Stuff I Shouldn't Let Bother Me.

I find it frustrating that people can’t separate what they like and don’t from what is good and bad. I was looking through a list of the worst books ever written on Goodreads, and there were a bunch of classics on the list. I don’t just mean best sellers. I mean Steinbeck and Faulkner and the King James Bible. In art the test of time is absolute – it’s scoreboard. If it's relevant a century later then it's good. No matter what anyone thinks. Just because someone doesn’t think the Bible is true doesn’t mean it’s poorly written. Just because Ann Coulter is evil doesn’t mean she can’t craft a sentence. The fact that she upsets so many people is proof she’s a good writer. And if you have a problem with Harry Potter, put the Haterade down and step back. I understand Dan Brown’s stuff and Mein Kampf being on the list; they’re badly written. When I read Angels and Demons and The Da Vinci Code I spent a lot of time rolling my eyes. Mein Kampf isn't bad because he was a mass murderer. It's bad because he was illiterate. These are “Worst Book” candidates. I liked Angels and Demons but I understand that it sucks. The Grapes of Wrath nearly bored me to death, but Steinbeck will still be ruining the lives of 11th graders everywhere a hundred years from now – scoreboard. The group that bothers me most is the Haters, the frustrated writers whose great American novel is just too far ahead of its time to be published, the wannabe lit professors that can’t enjoy brain candy for its own sake. Maybe Twilight is written for ‘tween girls not pipe smoking old guys, and from what I understand Caitlins and Madisons all over the world can’t get enough. Remember Cassio’s words to Iago in Othello, “Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” That’s the Bard.

That's Not A Moon. It's A Fat Guy Running

I stepped on the scale today and was not happy with the numbers that came up. So I threw on my Swoops and took off on a run. I may have mentioned that I’m throwing myself into my job, and in doing so, I haven’t had time to workout. I had to cut my workout short yesterday because of a meeting, and I didn’t even schedule one today for the same reason. On the one hand LMJ is not going to have to worry as much about the community college she chooses, but on the other hand I don’t want to have to be the first contestant on The Biggest Loser who’s a complete jackass. Just because I’m a vomitous blob doesn’t mean I won’t make fun of the other food addicts. Women across the world will tell their husbands and boyfriends what a jerk I am, especially since I’m the fattest one on the show. The husbands and boyfriends will try their best to hide their laughter behind their beers. Anyway, I ran my normal 5.5 mile course this afternoon through Riverside towards downtown. A full two miles of it are along the St. Johns which makes it beautiful, but the stretch behind St. Vincent’s runs me through two smoking stations twice. The second time through is in the last half mile and makes me wish I carried a gun to speed up the smoker’s slow suicide. It would have to be a .22 or something small like that because I don’t want the extra weight. It’s awful running through the smokers. I swear I can smell them 200 yards away on my return run. It’s not so bad on the way out. On the way out I pity the fools (Mr. T). It’s partly my fault. If cheeseburgers weren’t my not so secret lover, I’d be closer to svelte. If cheeseburgers weren’t my not so secret lover, I wouldn’t be in so much pain right now – my feet and ankles are shot. But it’s January 6, and I still have a full two months to get ready for the River Run. I cruised at an easy pace that I could keep for another four miles, which would have me finishing the River Run in less than 100 minutes. I’m excited. I didn’t even mention the 1100 calories I burned.

What lead my daughter to the Tribe or I'm Not Racist. You're Racist for Thinking I'm Racist (part II)

My daughter discovered latkes about ten days ago and loves them. What’s not to love, but she’s just a little girl. My wife likes to say she, my daughter, has a sophisticated palate, but there were onions in the latkes, and what 19 month old likes onions? I guess mine does. If you click on the latke link you can see a picture of her enjoying her fried potatoes Chosen People style. When LMJ chooses Judaism as her way to serve God I’ll look back to this moment. There’s no real downside. There may have been more of a downside if she was a boy, but since she’s a girl there’s no circumcision anxiety. Lisa Bonet, Lenny Kravitz, and Jenny from the Jeffersons have already blazed the biracial Jewish trail for her. She’ll have one day of penance each year on Yom Kippur as opposed to forty days of Lent. There’s no need to pay retail in sin. That last sentence is a total rip-off of a John Stewart joke from his act from fifteen years ago. Her mother is already instructing her in the mysteries of voicing one’s true suffering so LMJ is going to be way ahead of the game. There’s a good chance I’ll be sending her to Hebrew school anyway, just because kids have it too easy these days, and I remember growing up that none of my Jewish friends liked missing out on soccer and kickball to learn the language of the prophets. Finally, if she’s a Jew she’ll have the stereotype Royal Flush. She’ll have the gifts of a big booty, crazy athleticism, and rhythm from my people. Her mother’s people give her the gifts of a work ethic, organization, and brutality on a historic scale. The Jews will give her an overdeveloped sense of self and a nose for money. Plus, since all Blacks know each other and all Jews know each other LMJ will know everybody, and it’s all due to a tasty treat.

Git 'Er Done

Go home. This is the Vacation Police. If you all just grab your stuff and leave there won’t be any hassle.

It’s Sunday, and tomorrow the work routine begins again. It’s a brand new year full of brand new opportunities. We still have to come up with a name for the decade. I don’t really like “the aughties”. There are forty pounds to lose and ten races to run, including the River Run. It’s time to start training for a triathlon. If a seventy-nine year old women can finish the Ironman, which is a merciless race where competitors are disqualified if they don't finish the ocean swim in under a certain time, what possible excuse can I have for not being able to finish one of the local triathlons? I have another chance to motivate my family to exercise. There will be more family running, biking, and swimming or LJ will be an a-hole of unprecedented intensity. It’s just your life; it’s not anything really important. There is a bunch of writing to do. If the retarded kid across the street can redefine Irish literature, the least I can do is bang out a blog entry everyday. I can spend a Saturday afternoon planning my novel. I can stop procrastinating and take care of my own financial planning (physician heal thyself). While I’m willing to bet my life on my indestructibility, I’m not willing to bet LMJ’s future. Effort is the order of the day. And while I may be in a Tony Robbins mood “effort” is still a noun. I will not be “efforting” anything. I will be taking a more proactive role in trying to help those close to me achieve what they want to achieve, whether that’s peace of mind or a redone kitchen. However, my biggest challenge for 2009 will be to love my job, but I think I can do it.

I'm Trying to Post Everyday, Too.

I started a rather nasty manifesto that won't be published until it is revised - if it's published at all. I'm trying to be more positive in my outlook and less punitive in my responses. This is diametrically opposed to what I'm writing in my manifesto. I think the manifesto, if it is released, it will mean that everything has broken down. But that's not going to happen because my positive energy, and the endless supply of Tony Robbins quotes available on the Internet are indefatigable. President elect Obama is testing me already. He's about to be sworn in as POTUS, yet his ridiculous cult loyal followers continue to beg me for money like a homeless guy at the bottom of an exit ramp. You won. I voted for you. Stop begging. I think a more constructive use of your time would be coming up with a strategy to let the world know you're not a bitch, without starting or finishing a nuclear war. One of the things I'm going to miss about the W regime is the world's abject fear healthy respect of W's potential to act capriciously. Laura's not in the mood, fine. Let's end the world. My bike has a flat tire, fine. Let's end the world. I don't condone this attitude, and "I challenge W to make his life a masterpiece. I challenge him to join the ranks of those people who live what they teach, who walk their talk" - Tony Robbins. Can Obama get out of my pocket and actualize his synergy to help America be the best America America can be? I'm pretty sure I know his answer, and his positivity helps me in the positivization of my own ideal tomorrow. Thank you for motivating me, Barry. Allow me to return the favor by offering you some motivation. When the Dow gets back over 11 thousand I'll send you five dollars. When the Cuban embargo is lifted I'll send you a hundred. A salaam alaikum.

Can We Put the Phone Down? YES WE CAN!

Hey! Howyadoin? I got in my car, drove to Starbucks, spent $4 on coffee, and then I called you on my cellular phone to talk about things other than business, getting together, or what kind of tasty treat you want. What’s that? Yeah, I guess I could have skipped steps one thru three, but why would I want to do that? How else are people going to know that I have a social life if I’m not sitting by myself and screaming into a phone at Starbucks?

Is this just part of the culture of the 21st century? I don’t understand the thought process. I don’t understand where Starbucks fits in. I could understand where a bar fits in, but not a coffee house. It’s the holidays. It’s a chance to catch up with friends and family. Sometimes catching up can’t be in person. 4 fingers of Jameson and a pint of Guinness would make the situation better no matter how the relationship is. Espresso does nothing but force a bathroom break. Why is a trip and stay to Starbucks necessary to make a chatty phone call? I was at the Starbucks to provide moral support to a teacher who didn’t want to grade. She was there to escape the baby who had been tugging at her leg. El Cabron behind us screaming into his phone in Spanish was rambling on about nothing. His conversation consisted of remember this, remember that. It’s a free country, at least for another 18 days, and I don’t think people who have to be on the phone or they get twitchy should spend extended time in maximum security prisons. They just baffle me. Do I baffle them? Do they see me at a stoplight with no Bluetooth in my ear and assume I’m deaf? Do they write on their crappy blogs about not understanding people who accumulate rollover minutes, “How can you not be talking to someone on the phone? How can this guy stand to be alone with his thoughts?” Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe phonaholics can’t ignore or appreciate the voices coming from inside their heads, so they need a voice coming from outside their heads to drown them out. We think that’s just sad.

Who The Hell Are Old Guys?

Yesterday the family was touring the public parks in Riverside and Avondale, and as we were driving I saw an “old guy” in his car wearing a cardigan and smoking a pipe, like it was 1962. It didn’t shock me at first. My brain catalogued him as an old guy smoking a pipe, but then I started thinking about it. This guy wasn’t old. He was under sixty. He had a thick salt and pepper goatee and a frackin’ pipe. Even if he was sixty, that means he was born in 1948. He’s a baby boomer. Most likely a filthy worthless hippy. What baffles me is why he decided to cultivate this look? It’s not contemporary. It’s anachronistic. He might as well have been wearing a monocle and a stovepipe hat, or smoking a cigarette out of a cigarette holder. Did this guy want to be a professor that badly? At some point in his life this guy quit and said, “You know what, I’m old,” which is ridiculous. Old is out. Young is in. Christie Brinkley is fifty and sells exercise equipment. Jane Fonda is SEVENTY and apparently tried to fornicate her ex-husband to death. I don’t have a problem with this guy’s fashion statement. I just don’t understand it. Does he really want to be Fred MacMurray? Nobody knows who that is. Wouldn’t it be awkward to meet Bill Clinton and W at an evangelical whorehouse – something for everyone – and be the oldest guy in the room even though you’re the youngest guy in the room?

Side Note: I’ve stated before that I think W is going to replace his dad as Bill’s wingman and they’re going to win two or three Nobel Peace Prizes over the next twenty years. They’re not going to be sitting in high backed chairs in great rooms smoking pipes, and if they are smoking pipes they won’t be filled with tobacco.

Maybe this old guy got caught up in a joke. Yesterday I took the trash out wearing shorts, a white t-shirt, black socks pulled up to my knees and brown loafers. I wished I'd had some garters – damned elastic. It’s not the first time I’ve rocked this outfit, and it’s becoming less funny and more comfortable every time I do. Maybe I’ll be an old guy in twelve years. If for no other reason than to embarrass my daughter. Yeah, I have to go get a cardigan and a pipe.