayed, graduated, continued to grad school in Minnesota and was now a principal in the Midwest with this beautiful wife and all these children. He no longer plays soccer, or at least not the dangerous type of soccer we used to play. He looks happy and content. He had a beer and steak, I had water and salad.

It's an interesting thing, when years take a toll on a man. Roberto is old now, gray here, jowls and a look of time on his face. Maybe I have the same look, but my mirror is paid to lie to me. For a moment in our history we went to war together, we played together, shared injuries together and those memories can not be taken away. This is part of what makes a life worthwhile. I asked Roberto is his sons play soccer and he got this devilish smile on his face, "you should see them play, you would love it. No one and I mean no one scores on those boys."

The phone call

I picked up the phone this morning and called an old friend, whom I had not called in a many years.

My advice to you, do the same. It is thrilling and inspiring and good for your soul.

Plus it reminds you of songs.

Pavlov would be proud

Late last night I got an email from my healthcare provider. I get these when there is essential healthcare news my provider wants to share with me. Since I just recently visited a couple of specialists and had some special tests done on special parts of my special body, I have been anticipating important results. When the email came, I was out dancing and enjoying the company of a high tech robot that I like to call Senior Ponzi Scheme.

Senior Ponzi noticed that I checked my email and scurried away. I soon got a text from "SPonzi@WhoULookinAt" that asked "where you go so quickly, I forgot to say good day."

The interesting thing about modern culture is this ability to not only get way too much information from doctors who know way too much about medical information than we do, but also Mexican built robots that know how to text.

So I ran off to check my latest medical results because that is what you do when you are waiting for important medical results concerning your long term health. As I was running away from the dance hall, which is ironic, because, well, first, who goes to dance halls anymore and what sort of person runs away from them? Second, in retrospect, I could have checked the email in the quiet of the bathroom or something, instead, I ran to my waiting limo.

Which is when a gang of outlandish gay ruffians tackled me, beat me senseless and took away my cellphone. I bruised my elbow, which left me in terrible pain, unable to chase them down and retrieve my phone. I laid in the street, trying to cry, but unable to, because it was at that very point that I realized what a Pavlovian idiot I had become. The minute I got the email from my healthcare provider I dashed off to see the results, not bothering to say good night to Senior Ponzi, tip the dry cleaner who continually was cleaning my winter jacket, kiss the princess who had been waiting until midnight or even bother to punch former heavyweight champion Mike Tyson in the face for 5 dollars, which is a new game people can play at the Dance Hall I frequent.

Here is what I know about the language used by medical professionals in letters to consumers, it can not be understood. Recently I got an email that said something to the effect that I had a large tumor growing on my brain and I had probably an hour to live. Outraged I called my oncologist, who said she knew nothing about this, checked the email and said that what all those words actually meant was that the last time I had been to her office I illegally parked my car in a spot reserved for medical professionals.

I made it home late this morning, with no phone, a bruised elbow and a need to check my email. I immediately ran up to the 16th floor of our house, which also reminds me that as I age, I really should stop buying thin houses with a high number of floors. This house is 10 feet by 5 feet, but 40 stories high. It is insanely stupid to live in such a shoebox. After running up all those stairs I realized my laptop was on the first floor, where by cat likes to use it to view Kitty Porn, go figure.

Instead of running down all those stairs again, I grabbed one of the tablet test models that Apple sends me on an hourly basis. That part is true, Apple is always sending me products to test and lately I have been sent well over 300 test Ipad 4 models. I picked one up, searched my medical files and found that the results of my latest test showed that my cholesterol level was too high, which was both surprising and of little importance to me. This was, of course, not the test I have been waiting for.

Thank the good lord sweet Jesus that Senior Ponzi called soon after and asked if I would like some of his famous Spanish waffles, to which I said, sure, let me finish my breakfast first.

Me and CandyDevil and Twitter

I hardly ever tweet. You may be reading this because I tweeted a message with a link to this blog. That is what I tweet about. That and once or twice a month I just do something stupid like pretend to be a prostitute or something.

People tweet at me, or whatever it is people do with their tweeting devices. I don't care. I could care less how this works, I could care less if people follow me or I follow you or we all follow Jesus. It does not bother me. I tweet to let people who have somehow shown an interest that I have posted some sort of nonsense on this blog. That's really about it.

Then some loud mouthed, I'm sorry, some petite flower from Brooklyn of all places, a pretend actress no less, tweets me out of the blue with some snide little remark about me sending her some sort of spam. I know not what she speaks. I do not spam. I do not send spams. I am not a spamming type of person. What I send are described above. That's it. This CandyDevil from Brooklyn, who may or may not now be stalking me, and god I hope she is, because today my life is devoid of drama and lord knows I could use a dimwitted actress from Brooklyn checking me out and sending me love notes via twitter and possible asking me out on dates when I am in New York on both work and pleasure.

So, I get a message from dear sweet little CandyDevil saying "don't spam me bro" or something eloquent like that. Now, I check my Twitter account about as much as I check my prostate, which means I usually wait to have others check it, but one day I accidentally checked messages in my Twitter account and I saw this distressed little message from dear sweet homely CandyDevil and I thought the very least I could do was respond.

So I wrote back, "No." That was all I wrote, because it was all I had to say, I had not tweeted anything, not a note, not a spam note, not a note containing spam, not a note endorsing Spam the multi-use meat byproduct that may or may not contain actual meat byproducts. Nothing.

Which was true, because I had never, nor would I ever, spam her with anything.

Soon enough this angel from Brooklyn responded like only a cultured woman of means from Brooklyn could. "Fuck You," was her response. Which, is of course, the official Brooklyn response to most anything. Sir, you won the lottery, Fuck You. Madam, I believe your dress is on fire, Fuck You. Excuse me, but your child just robbed me and shot my dog. Fuck you.

You get it. Some people in Brooklyn use the term Fuck You with such regularity that it becomes, well, endearing. So when my new friend from the deathly reaches of the anus of Twitter thought to entice me with her language skills, all I could think of was how proud her parents must be of her.

I am not the type to get into a pissing match with a girl from Brooklyn with limited communication skills and a bad haircut. That is just not the type of guy I am. Although, to be honest, I did respond. I think I said something to the effect of, (in 140 characters or less) "hey Shitbag, all I ever tried to say to you, I am not spamming your hellhole of a life," or something like that.

In the end, me and CandyDevil will live happily ever after, because that is how these things always end. Me and Candy, happy and content, skipping happily down the streets of Brooklyn, singing sweet songs and whispering sweet nothings to one another, "no you're the douche bag" - "no, fuck you" - "No you shut the fuck up...."

Republican debate

I generally do not ever live blog anything, but tonight I am energized by my fellow republicans last debate for about a month, and i happen to have an internet connection allowing me to see it, no cable here, so I thought I would share some moments with you, lucky blog readers.

First off, Ron Paul is dead. Or he looks dead.

Why is Santorum on the stage? Rick Santorum, although I am sure there is plenty of Santorum on that stage too (Google it).

Andersoon Cooper is the host? My lord, the these candidates not know he is the source of all that Santorum?

The candidates are all wearing dark suits. Fantastic choice, following the republican need to appear Reagan-like. Wait, the girl candidate is not wearing a dark suit.

Santorum is first, introducing himself and his 7 children. Comes off as almost human. I like Santorum, he is genuine and strange, two qualities I want in a garbage collector. Wait, these people are running for president? No way. Seriously?

Ron Paul appears somewhat alive. Offers a balanced budget and presents a case for a free society, the crowd wants him to take control of Libya.

Herman Cain claims to be married for 43 years and has been making pizza for 43 years. I doubt either is true.

Mitt Romney says he has been a businessman, an Olympic dude and solves problems and hopes to be president. Miss America called and wants her bullshit lines back.

Rick Perry is a proven job creator and an authentic conservative. Seems like a bone head to me.



Newt Gingrich says something, but then starts eating an extra large sandwich and says something with his mouth full.

Michelle Bachmann announces she is still running, makes a sad joke about her gay husband and strips nude.

Anderson Cooper has a question.

Some dude asks about getting rid of taxes. This is already boring me.

Bachmann: Job creator, boring, married, does not want more taxes, wants more income taxes, people love her, she is boring. Why is she included in this group? Oh, she looks like a drunk flight attendent tonight. Great move Michelle. She has her own tax plan, jobs plan and an energy plan. Does not say what they are.

Cain: Knee jerk reaction. Admits he is insane and starts talking about how great pizza is for a healthy diet. Here is something I just realized, Cain is black. Could America really elect a black man?

Santorum: Loves Cains boldness. Blunders into a Santorum mess. I can't stop smiling. Google santorum again. This guy is just fun to watch. Bad tax, bold, but still, full of Santorum.

Cain; Not true, look at my own lies and believe what you read. Invites every American to eat pizza and shut the fuck up. I like this guy. He is one of us.

Bachmann; Value added tax is fun, but then so is my gay husband. Did anyone notice I am dressed like a drunk flight attendent?

Perry; I love Herman Cain. People hate taxes. No one wants taxes. If I get me some elected someday, I will have an idea on working on taxes and things like that. I talk like I just ate a cowboy boot. People say I'm stupid. That may be true.

Cain; Stop talking and eat pizza.

Paul; Dangerous plan. Repressive plan. People should not pay taxes. Hates America. Admits he has been dead for years. America should not have any taxes at all. People do not like taxes, thus people should not have to pay taxes. On and on, my lord, I am senile and no one seems to care. Yabber yabber yabber.

Cain; Once again, if you white people would eat pizza, you would shut the fuck up. Enough said.

Romney; I know nothing about black people or taxes, but I am wearing magic underwear. Anyone think that is strange? Could I ask the black man a question? No? Then I would like to say, my people do not eat pizza, but one of my wives once ate pizza.

Cain; Romney, you crazy. Apples and oranges.

Romney; People don't want to pay taxes, ever. No one wants to pay for anything. Many people are not working, so shut up and let me talk. If everyone wore magic underwear, this country would be super happy.

Gingrich; Jabba say that people like taxes. Jabba say bring me soup. Jabba no want big idea and people want pizza. Jabba favors no new taxes, Jabba want woman in bikini.

Bachmann; I believe every American should pay taxes, even if it's a dollar. Dead people should pay taxes. I was once a tax lawyer, then I married a gay man who taught me that it's OK to be an airheaded idiot. Imagine that. Next?

Perry; You know what I think? I like baseball. I do. And horseys. I like boots and beer and sometimes hookers. Ya'all think that's funny? Who is laughin? Shit, I could kick all ya'all asses right now.

Romney; Perry is right, people like magic underwear. Plus, America needs jobs and I like to make people work, not for fair wages mind you, but slave wage jobs would be great. That starts with electing me.

Santorum; I agree with everyone who does not make fun of my name.

Romney; I hate Santorum. I really do. Google that guys name. Here is what I think, this country could never elect Santorum for anything.

Santorum; Has anyone else noticed that Ron Paul is dead? Look, I am not a serious candidate, so if you don't mind, I am going to make silly faces while people look at Michelle Bachmann crazy eyes.

Romney; Rick, rick, you might just be crazier than Bachmann. You people realize that some people are watching this on TV and seeing what an insane group of cheap suit wearing nut cases we are? Do you realize that? My lord, we have a weak president and this is the best group we can come up with?

Gingrich; What? (sleeping.)

Romney; Newt, back when you were interesting, people liked you, but since you married wife number 7 and you became a blow hard, I think most people just view you as a bully on steroids.

Bachmann; Anderson, Anderson, no one wants healthcare. People hate healthcare. Have you been to a WalMart? My lord Anderson, we are an obese nation of huge people. We don't want health, we want to explode in the aisles of cheap plastic Chinese made junk.

The end of part one of the Republican debate.

Pure poetry

"people need to stop talking shit about my family and you need to clean your own doorstep so to speak before you start on mine and beleive me you'll have all you can handle or come and tell me to my face if you have a big enough set of balls so eighter shut up or put up keep my families names out of your mouth you really have no room to talk about anyone what due they say let the firist one without sin cast the firist stone that would be a joke to see you throw a pebble i dont have to say names because you know who you are i'm tell'in ya stop talk'in SHIT!!!!!! carma is a BITCH!!!!!!"

Murder

Last week a local police officer was murdered by a drug addicted nut job. The young police officer left behind a wife and two young sons. I am not sure what the drug addict left behind.

Yesterday a massive funeral was held for the police officer and the streets of my neighborhood were closed off while hundreds of police cars made their way from the church to the cemetery.

I did not know the officer. Thankfully I did not know the drug addict either.

For the last few days almost anywhere you would go around here there would be a sign in front of a building that said something to the effect that our thoughts are with the family.

I have written numerous times that this is a bit of a ghetto that we live in, and it is. Strange and unfortunate circumstances led us here, not the least of which was a need to find a place we could buy for cash and not have to worry about a mortgage and when that is your overriding goal, affordability trumps location. We bought our house sight unseen and for a few seconds we regretted it, but once we moved in, we made it our home and for the most part, this has been a decent place to live. Truth be told some of the neighbors we had in our upscale neighborhood in Washington state were a lot more sketchy than some of our new neighbors.

That said, a police officer was never ambushed and shot by a crazed drug addict.

A huge church filled yesterday for the ceremony, police from around the country, politicians including the governor were in attendance and the residents of the community lined the streets as police with sirens blaring following the honor guard as the casket was moved from church to cemetery.

There are plenty of things in life I do not understand. When a productive member of society is shot and killed by a non-productive member it is beyond frustrating and what is worse is the feeling that there really is nothing we can do about it.

It was a bitter cold night last night at my daughters final soccer game of the season. I have been terribly sick of late, but I wanted to go and be there for her. There were ceremonies before the game to honor the graduating seniors from both teams, a ceremony that seemed to go on just a bit too long for my comfort, and then both teams gathered at midfield and all the girls held hands. A microphone was placed in front of the stands and a pale and sad man stepped to in front of it. The police chief who had just buried one of his deputies spoke about the communities loss, how thankful he was to live in a place that honored fallen heros and what a trying time this has been for his department. He was crying, everyone was crying.

A fake jew

My friend Heimy the fake jew called me recently. I have been in bed a lot, recovering from some sort of stomach thing, and so the exact time may be lost, but not the conversation. Heimy, at least that is the name I have selected for the recently chosen called to wish me a happy new year.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"It's the Jewish new year."

Heimy is funny. Sometimes I think he joined the jews so he could make fun of the jews. Tell jew jokes and say things like, "I tried to Jew him down, but he would not give me a discount, yeah, I can say that, I'm a jew."

The thing is, Heimy also lectures me on what a bad Jew I am. Which is kind of true, although i am an authentic ew, having been born from a Jewish mother, I was grandfathered into the tribe. Heimy, jealous at having no background or cultural heritage to speak of, joined, even though I am sure if there was a vote, the Jewish people would certainly turn their back on the deeply flawed and seriously demented Heimy.

Heimy wanted to lecture me that because I did not respect the Jewish holidays I was less of a Jew than he. This is kind of like telling a black guy that because he does not like 50 Cent he is less African American. Or something like that. In fact, I should become an African American and start lecturing some of my neighbors on not only cultural values but choices in food, hair styles and clothing, because I would be, after all, a fellow African American.

See Heimy, that is what you come off as. An interloper with an attitude. If you were really a fellow Jew you would just keep your mouth shut with your need to happy holiday this and shalom that.

I am all for bettering yourself, heck when Heimy gets out of the halfway house I support his plan to go back to school and get his GED and become a mechanic for "foreign cars or some shit" but that too seems like just another search for something that will not bring meaning to a life lost to the ether.

I actually don't know Heimy well enough to judge him. I believe his family was circus folk and he grew up not only juggling balls from a very young age, but without the love and attention that children require. This is evident in his search for acceptance in new religions, pretend marriages to low level celebrities and the semi-annual arrest for drugs, public intoxication or betting on dog fights.

I once told Heimy of this experience I had, one that he could never share. I was at a gallery opening in New York many years ago, for a famous Jewish artist. When I walked in the room was packed and as I glanced around I noticed that all the men had a certain look, thick faces, fat noses, handsome features, rugged, but eyes filled with wonder. A gaggle of older Jewish men, and I realized I was with friends. We looked remarkably alike, shorter, heavier, hairier. For a very short period of time I felt I was with family. Now, Heimy, with a giant fat balloon head and chinless from generations of circus folk inbreeding will never experience that sense of family, unless there is a wandering clan in giant headed inbred Jewish circus freaks traveling in Poland or something. Doubtful, I just googled it.

My point is that sometimes the imposters among us should keep their heads down and their mouths shut.

The food I ate

I kept notes of the meals I ate while in Los Angeles and Seattle last week. For the most part I literally demanded that my friends take me to Mexican food while in Southern California, because I live in Pittsburgh and the food here is either bathed in oil or filled with sugar. I can't eat either.

I woke at 3AM for the flight to Los Angeles, I ate a banana, had a cup of coffee and vitamins.
Lunch in San Juan Capistrano Carl's Junior restaurant. I ordered a chicken sandwich, removed the bread, ate the charbroiled chicken, had three fries and a water.
Dinner was Carne Asada at a San Clemente Mexican restaurant often frequented by former president Nixon. The stench of desperation and corruption is gone, but the food was decent.

I ran early in the morning. Banana and Starbucks coffee for breakfast.
Rode bikes around the hills of Newhall and Santa Clarita, mostly against my will, but because I am competitive, I did it.
Lunch was nuts, yogurt and two sips from a strawberry shake from In and Out Burger. I am not proud of this, I wanted a burger, the beautiful woman behind the counter did everything she could to sell me on the concept of a burger, I tried to figure out any way possible to have a burger. In the end, to appease the beautiful woman I ordered the shake, but could not drink it.
Dinner, Mexican food in the San Fernando Valley. Strangely enough, Carne Asada, but I picked at it and could not finish. I did talk my dearest friend into splurging for some Hagen Daz ice cream, did not finish.

Coffee at the Ronald Reagan Library with a banana. I see my need to be with my Republican friends, first Nixon, then Reagan and soon enough, Bush?
I had brunch at a place in the Valley that caters to porn stars and strippers. It was not a let down and my friend and I enjoyed a feisty crepe, but because I could not actually eat the crepe itself, I cut it open and ate its innards, which were fine.
Dinner, Mexican food in Glendale with a handsome actor. I think I had chicken something, mostly we talked and laughed. We met at 6PM and stayed until they closed. Great night, can't remember the food. Drove back to Orange County at 105 miles per hour.

Airport breakfast, banana and coffee.
Lunch was missed because of flights and trains and no one being home. I sat on my friends porch and wondered why people did not have fast and healthy food in their neighborhoods.
Dinner - ate in, great home cooked food. Vegetables, something else, something to drink.

Woke early, bike ride to North Seattle, stopped for coffee and something to eat. Forgot what.
No food until 3PM when I started to shake and passed out at my friends house. He fed me chili and sent me back towards the city on my bike.
Dinner, Mexican food on Capitol Hill with people I love. Some sort of Cuban style steak. It was delicious.

Breakfast on Bainbridge Island. Fresh fruits, coffee.
Bike ride to my friends house.
Lunch at Blackbird Bakery, a gluten free Bialy. Coffee. There was something like a gluten free cupcake, which did not taste like sheetrock.
Dinner was Hana Sushi in Seattle. Not the best, not the worst, but for about 20 years, the best for the best price.

Breakfast, coffee and banana and fresh gluten free toast.
Lunch, crappy Mexican food knock off terrible junky crappy food stuff at some crappy junky crap place at Pacific Place in Seattle, but since I was with a woman I love dearly, it was a great meal.
Dinner, skipped.

Breakfast, Mexican style eggs at a trendy restaurant in Seattle. Coffee.
Dinner, home cooked bbq and fresh salad. Fly home.

Great days

I kept telling my dear fried Becky that this was going to be a great year and she kept reminding me that, well, sometimes greatness looks more like the interior of an MRI machine.

As anyone who has been reading this blog for more than a few seconds knows, I have been writing a musical called Ghetto Opera and I am knee deep in songs and stories and all sorts of fun stuff, but of late, I have lost my intense passion for the entire mess. I needed a muse, or two.

It's not like I was praying for a muse, or two, but I knew, for me to continue and finish the musical, I would need something new in my neighborhood to propel the story.

This week a trio of strippers moved in across the street.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to that big church like building down the street and praise Jesus.

Change is in the air

Occupy find

While walking silly in Seattle last week I spied this mess.

This is how people communicate via Skype

What follows is a recent SKYPE conversation with someone who just started sending me random messages.

mat
hello my name continues to not be lutgarda gonzalez munoz, i am not now, nor have I recently been an online prostitute, although if the current economic conditions continue, it will certainly be in my future plans.

Peter
OKay, dude...Are you back in Pittsburgh?

mat
that much is true

Peter
Mmm, I too have been pondering the sex trade.

mat
except my, not sure what you Americans call it...or armenians, or jews, or what have you.
5 dollah I show you my stinky

Peter
There seems to be such a stasis in private capital, I am having a tough time figuring out how else to get the last of my funding done!
Your memos from the road in CA and Seattle were quite entertaining.

mat
I was never a star trek fan, when you say stasis, does that mean you kill when you shoot your lazer, or stun?
when you mix tequila, pot and sex, I always get my happy on.

Peter
Means that the folks with cash seem encased in carbonite....or at least that's where the cash resides.
So, having random encounters on the road , eh?

mat
And still you speak like Luke Skywalker. I have an idea, lets talk about 5 dollah for a quick view of my stinky.

Peter
My ex-wife Becky (edited), whom you met when we came to Seattle, started stripping every time she had a shot of tequila.
quite reliably

mat
only one on the road, two in hotels, a couple at a friends place, one in a ferry terminal, a few on the planes, 2 or more in a whore house in San Juan Capistrano frequented by the ghost of a former president and a pilot named Shecky.
As it says in the bible, ply the wench with tequila and call the baby the messiah

Peter
SHECKY, EH? I THINK THE BOY HAS HAD A FEW OF MY FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES...THE SLUT!
damn holie books

mat
again, fly united is what the Southwest pilots always seem to say.

Peter
yikes
and yet they eject short skirts

mat
listen, as you know, I am quite busy, with my finger in this dyke and my entire hand in that one, so while I enjoy this completely non-sexual dialog, I just dragged my lazy ass off a cycle and I am sweating like a luke warm israeli pilot about to stop by a strip club in Palestine. I am sure you understand.
What?

Peter
oh okay...

mat
My harem only churns out sons, thousands of them, all bred to be warriors and servants.
and dish washers.

Peter
aah.

mat
and Calvin Klein models.
And you name is?

Peter
It's Peter, dude.

mat
I once knew a transvestite with that name, are you her/him? How is your ding dong, doing ding?

Peter
It's spiffyy. Talked to Margo Flontzmarkhammerstein (edit) the other day and we had a momentary cnv. about you

mat
Sir, Madam, as you can see, my time on this pay as you go contraption has run its course.

Peter
Well, Matty (sadly, unedited), I won't keep you from your masturbatory regimen, I know that constant practice is important.

mat
It pains me that you do not know what you are talking about. My guess, early onset Alzheimers.

Peter
Next time you head to Boston, let me know and I'll drive in from Brattleboro and join you for a nosh.

mat
As it says in the bible, practice does make, no that can't be right.

Peter
Albany works as well.

mat
I would never go to boston, it is a city of bandits, drug addicts and porn addicted lesbians. Actually, now that I think about it, I will be there this weekend.

Art

Spiritual hoo haa

So I made it back to what has become my home, but feels more and more like an art filled prison (more on that later).

When I left on this job and friend visiting adventure I had no clue that it would be this all encompassing journey of not only connections and love but also forcing myself to hear troubling truths about me. If there is one thing I think I avoid like the plague, and for the love of jesus I have not done enough to avoid that either, I avoid hugging people. Upon landing in LA over a week ago and making my way to San Juan Capistrano by way of a sleek and super charged Audi, I hugged an old friend and a new one and all of a sudden it was on. I was going to hug people on this trip whether they appreciated it or not.

Hugging does not break bones or transfer disease, at least that's what I have been told. I have tended to not hug because for the most part of indicated a closeness that was often not existant. The worst experience I have ever had with hugging was a few years ago with this terrible woman in Seattle who had some sort of need to mindlessly hug people no matter how uncomfortable it made them. When she would approach me in her toad-like manner I would stand still, my arms to my side and she would encompass me with her arms, making me a pea in her pod. It was sad and strange and I hated it.

My week of travel and wild times involved me being the one hugging and it was a wild connection. I am lucky to have friends that have lasted almost 40 years, maybe more. As a side note, one of the moments that always seems to bring clarity is when I realize that the psychotics I have dated never seem to have any long term friends, which now has become a standard question on a first date. That and when was the last time you were employed.

I will spend a couple of days trying to cover some of the key points in this space, not because I am a self indulgent narcissist, although that too became a liet motif of this short trip, but that I think there is much to be gained from confronting demons and beating the shit out of them and also from just getting on with things.

It's kind of interesting that about a year ago I discarded Sketchy the addict from our life here and it was such a non-event that I had failed to inform some of my closest friends. On a couple of occasions this past week I was asked about Sketchy and every time I would say, long gone and that was always followed by my friend saying, to the effect, "I never liked Sketchy." This is a strange thing, when friends hate your date but do not tell you. My problem has always been that I do indeed answer that question. People would call me and ask, "so what do you think of Becky?" And I would almost always answer honestly, with something like, I hope she takes birth control, or is she a robot, or something like does she speak? Or infrequently, she is cool, marry her.

Which is the exact way I feel about a friends fiance. In fact, I adore her. She is smart and fun and sexy and she smiles, she smiles a lot which I am not sure if that's the most important thing people can do with their life, but it certainly is one of them. There is confidence in a smile, and also some sort of inner communication leaking out in happiness. She smiles and the world is a better place. We had one of those times together where for whatever reason, the world slowed down just a bit and we connected. Hopefully she will marry my friend and we will all grow old following one another's adventures. Otherwise I will just stalk her from a distance.

So, if you are like the thousands upon thousands who hang on every word on this blog for insight and spiritual hoo haa, hang tight, because last week was nothing if not a roller coaster ride on the happy side of almost everything.

The train eternal

The art in the underground Beacon Hill terminal is large, illuminous, bug like and freaky, especially after prepping for a long flight with no sleep and gassy food.

There was a Sounders soccer game somewhere along the trains statins entryway, because when the doors opened the place was filled with people wearing jerseys and smiles. Happy people, all dressed in the same colors, nothing could possibly go wrong.

I had to stand next to the closing door, that is how tight the car was, and immediately I could smell beer and sweat and marijuana. I've had cheap dates in California, I know these smells. Looking around was just a little bit shocking, there was an abundance of healthy people, happy people, talking to one another.strange times bring about the strings behaviors.

In front of me a large black woman was slumped in her seat, her hand raising to her mouth, slowly delivering a Cheeto. The young guy next to me with the bad haircut and impatient smile either wanted my phone number or a fight, I will never know, he got off at Rainier Beach.

Seven days, running and riding and friends and old and new lovers and a woman I would trust with anything and a couple of hefty moments of confrontation. Rarely in my life have I known I was in the midst of a life changing moment. Generally we judge those life changers from a distance of time and contemplation. Almost from landing in Los Angeles 7 days ago magic things happened.

A Cheeto is stuck on the large woman's open mouth, I think she is sleeping. I wonder if she might miss her stop.

Eye opening

Sometimes it is good to stand back and hear the perspective of someone else. In the last few days I have been trying to do just that, from the dry running paths of San Juan Capistrano to the hills and bike ways of the Santa Clarita Valley. The Pacific Northwest will now always be home, no matter how I try to claim something else.

Because I have spent a lifetime purposely not looking over my shoulder because personal history should remain in ones rear view mirror, at points during this week I have been dragged kicking and screaming to realize that in my wake there may have been things I should have stopped to look at and care too.

I was with some dear friends last night at dinner and one brilliant friend, upon hearing that I am ailing, said that for as long as she has known me I have been in pain, from bike crashes, from indecision and especially from dating damaged and deranged people. As this week has been filled with unintended insight, this was the one that kind of blew me away. It was one of those moments that people hear when they break up with someone and their friends come together and admit they never really liked the recently removed lover. You cAn not hear that your choices in partners has always been filled with the mean and angry and not take a moment to reflect.

My sense is that we fill our lives with stuff and busy times so we do not spend too much time in reflection. At some point in the last month I was talking to a person I once thought could be a long term friend, but whom I had cut lose because she could not stop being self defeating. When we were talking, a catch-up from a long period of silence, she shared with me that she could not really remember why she stopped talking to me. The olive branch did not work, because I remembered why I stopped commnicatig with her but I no longer felt the need to explain.

In a single week I have run and rode, spent time with loving and amazing people, laughed for hours with friends who have been in my life for 30 years and sat and patiently listened while a short time ex explained to me that people can not be discarded like trash. In Seattle, when you stand alone in the rain you still get wet.

Sushi

I lived in Seattle for over 20 years and when I return there I always find time to go to my favorite sushi place on Capitol Hill. Last night I was sitting, eating super fine sushi and enjoying the company of a 6 year old and his silly parents when my phone buzzed with a text message. I checked it, from a number I did not know. It read, "are you having sushi right now?"

This entire trip has been filled with wild and amazing moments of reconnecting and cleaning up friendships, falling in love with friends fiancées and hanging out with the most inspiring and loving people I have ever known. A mysterious text message seemed just about right.

One thing led to another and as I type this I have not had any sleep at 11AM EST and my rib hurts from where the mysterious caller punched me. It's a long story.

The road

So many things are changing in this country so quickly, or seemingly so, or about to. The ongoing protest on Wall Street are hopefully the first step dismantling a broken system, but either way, with Europe ailing, America adrift and the world waiting for something, it seems like a good time to connect with friends.

I know, email, Skype, phones and all that stuff makes us feel like we are right there, but we are not. Human touch, and looking into someone's eyes when they tell you a story or a secret or terrible news or great news, those moments don't transfer digitally.

I am traveling and doing it cheaply. I have been sleeping in guest rooms and couches and reconnecting with friends who have been in my life for decades and it has been glorious. Want to have a great time? Hug people, deeply. Human touch transfers a lot of things, from an emotional bond to a clear sense of trust. I have been hugging everyone, which has been shocking my closest long term friends, because for about 30 years I have avoided all physical contact that did not involve, well, the hooky pooky (to use a medical term).

Oh, travel is cheap too. Plan ahead, planes are cheap, no rental cars, although in Los Angeles I reserved a compact but when one was not available I was instead allowed 4 days of Audi delight of a type one usually only experiences on lost weekends. There seems to be turmoil in the air, it's a perfect time to visit the people you love and be reminded of all the reasons you love them.

Oh, and I have been updating via iPad and the keyboard for a fat fingered Jew is nothing to write home about, which is my excuse for not writing home.

Old Jews

I have a thing for old Jewish women. There I was yesterday, in the strange courtyard of a Jewish rehab facility for elderly people and I was sitting with an older woman in a wheelchair and she was not so happy, but we found reason to laugh. At some point she asked me if I had ever had Chemo treatment andi said notin the last few weeks, which is true. She asked me if I thought it was a worthwhile adventure for an older woman in her 80's. I said no, I did not.

There are small bronze statues in the heavily shaded area where we were sitting, she sipping root beer, me sweating and a little exhausted. She asked me why I would suggest she forego Chemo and I said for most people the tradeoff is not worth it and that is especially true withpeoplewho are really old. I told hernia the breast cancer treatment y mother went through inherent 80's was probably thestaw that killed her.

She sipped her root beer. I think we talked about my bike ride the day before, I was kind glowing from the adventure of riding hills and mountains around southern California. I wheeled her the lunch area where there was a literal gaggle of gray haired old Jewish women, all of whom were beautiful and lively, even in their various states of recovery from their various illnesses. Beautiful women remain stunning even in a time of personal tragedy, this is something I have seen before.

Much like my own mother, my friend kept offering me cookies from her lunch, but I cannot cookies, so I suffered, which seemed appropriate. Soon after she had to o to a specialist and I had to go buy baby clothes, because one of my best friends will soon bea father. As I was driving away from the Jewish rehab facility, all I could think of was how sublime older Jewish women are and how it is always such an inspiringhonorjus to sit with one in a moment of introspection.

Bike rider

An old friend took me on a long and desperate ride around some hills around Santa Clarita most of this afternoon. Old mountain bikes, beaten and bruised, with those old style pedals, where you don't even clamp in. Surviving on a banana and a handful of nuts, this may have den one of Thebes days of my life.

The California way

I am visiting old friends in Southern California and if there is one thing old friends remind you of is the history of friendships. People who met the skeletons before you put them in the closet have a deeper understanding of who you are at your very basic core. This canbeboth enriching and scary.

What I always forget about Southern California is how hot it is. The air, land and people are darker and more mysterious than I recall. My instinct is to always want to return because there is a familiarity to almost everything, but because this is California, almost everything has changed in drastic and absurd ways.

Last night for the second time in less than a year I had dinner at the same Mexican restaurant that one Richard M. Nixon used to love to eat at. There is no joke here, the food is fine, the people gracious, the waiter young and handsome, so it was perfect. A young couple was getting married, my friend and I kept watching the ceremony in the garden area near our table.weddings are romantic and beautiful. We joked about wanted to warn tecouple of the rough rode ahead, but both of also acknowledged that marriage and commitment to to the right person is a wonderful thing, although my friend and I both had been sidetracked by not so perfect marriages in our past.

I ran this morning through the dry hills of San Juan Capistrano, no one was out on the trails, it was early in the morning, and quiet. The peace that enveloped me as I found my way around the area was enriching. I understand how people might want to spend their life here, I also understand why I could not.