Nickeled and Dimed

This is a post I've been wanting to write for a while now, but it just gets me so pissed off I haven't done it. But I'm awake now, much to early, and its on my mind, so I'm figuring maybe if I write it I can get back to sleep.

Over the past several months, assorted businesses have nickeled and dimed me out of nearly $1000 dollars. Really this has been going on for my entire life -- I'm used to get fucked out of money here and there and knowing that my only recourse is to spend months making telephone calls and writing letters. Frankly, I don't have the time for that, nor can my heart take it. What I need is an army of lawyers to handle it, but until I'm rich enough to afford them, I've just going to have to go on getting screwed.

For fun, though, let's review all the companies that have given me the shaft this past year.

Our first culprit is Verizon. After I moved out of my apartment last July, I transfered our phone and DSL bill into my roommate's name. Verizon charged me a $50 fee for canceling our DSL. Yet I did not cancel it -- I transfered it. In fact, when I called Verizon to clear this up, they admitted that I never canceled the DSL and shouldn't have been charged for it. They then proceeded to deny that I had been charged for it, even though the charge is clearly noted in big bold letters on my bill. My roommate and I spent three months (yes three full months, calling at least once a week each) trying to sort this out (Verizon had fucked up our billing in a number of other ways at the same time, but the DSL thing was where I was getting the shaft), and in the end we just had to give up -- the time and energy involved in fighting with them was no longer worth the $50.

Next is American Express. I order a $35 gift card for my brother for X-Mas and it never showed up. I called and called and called and nobody there could give me a straight answer as to whether or not they even had a record of my purchase, let alone how to get my money back. Again, the time and energy spent fighting with them was soon no longer worth the $35, so I stopped calling.

The worst offender is Oxford Healthcare. Now, I've been screwed hardcore -- for thousands and thousands of dollars -- by other HMOs in the past. To make a long story short, if not for my parents being well-to-do, my right leg would end at the knee thanks to Aetna who kept lying to me about what treatments they would or would not cover, and this nearly drove me into the poor house. Anyway, I've learned to be wary, so when I signed up for Oxford back in January, I thought I'd done all my homework: made all the right phone calls, read all the right fine print, asked all the right questions. How wrong I was. After once again being repeatedly misinformed about which doctors Oxford would cover, I cancelled my membership with them and started petitioning for my money back. I'd paid in advance for three months of membership: January, February, and March. But by the end of February it was apparent Oxford was running a massive scam, so my membership cancellation date is February 28. You'd think this would entitled me to a refund of my March membership fees since, you know, I wasn't receiving any services from them at all at that point. But no. Oxford insists they get to keep that money. To recap: Oxford argues that they don't owe you anything even when their representatives repeatedly misinform you about what doctors and services are and aren't covered, and they don't owe you a refund for months in which you aren't even a member anymore. It's fucking outrageous to the tune of +$700.

All of this is enough to make me want to buy a bazooka. But instead I will spend today (my day off), writing yet more fruitless letters and making yet more fruitless phone calls.

The new velocity

Just for Olman Feelyus, I went running in the rain today. The cold cold shitty shitty rain rain. It was fun, if wet. Very Eye of the Tiger. And, while running, I got to think about things, which is what I do while running, and so I thought about all the same things I've been thinking about for days: Who am I? Where am I? Where am I going? Where have I come from? Where have I been? I think about these things for about ten minutes before thoughts about telekinesis and bigfoot (and whether or not bigfoots have telekinesis) sidetrack me.

I was reading a thing about bigfoots on the teh Interweb today, and bigfoots are kinda scary, and one thing being another I was soon thinking about clowns because someone happened to mention clowns and then I was jogging and ruminating on the special way in which clowns have touched me life.

Some people are scared of clowns, but I am not. I hate clowns and am immune to their aura of fear because I used to live with one. For real. A real Ringling Bros. Clown College graduate. The most annoying dude I've ever met in my life. More annoying than Ned Ryerson. The only cool thing about him was his girlfriend, and only because in public she was all Martha Stewart, but behind closed doors she was a porn star. I still want to fuck her. Except she was also always wanting to slit her wrists, so that's kind of a turn off. Still, wrap all that dark nastiness up in a pink turtleneck, and it's hard not to want to pound the heckfire out of her.

But about bigfoot... I do not want to fuck bigfoot. But it would be awesome to run across two bigfoots fucking in the woods. That's how you know bigfoots are fake -- nobody's ever seen them fucking. I mean, we've seen Paris Hilton fucking for fuck sake. In fact, thanks to the Internets, there isn't anything (or anyone) left that you can't see fucking. Hell, if not for the family-friendly nature of this blog, I'd show you a picture right now of a dude fucking a car's tailpipe. And yesterday I downloaded a movie of Darth Vader having a threesome with Sonny and Cher. That's how you know shit is real. If you can't find it fucking something on the Internet, it doesn't exist.

And that's what I thought about while jogging today.

Once that was settled, I came home and signed up for two gym classes at good ol' Suffolk County Community College. Soccer (everybody's favorite), and "fitness walking." I have to put "fitness walking" in quotes because I'm not yet convinced it is a genuine athletic activity. Right. So. For all of June I'll be playing soccer in the early morning and doing "fitness walking" in the evening. It will be an unprecedented amount of physical activity for me. Plus, throw in my regular gym appointments, and it will be totally off the hook (as my 9-year-olds are now saying, though none of them have very good pronunciation skills, so it sounds all marble-mouthed when they say it, so it's about a thousand times funnier than you'd expect). To make it even more extreme (though, really, this isn't going to happen, but I'll tell you about it anyway), I'm considering biking to and from the college for my gym classes. That would be something. Can you imagine? Bike 15 miles or whatever to play soccer, then bike back to get to the gym, then back home, then back for fitness walking, then back home again? Lance Armstrong doesn't exercise that much.

Anyway, I'm a little concerned about the soccer class because I'm worried about getting my teeth knocked out. The last time I had balls flying at my face I was alone in the dark with my man Jarrett, and it wasn't a problem, but still, accidents happen.

Oh yeah. So. Back to the jogging and what I was thinking about while jogging before bigfoot interfered. What I was saying was is that I have a plan -- at least for the moment (maybe only the day). The two gym classes at SCCC are the last things I need to do (if I can get the English Dept. Chair's blessing) to finish my AAS degree, which I started there 10 years ago. (I'm hoping this will set a new SCCC record for longest student matriculation. And I will totally make my parents attend the graduation ceremony.)

ANYWAY. Back to the plan. The plan is to finish my SCCC degree, then go on to Hofstra (if they accept me. If not, I'm joining the KKK), earn my masters in English and TOEFL and get my teaching certification, and then use these credentials to live in fun and new places. Fortunately, all the sunny places I want to go are filled with non-English speakers (aka "Mexicans"), and I happen to enjoy (and am good at) teaching English to foreign language speakers of all ages. So, hopefully, this will open up lots of opportunities for me to live for a little while in each of my fantasy locales. And then it's just viva la viva. At least until I change my mind again.

Why the fuck aren't I moving to Hawaii?

My homepage has been set to show the weather in Hawaii ever since I spent a month there in 2002. Every fantasy life I concoct for myself is set in Hawaii. And whenever the weather on Long Island is beautiful I remind myself that in Hawaii the beauty isn't fleeting. In Hawaii I could ride my motorcycle pretty much 24/7. If I bought a jeep, I could leave the top off all year 'round. If I met a girl there, she would most likely look good in a bikini. Indeed, there is so much I like about Hawaii. So why the fuck aren't I aggressively working on moving there?

Money is one reason. Hawaii is very expensive and jobs there are sparse. When I was there, most people lived in impoverished neighborhoods and worked in tourism. Depressing as hell. But I'm aiming for school there, which means living on the beautiful UoH campus and (hopefully) getting financial aid. So money is mostly a bullshit reason for not going.

My second (and final) reason is also bullshit -- but it's very very very potent bullshit. I'm terrified of being lonely. I do not meet people or make friends easily; I'm solitary by nature, and a lot of the work I do, my projects, is best done solo. But at the same time, I need people around constantly. I'm desperate for socialization, desperate to know I can always find someone to entertain me at a moment's notice. There are not a lot of people in Hawaii, and, even at school, I don't anticipate many opportunities to meet people. Hell, I could barely meet people while living in NYC. Even out here on LI, I've got one reliable friend with whom I can spend time. Weekends are the worst. Without the structure of the workday and the time I'll get to spend with 9-year-olds, the weekends are nothing more than an exercise in killing hours.

Not to get all depressing about it, but instead to get back to the point, when I paint the picture that bleak, it seems like I've got nothing to lose by moving to Hawaii. But what I've got to lose is the last of my social support system. At least here there is somebody, but out there, there is nobody -- at least, there are no guarantees.

Still I try to convince myself that if I take the chance, things would workout for me out there. But it's hard to find the courage to do it, especially because if it doesn't workout, I have no more fallback positions once I'm 6000 miles away.

The Hills are alive with the sound of the meh.

My sister graduated from Buffalo State this weekend, so my whole family trekked up there for the ceremony. Graduations are interesting things. You're filled with love and pride for the person you're celebrating, yet also tremendous physical discomfort because you've got to sit in the bleachers for three hours surrounded by gigantic fat people who take up so much room that airlines would charge them for two seats. The lady sitting in front of me had what I'm told is called "shelf-butt." Her ass was so big that it literally formed a shelf sticking out of the back of her. And when I say literally, I mean literally. As in: When nobody was looking I daintily took my cellphone and rested it there, and when that worked, I considered emptying my pockets. Not that I'm all about making fun of fat people. Fat jokes are cheap, and fat people generally don't deserve it. But I believe there are rules regarding when fatness is and isn't okay (fatiquette!), and these people had broken those rules. But I'll write more about that later because this post isn't for talking about fat people; it is for talking about Hillary Clinton (who is not fat).

Hillary was the commencement speaker at my sister's graduation. The audience thought this was quite a treat and was very psyched. Chuck Schumer was the speaker for the afternoon ceremony, so we all thought we got the better deal, scoring Hills. But then Chuck showed up unannounced to the morning ceremony and we got to hear him speak, too, so we really lucked out.

Chuck's speech was better than Hillary's. It was a well-rehearsed personal anecdote specifically tailored to the lives of graduates. It was warm-hearted and made us laugh. When it was done, I wanted to go hang out with Chuck, but he ran off and I couldn't find him.

In contrast, Hillary's speech was meh. Her presence at the mic is very cold. It's hard to say why this is. It could be because her face doesn't emote. Ever. Even on TV. She looks a little bit like a ghoul. In the realm of charisma, she's about as opposite from her husband as can be. (I saw Bill speak once when I was at college, and he is fucking magnetic. You can't be within line of sight of him and not fall in love. It's magic.) The content of Hills' speech was below par. A number of people sitting hear me called her the Next President of the United States (remember, this is upstate western NY) and so everything she said was met with huge applause. Unfortunately (to me, anyway), everything she said was that same old empty Democratic rhetoric we've been hearing for years: "Quality affordable healthcare should be the right of every American!" and so on. Which is all well and good and is stuff I generally agree with, but it's trite, impersonal, and not what I want to hear at a graduation. And my beef isn't with her doing a little campaigning to a captive audience (Chuck managed to get a little campaigning in, too). It's that all these people kept referring to her as the Next President, yet she so clearly isn't a leader. She doesn't inspire. She doesn't make it feel like we can accomplish our liberal goals. Sure, we could do worse. But can't we also do better? Aren't we tired of trying to get excited over The Meh?

The Jogosphere

I just made that up. Clever, right? It's where my mind goes when I jog -- into the jogosphere, where I am Superman.

That's all I have to say about jogging.

Now I will talk about:

Life's Path!

You see, I need to make some decisions. Mostly about grad school. I need to pick a program, and since I will almost definitely be attending Hofstra (if they reject me, I'll buy a gun and join a militia), I'll have many options. And, well, there are so many options, and my internal debate is so complex, that I'm just not getting into it here. Instead, just know that my nights are sleepless and my days are filled with vacillations, during which I've got it all figured out until I don't. Since all this to-ing and fro-ing is exhausting, I retreat to the television where I can watch The Real Housewives of Orange County, which is the most surreal thing I've ever seen. How can these millionaires possible pretend that they have the same everyday problems as the rest of America? Yet I'm convinced they do. They are very convincing. For example, one of them is a single mom trying to send her kids to college while simultaneously suffering buyer's remorse after purchasing $10,000 earrings. I feel her pain. I feel her struggle. And when the jewelry saleswoman says that this lady bought something she "desperately needed," I feel that, too. And I'm not being snarky about this. I'm serious. Their problems are so normal, but just on a larger scale. Except for their children, who mostly seem to be assholes. How did these normal women raise such assholes? That's the part I don't get.

I do not have glaucoma.

Not that I really thought I did have glaucoma, but I got new glasses at LensCrafters a month or so ago and the dude there who did my eye exam said he was "concerned about [my] pressure." So I finally got to an opthamologist this morning and had it confirmed that not only do I not have glaucoma, but I am at low risk for glaucoma. Three cheers for something not being wrong with me for once.

Now that I know my eyes are healthy, I'm going to go stare into the sun.

You know what's good?

Salami is good. So so good. It's greasy and fatty and spicy and you can wrap it around cheese and crackers and hard bread, and even enjoy it with wine. Fucking incredible. And where does it come from? Pig parts? I don't believe it. More likely there is a magic salami palace in the sky and if you do the magic salami dance magic salami rains down upon you. Salami must come from the heavens. It is that<>that good.

Why the Ivy Leage can blow me

I just read about the "plagiarism scandal" surrounding Harvard sophomore Kaavya Viswanathan, and it's actually made me feel a lot better about not getting into Harvard or Stanford. I don't want to seem like the guy who's just bitching because he's got some sour grapes (though maybe that's what I am). I definitely liked both Stanford's and Harvard's programs best of all the ones I looked at, and, as more and more teachers tell me there's a huge job shortage for any but science and math teachers, I would absolutely love to have the golden ticket that comes with an Ivy League diploma.

But check this shit out:

In a profile published in The New York Times earlier this month, Ms. Viswanathan said that while she was in high school, her parents hired Katherine Cohen, founder of IvyWise, a private counseling service, to help with the college application process. After reading some of Ms. Viswanathan’s writing, Ms. Cohen put her in touch with the William Morris Agency, and Ms. Viswanathan eventually signed with Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, an agent there.

Ms. Walsh said that she put Ms. Viswanathan in touch with a book packaging company, 17th Street Productions (now Alloy Entertainment), but that the plot and writing of “Opal” were “1,000 percent hers.”

Getting into the Ivies involves hiring a private counseling service and getting hooked up with a "book packaging" company? Why does that sound a lot like you have to buy your way into these places?

Getting some guidance on the application process makes sense. I hired Kaplan to help me, and for a few hundred bones I got some very valuable insight on my application essays. But there's something, I dunno, suspicious, about a counseling service that can put you in touch with a book packaging company as well as get you into top schools. (Read about what a book packaging service does, here.)

Or, in other words (since I'm feeling muddled and verbose): if someone is hooking you up with a company that's going to give you the plot, the characters, the outline, and the first four chapters of a book, and then pay you a half-a-million-dollar advance to "write" the book even though your writing style is unexceptional, what would you suspect that same person is doing to get you into Harvard? Is there a fill-in-the-blanks process for that, too? I wish someone would have told me about it.

I guess I'm naive.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Debt Free

In the interest of counting my financial chickens before they've hatched, it looks like I've nearly gotten myself out of debt. I have (or will imminently have) paid off my Amazon.com card, my WaMu card, and my Kohl's card. A few months ago I polished off my Apple Loan. And I've paid my motorcycle insurance for the year as well. This leaves me with college loans to repay, and my motorcycle payments. I feel free. I am a cigarette thrown from a car's window on the L.I.E.: I'll stay afloat for as long as there is turbulence to keep me going, yet inevitably, gravity will have its way with me (imagine those final orange sparks leaping across the ground like ballerinas fired from a cannon!). And what is this metaphoric gravity, you might be wondering? It is the HP L2335. I have wanted one for so long, and the payments would be sooo sooo small (the way peanuts are small, yet packed with protein and satisfaction). Oh, the hunger.

The Da Vinci Suck

Just finished reading the Da Vinci Code. Huge disappointment. I was hoping to have another Harry Potter experience, where I come late to the party but still find myself caught up in all the excitement. Instead, I found the book completely bland. The characters are flat, the mechanics of the quest aren't particularly interesting, and the payoff is poor.

However, the history and research that Dan Brown bases the book on are interesting (in spite of his liberties and errors) and I'd bet reading the straight academic work is more rewarding than sifting fact from fiction within The Da Vinci Code, so I'll be adding some more non-fic to my Amazon.com wish list. Yippee.

Rain is bullshit

I could be out jogging. Or biking. Or riding my freakin' motorcycle. But noooooooooooooo -- it's freakin' raining. Again. Two days in a row. Three, almost, since Friday was crappy also. What the fuck, man? We don't even need rain anymore. Rain is obsolete. Between global warming, in-ground sprinkler systems, and bottled water, it's time for rain to realize that its day is done. It's over. Time to say goodbye. And don't come back again until we need some snow, which is about all rain is good for until we start importing that, too. Fucking rain.

Motorcycle ups and downs

To recap: Several weeks ago, I had my first wipe out. Among other things, this resulted in a broken shifter lever, which meant I couldn't ride until I got a replacement. Though many people recommended assorted online retailers, I decided to order the part from the dealer since I'd just gotten the bike and was feeling the goodwill that comes from a positive shopping experience. Well, that goodwill is completely used up, and I definitely won't order parts from them again. Here's the saga:

So I go to the dealer and order a new part. They charge me $30 more than the part would have cost had I ordered online, nearly doubling its price. They say it will take a week to come in, but two weeks later I stop by and ask if the part has arrived and they tell me it'll be in "on Monday" (which was another three days away). I show up on Thursday and ask about the part and they say it's been there for 11 days and that someone should have called me (not to mention that someone could have told me it was there when I asked about just a few days earlier). So that was three weeks of riding down the tubes all because the dealer's parts department is totally incompetent (they also ordered the wrong parts for some stuff my dad needed -- and they again forgot to call when the parts came in, and the sales department "mishandled" a bunch of the paper work for my dad's bike, which caused yet more inconvenience). Though the dealer started out strong, in the end they get an F. So sad.

Meanwhile, I'd signed up for lessons with a local riding school. Their idea of scheduling a riding lesson is to call at 12:30 in the afternoon and demand I call back by 1:00 if I want to reserve a spot for 9:00 am the next morning. Who can manage stuff like that? Maybe it's because I only work part time, don't have a family to take care of, and am basically a freewheeling lolligagger, but my time is just too scheduled to be able to make such last minute commitments on the spur of the moment. Maybe if they'd given me a full 45 minutes to try to work something out, I could have made it happen. But whatever. After leading me on like this for weeks, they finally decide that they don't want anyone who hasn't signed up for their over-priced "4 lesson package" (4 lessons for $400, as opposed to individual lessons at $75 a pop -- you figure it out) and say they're going to refund my money.

At this point, I was three weeks without a bike, and lacking formal lessons, which I desperately want so as not to have another wipeout. And the jury is still out on the Motorcycle Safety Foundation courses. I sent them a deposit two weeks ago and haven't heard a peep from them since (and their phone just keeps on ringing.) Actually buying the bike had been so easy, but after only about two months of ownership, everything else about it has become a huge pain in the ass.

Fortunately, after putting on the new shifter lever and going for a few short jittery rides to and from the beach, I at last got out today (on Easter! The Day of Rebirth! The Day of Miracles!) and had a fantastic ride exploring some back roads around my house, and I am once again feeling confident that I will actually learn to ride this thing without killing myself.

I still really really really want formal lessons. And I really really really want to take the MSF course. Hopefully all of that will happen before September. In the meantime, I'm going to keep my spirits alive by listening to Michelle Pfeiffer sing Cool Rider from the Grease 2 soundtrack.

Cleaning your dog's anal gland

I didn't know that dogs (or any animal) had an anal gland; nor did I know these precious little nodules needed to be "cleaned." Alas, the things I learn when my parents come home from the vet. Which is where their wiener dogs went for their annual checkup this morning. And when they came home they stank like shit and burnt fur. Which is not exactly the smell I'd expect an anal gland to make (I mean, the shit, sure; but burnt fur?). The process for cleaning a dog's anal gland involves the vet sticking her finger up the dog's butt. Which makes sense. However, I would not have guessed that the dogs would have liked this (which they did. a lot.). Does this mean the dogs are gay? Or just sexually unrepressed? Or does the fact that they're neutered have something to do with it? Some days, life's mysteries overwhelm me.

Hi, 8US!

To answer the inquiries, the blog is not dead. Merely taking a little break. From which I have now returned. At least for as long as the weather is lame. When the weather is not lame anymore, blogging might once again become sporadic. Also, I wasn't off sulking over the Harvard thing. The hiatus began before the letter even showed up. But I do appreciate everyone's concern. (The internets are where my friends are!) What I was doing was eating a lot of Kashi Go Lean Crunch. Have you had this cereal? It is quite good. I just finished a bowl (and another box) only a minute ago. For those of you doing Weight Watchers, it's only three points for 1 cup. For those of you lowering your cholesterol, it's high in fiber and protein, and low in fat. For those of you who like things that taste good, it tastes good. My only complaint is that the box is too small -- too small to make a pirate ship out of, and too small to last me more than a week and change at roughly one bowl (cup) a day. Perhaps there are larger boxes of it available somewhere. Boxes big as boots. Boxes big as 10-gallon hats. Boxes dressed up with bows and lace. Then I could eat until I died. (Which I guess would be ironic since Kashi is supposed to be health food.)

Harvard

Rejection letter received today.

That is all.

First crash!

Just had my first crash!

Fortunately, I was going slow enough that I didn't kill myself. My right arm is sore, and I suspect I would have broken it had been going faster (I think I just pulled some muscles or something -- it doesn't hurt when I move it or squeeze it, which is what I suspect would happen had I broken it), and I scraped up my knees (just got my new JR Alter Ego jacket today, but I'm still waiting on the pants). The bike took the worst of it. The shifter peg broke off, as did a metal bit I haven't identified yet. The left side of the handle bar is also messed up pretty badly. Otherwise it wasn't so bad. Mostly it's annoying, as now I have to get it fixed before I can ride it again. I guess the dealer will pick it up?

I'm not sure what I did wrong. I think I saw myself making a turn to wide and in my effort to get control I accidentally revved the throttle, and that was it. The throttle is super sensitive, and revs at the slightest touch, and I've suspected it would get me eventually. I guess the lesson I've learned is that I'm going to be more patient until the bike's controls are second nature to me.

Body update

At my lightest, I was about 215. Presently I am 226. This was disheartening until I got one of them fancy scales that measures body fat as well as weight and saw that my body fat has actually decreased (by about 1 percent), which means most (perhaps all) of the weight gained is muscle.

And I am feeling quite pumped these days. You should see my guns! Two tickets to the gun show! Everywhere I go I ask people to feel my arms, and boy are they impressed. I know I'm impressed. My arms are impressive. Let me impress upon you the high impressiveness of my mighty arms. Arms like sledge hammers. Boom! They are mighty. My arms = power. I would post pictures of them, but there aren't enough megapixels in the world to capture my bicepular glory.

Still, I'm a little softer in the middle than I'd like to be, especially since I want to buy some pinstripe pants. Pinstripe pants, per se, do not require thinner middles; I just don't want to have to replace them right away. Or have to replace the rest of my wardrobe which mostly needs replacing already. You see, after the pinstripe pants, I want to buy one of those Gordon Gecko shirts, maybe some suspenders, and a bunch of cigars, and hang around looking like a Wall Street power broker. And I don't want to drop a few hundred bucks on clothes before I drop twenty more pounds and then have to go buy new clothes all over again. Because I am cheap. I won't pretend to be frugal. I am not frugal. I am a miser. Fortunately, I work with kids and none of them know the difference. Except for the 6-year-olds, who notice everything. "What's in your teeth?" "Your socks don't match." "You were alive in 1980?!" They're incredible. And so it is for them that I want to buy pinstripe pants. They, more than anyone else -- more than me, even -- will appreciate the whole Wall Street power broker look. And they will emulate it because I am the coolest tutor in the tutoring center because I own an X-Box and a motorcycle and have read The Phantom Tollbooth.

Thus you see that this all part of my plan to re-invent the 1980s. Not all of it -- just the miserable ethics and WASP fashion elements. Greed is good. Bad fashion is better. But '80s pop fashion -- aviator sunglasses, Don Johnson blazers, powder blue suits, fluorescent leg warmers -- is crap. We do not need that shit. No. We need a return to values. We need to get back to the things that made America great. And those things were pinstripe pants and cigars -- a wardrobe that embodies the middle finger, which is the sexiest lifestyle of all.

Motorcycle update

After a total of 3 hours of practice, I am now permitted to drive my motorcycle to and from the beach. Formerly, the routine was that I followed pops down and then he let me ride around the parking lot. But today I managed to get the bike into third gear, and even did a whopping 40 mph for a little bit. And so far I still haven't crashed (or killed myself or lost a limb or become paralyzed). I executed some decent figure eights, too. All in all, I'm taking to the bike much faster than I anticipated.

My next major areas of practice are better shifting, and better control of the bike around corners while at speed (ie, slowing down in time to begin a turn (as one should not brake while turning) and shifting up and down on either side of the turning process). I also need to get sunglasses right quick, since at 4 o'clock the sun is at an angle that makes riding west impossible.

And I need a protective jacket and pants and boots, since going down at 40+ mph will suck bad enough without having to worry about road rash (and worse). On my regular bikety bike, I regularly do over 20 mph, and break 30 when there's a nice hill, and I know that if I were to crash at those speeds it would suck but be generally survivable. Cyclists deal with that all the time. But there was something about watching my speedometer click up to 40 today that made me realize I was entering a whole new level of pain should I crash at that speed. (At the same time, I saw a ton of people out riding today in very non-riderly clothes. I wonder if they're dumb or if I'm paranoid.)

I'll also need to get new rearview mirrors, as the ones I have now are useless. And I'll probably buy a windshield sooner than I'd originally expected.

Motorcycling is about to become a very expensive part of my life.

It's worth it, though. The bike is such a chick magnet.

These are the real banes of my existence

Ignore for a moment (or don't) that this post at Absorbascon starts out being about comics; it is a perfect analysis of the human condition and the role of art therein.

Now go fight some crime.

Anecdotes

Special thanks to special people for the anecdotes below. Heart.

Americans remain thankless for being Americans:

Guy behind me in line, I swear to God:

"I want a coke."

"Oh, well sir the Pepsi Fountain is right over ther--"

"Fuck Pepsi, Pepsi gives people AIDS. I want coke."

"Well, they uh... have Mountain De---"

"Same shit, different color."

I think he wound up getting some Dr. Pepper, going outside, pouring it into the flowers before tossing the cup into the trash.

And I'm reminded why I hate America, and why we deserve a good ass-whipping and to be downgraded to a 3rd world country in a state of emergency for a good few months. So that we be goddamn thankful for this shit we have. Pepsi, Coke, BFD --the kids in Africa who do have AIDS don't get to choose between two different sugar waters because they don't get to down enough clean water as it is in order to counter balance the poison we pump into ourselves --- PEPSI OR COKE.

I'm so mad at myself right now for not jumping all over him. I hope he never comes to my eating spot again.


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AND: "to make you hate Red Bull even more..."

Red Bull buys MetroStars, renames team

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Interesting that these are both beverage related. I wonder if what we drink is making us stupider.

Moto Movies

In honor of the new motorcycle, I've bumped Tron (fun!) and Torque (cheese!) to the top of my NetFlix que. I suppose I should add Easy Rider (old school!) to the list also, but somehow that feels like I'd be taking myself too seriously.

Stanford

Got the rejection letter from Stanford today. Kinda pissed, but not surprised. I was hoping to at least be accepted there even if I might not have been able to afford it in the end. This also gives me serious doubts about whether or not I'll get into Harvard. And since I foolishly missed the application deadline for Hawaii, I will most likely wind up at Hofstra. Which isn't bad, though I really really really wanted to get the fuck off Long Island.

Anyway, when I originally applied to Stanford, I felt it was a shot in the dark mostly because I was worried I'd be a crappy teacher. But after working at Huntington Learning Center for a while, and getting great reviews from students and their parents (rumor has it that I'm one of the most-requested tutors), I can honestly say it's Stanford's loss for not taking me. And I'm not one of those people who says stuff like that just as a way of cheering himself up. I'm too pessimistic for that kind of mind trick to work on me.

So now I need to start re-mapping my potential future. Don't know where I'm going or how I'm getting there (other than by motorcycle, motherfucker!), but the future is like a small china doll perched precariously on a high shelf, waiting for a cat to knock it off. What does that simile mean? I don't know.

Motorcycle!

It just arrived and is in my garage and I'm going right now for my first lesson on it! Psyched!

If I can dig up a working digital camera I'll post pics later. In the mean time you can look here, though it looks much nicer in person.

Keep your fingers crossed that I don't die! (Or that I do die if you don't like me. I'm good either way.)

Open Letter to: Red Bull

Dear Red Bull USA,

I am writing to let you know that your commercials are so bad I refuse to buy your product until you change them. I am also starting the TV Watchers Against Suck-Bag Commercials non-profit activism group to organize a nation-wide boycott of your product until our demands for non-sucky commercials are met.

Sincerely,
Mustapha Mond

---

What commercials do you hate?

Operation: Motorcyle, part 8

What began as a crazy dream on January 14, came to an end today when I went to the Suzuki dealer and bought my first motorcycle! I got a deal on an '05 SV650 naked, in blue. It's totally sweet and I am totally psyched. I'm also totally terrified.

The reason I am terrified is, before buying the bike, I went to the DMV to get my permit, and that's where I learned that everybody else on the road is clueless.

The written test takes place in a separate room, and every time the door opened I could see the room was full of sweaty test takers. My impression was that the permit tests must have gotten much harder. The truth, however, is more frightening.

First, someone, somewhere, stole the Spanish copy of the permit test, which meant the test was "compromised," which meant there were all these Spanish speakers struggling through the test in English. They would show up with a family member who could translate all the forms and stuff for them, but they couldn't have a translator for the test itself. So they'd sit down, fill in the blanks, and ten minutes later get up and find out that they had passed. Amazing!

Second, there was this teenage girl who went into the test room before I'd even arrived at the DMV, but who only finished about a minute before me. She "just passed" (which I think is 8 questions wrong on a 20 question test, and most of the questions are crazy easy). The DMV guy said to her, "a pass is a pass, so you get your learners' permit." To which she said, "Yes! Everybody, lookout!" Lookout, indeed.

So, I will now be sharing the road with a bunch of people who, at best, only got their learners' permits because they could correctly identify commonplace road signs (which make up about a quarter of the test).

Granted, the first piece of advice in every motorcycling book I've read is that motorcyclists should assume every other driver on the road is unfit to be behind the wheel. As sage as that is, it'd be nice if it wasn't a literal truth.

I'm proud to say I got one question wrong on the test. It was a question about countersteering, and even though I knew exactly what the question was talking about, the answers were written so crazily that I couldn't decode which one was right. I wish that I'd written them down just so I could share the insanity. When I asked the lady at the desk about it, she read them and said she had no idea what the answers were talking about. So I'm awarding myself an honorary perfect score, because there's nothing I can do if the same crazy ESL motherfucker who stole the Spanish test also rewrote the answers to the English test.

Anyway, the written test is retarded easy, and the DMV really should make it more difficult. As it is, if you're not afraid for your life on the road, you should be (or you're part of the problem!).

The DMV was the most exciting part of today's motorcycle adventure. Finally buying the bike was somewhat anti-climactic. Mostly it was just signing papers and trying on helmets. The bike itself won't be delivered until Thursday. So now I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa to finally get his big booty back up the chimney so I can open my presents. Also, the weather is supposed to be nice on Thursday, so if I can get my dad to go down to the beach parking lot with me, I'll spend the evening trying not to kill myself. I can't wait!

Rollerblades

Am I too old to learn to rollerblade? Is there an age when one stops being able to learn to do stuff? This is something I've been thinking about a lot with my impending motorcycle purchase. What if I can't learn to ride it? What if I'm too old to learn to coordinate the shifting of the gears? What if I don't have the ability to keep my balance while making turns? Probably this won't be the case and I'll be riding smoothly soon enough. Still, as I look for more and more things to learn after what feels like years of stagnation, I have to wonder if there's a limit.

There's a definite limit in the sense of how to fit all these things into my schedule. On top of learning to ride, I still have about a million other projects I'm trying to finish, plus I have to, like, go to work and stuff. And the gym. And the post office. And I'd like to get back into martial arts. So how can I possible fit rollerblading in amongst all that? I dunno. But I want to.

I've actually been wanting to learn to roller blade for a long time, but I was worried about aggravating an old leg injury. However, after trying to ice skate a few months ago, I think my leg will be fine. So I will probably buy some rollerblades, and as soon as the weather is nicer I will practice going to and fro the beach. Also, there is a very cute girl who rollerblades past my house on sunny days -- she rollerblades like a rocket! I will ask her to give me lessons.

Other things I would like to learn: I would like to learn to fish, and I would like to learn how to sail. I would also like to learn how to shoot a gun and how to ride a horse (though I am allergic to horses) and how to survive alone in the woods indefinitely if necessary (I guess part of me is getting ready for the end of the world). And I would like to learn to play the piano.

Goth, what have ye become?

Fifteenish years ago, when I was a wee lad, it was just becoming cool to be goth (or maybe it had been cool for ages and I was at last aware of it, but whatever). I had friends who were goth, and I even owned a few goth-ish clothing accessories, like black tights (which are surprisingly warm and comfy). It was fun, even though I was never really into The Cure or emo or punk rock or whatever it is gothers (gothites? gothophiles? people who are goth?) listen to. I was also much darker than all the goth people, who, in my shadow, were mere emotional posers. I was goth on the inside.

But anyway, goth has been good for some things. It helped push BDSM into the mainstream, and it brought us pictures of Sarah Michelle Gellar dressed like a leather-clad vixen. In high school, goth let you know which side of the cafeteria you'd be welcomed on. Yes, goth has had a good run; goth has given us many things to be thankful for.

Now it is time for goth to die.

For serious.

Get the fuck rid of it already.

The Internet has killed goth. Or maybe goth killed itself, as subcultures tend to do once they become unconsciously self-parodying, which is what goth now is. Click over to goth.com and you'll see what I mean.

First, that's a cute goth girl on the main page. You have to compensate for the fact that some photoshop lackey blew-out the contrast, making her features a bit flat, and he then tweaked the color curves a few degrees the wrong way, giving her a yellow-green pallor. But she has the look of someone who, you know, might actually get some exercise. And she's blemish free, which means, if she is vegan (as so many gothfolk seem to be), she at least knows how to get enough protein in her diet. Pretty amazing. Unfortunately, 90-percent of goth girls are nowhere near that cute. They tend to be anti-cute, which isn't the same as ugly, but more like at deliberate odds with being attractive. Which I guess is the whole point of being goth. Or something. My point though, is, when a subculture of people who seemingly cultivate unattractiveness are marketed to with cute models, there's a good chance things have gone astray.

Second, the quote at the top of the page ("Who cares what you think?") is the embodiment of the age-old King Missile lyric, "I want to be different, like everybody else I want to be like." This isn't a new phenomenon -- being different just like all your friends is something that's defined every teen generation since the '60s. But there are now goth kids in cellphone commercials, and on teh Interwebs, "goth" is now code among the non-goth for "I'm so fucking ironically cool because I'm ironically aware of being emotionally impenetrable."

Goth has become a joke, and every time I see a goth teen on the street, in the mall, peering out the window of a passing school bus, I can only feel sorry for him. Not because he is so miserable that he feels compelled to dress up like a black and white Joker, but because he's letting his misery turn him into an absolute dork, and that's just too sad for words.

Brain FM

I often wish that I could broadcast my brain to the world on one of the FM channels so everyone who wanted could tune in and hear what's going on in there. You'd like it. Often there's a pretty bitchin' sound track, plus, a full third of my interior musings happen in Sean Connery's voice, and probably one percent happen in a racially insensitive Indian accent. The Indian accent is actually my favorite, and it's the voice I use when I'm driving alone and monologuing to myself.

That is all.

100 Percent Smile

The last of my dental work was finished today, and for the first time in my life (sorta) I have a smile I like to see in the mirror.

I am now terrified that I'm going to fall down the stairs or something and knock all my teeth out.

Operation: Motorcyle, part 7

Tom Wolf -- or Tobias Wolf, or Virginia Wolf, or one of the other Wolfs, most of whom don't actually spell their name "W-o-l-f" -- once said that you have to suffer for style. He was talking about why he chose to sleep in vinyl pajamas. Or maybe it was velour pajamas. Or whatever. The point is that they were some uncomfortable fucking pajamas that he chose to sleep in because he would look cool doing it. Not that there was anybody watching him sleep. No, this was all for his inner sense of cool, all so that he could feel cool about himself because he knew that if other people could see him, they would think he was cool. He was a genius who saw deeply into his own soul.

Of course, I used to think that anyone who slept in vinyl pajamas was out of his mind. When I first heard the anecdote about Wolf and his pajamas, I even said out loud, "That guy is an idiot." Now, however -- now that I am older, wiser, more jaded, more longing for a do-over of my misspent youth -- I understand the pressure of needing to look cool for nobody but yourself.

Today, I went back to the motorcycle dealer, checked out the SV650 again, and checked out a Suzuki V-Strom DL 650. Both are very nice bikes. The SV is an '05, and I can get it for $4999, which, after taxes and other BS, has me walking out the door for less than $6000, which was my goal. The DL is $6700, and it comes with a lot of extras that the SV doesn't have, and it's slightly more comfortable (with a more upright riding position and a wider seat). There's a lot to like about the DL -- so much so that my dad decided to buy one, and we're now a one-motorcycle family. Very exciting. And, without me even asking, he offered to chip in for one if I decided I wanted a DL instead of an SV. So now I can get the fancier, slightly comfier bike for the same price as the SV.

You'd think this would be a no-brainer. Except the DL is ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Ugly-stepsister ugly. World's-ugliest-dog ugly. Fugly ugly.

Or maybe ugly isn't the best word. To be more precise, the DL looks like an old grandpa bike. It's not a bike that girls are going to want to ride on the back of (though, ironically, it's a bike that girls could actually ride on the back of without being scared to death). It's a bike that's fine for my dad, and I'm glad he's happy with it. But it's hard for me to want one or to really see myself riding one. Not that the SV is über sexy, and once I put a windshield on it it'll take a step towards the dorky side of the street -- but it is cooler looking than the DL regardless.

So... What to do? Go pragmatic and buy the sensible DL? Or buy the vinyl pajamas? My nature is to be conservative, which favors the DL. But I'm also tired of my nature. I want somebody else's nature for a while. But the real trick is going to be finding a nature -- either my own or somebody else's -- that I can hold onto long enough to be happy with whichever bike I choose.

Shove it up your ass.

No, really. Here's "the complete list of Rectal Foreign Bodies" -- an index of every documented case of everything that's needed removing from someone's ass. For Grey's Anatomy fans, there's even an x-ray of a live artillery shell that got stuck in someone's back door. Gives new meaning to the term "code black." Some great stuff there, so go knock yourself out. If you're feeling inspired afterward, stop by Babeland for some tips on keeping your ass out of the emergency room.

Blizzard blogging

With nothing else to do while the white storm rages, I've been adding items to my amazon.com wish list. And for deep-rooted Freudian reasons that I don't understand, I decided to see what happens if one searches for "dildos" at Amazon.com. Lo and behold: amazon sells dildos. When they say "Amazon.com and you're done," they aren't kidding.

Letter to: Jeep

Here's my letter to Dieter Zetsche, chairman (or whatever) of Daimler-Chrysler, the company that owns Jeep. For the record, I'm sending these from my actual email address with my actual name signed to them. I think that little touch gives my letters a feel of legitimacy. Because I am serious that I would like a hybrid Jeep.

Before I get to the letter, which is not funny -- it's pretty straightforward and represents a sincere request for a product I would someday like to purchase -- except for that I couldn't help writing it in a goofy way, I would like to let the blog reading public know that my letter writing time is available to you as a free service. Post the name of a CEO and his/her business and the product or other thing you would like from that business and I will send said CEO a quick letter.

From: me
Subject: hybrid jeep
Date: February 10, 2006 11:06:28 AM EST
To: dieterzetsche@daimlerchrysler.com

Guten Tag!

I would very much like to buy a Jeep, but the cost of gas is out of control. Plus, I am concerned about the environment? Are we really doing enough to take care of it? So it occurred to me that a hybrid Jeep would be a great car for me. Please make one. I will buy it!

Sincerely,
MM

Letter to (first in a series?): Apple

You know what I don't do often enough? Correspond with the CEOs of giant corporations. How are they going to know what I want if I don't make my needs known to them? As such, I've decided to make a project of it. My first letter is below. You'll note it's actually a serious request -- I really really really would like a wireless bluetooth mighty mouse from apple. Better still would be a wireless bluetooth trackball, but that's not likely to happen until I become a major shareholder. Anyway, some of my letters will be serious, others will doubtless devolve into goofiness. Alas, such is my tragic flaw. I can't be serious about anything for too long.

So, here's my first letter:

From: mrmond@mac.com
Subject: bluetooth mighty mouse
Date: February 10, 2006 10:39:21 AM EST
To: stevejobs@apple.com

Hi Steve,

I'm in the market for a bluetooth mouse, and it would be swell if Apple made a bluetooth version of the Mighty Mouse. I would buy it if you did. It would go nicely with my wireless Apple keyboard. Don't wait too long, though -- I need a new mouse soon!

Thanks,
MM


Smashing, isn't it? Next up is Jeep once I find out who there CEO is. Also, I have no idea if that's Steve Jobs' real email address. Probably it's not. Probably some Intern or secretary or assistant's assistant is responsible for reading through all the mail that goes there. That's fine. I'll just have to hope that my genius suggestions are rushed up the food chain.

Operation: Motorcyle, part 6

I found an SV650 naked to actually sit on today. I had to drive down to the dealer's warehouse, and skulk around all the garages and ice cream trucks (there were like all these ice cream trucks there -- no idea why) like someone about to commit a felony. But I found the Suzuki warehouse and was ushered inside and shown a mostly-assembled SV650 naked.

Good golly, it was worth the wait. I only had to sit on it for about a second to tell that it was much more comfortable than any of the sport bikes I've tried. In fact, I felt right away like I was ready to ride.

So I'm psyched. I'll be talking to the sales guy this weekend about what he can do on the price. It's an '05 (blue), and this is off-season, and I know they haven't sold a lot of ATVs or snowmobiles since it's been too warm (though I don't get why warm weather would slow ATV sales, but whatever), so I'm hoping he'll come down at least $500. If not, then I might hold out until I can find a better deal on an '05 or have this place order me an '06 in red (which is soooo sexy I could sing songs about it -- big fat slobbery love songs). My only concern right now is that this is the dealer I've been warned adds all sorts of crazy fees to the out the door price. I'm glad to have been alerted to it in advance, and I'm prepared (reluctantly) to walk out the door if they try to pull that with me. But I'm not gonna get all negative just yet. Instead I'm going to sit here and fantasize about cruising around town on an SV650, winking at the ladies and making the men feel like little boys.

Post Secrets

I clicked back over to postsecret just a moment ago to read the new cards. For some reason, reading those cards feels good. Much as I feel like we're messed up for having anything to bitch about at all, it's also nice to know that I/you/we are not the only one(s) walking around with all sorts of garbage in my head.

In Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut talks about his need to empty his head of all the crap the world has put in there over the years. He tosses out Nazi flags and women's underwear and leaves them strewn along the sidewalk. In my memoir, I reference this and make a point of doing the same thing.

And it's made me realize that there's something about us -- something that's either a universal part of the human condition, or something that's uniquely American (I'm not sure which) -- that demands we pour our insides out. We lionize memoirists like Dave Eggars and David Sedaris, we tune in to Oprah and Dr. Phil, we blog, and we send postcards to postsecret. We're desperate to share ourselves.

We're desperate for intimacy. Which I guess means that either as humans or as a culture we're failing the interpersonal-connection test. But no amount of blogging or memoir writing or Dr. Phil watching is going to correct the problem. These things are only a band-aid for a wound that we're actually afraid to heal. After all, if we weren't afraid, we'd use our real names when we did this stuff.

I go to absurd lengths to keep myself anonymous on the Internet. My friends who know me in meat space obviously come here knowing who I am, but for everyone else I wear the Mustapha Mond mask. I have a Mustapha Mond email address, and I sign my emails Mr. Mond and I won't post my picture in my profile, and it's all so, should I meet strangers in meat space, they won't have a head start on knowing just how fucked up I am -- even though I know they're just as fucked up as me.

It's the details of someone's fuckedupedness that gives you power over them. And it's only when you look someone in the eye and make an honest effort to share the details of all the misfired gears, blown gaskets, leaky tubes, and syntax errors, that you can achieve true intimacy with someone. And it's terrifying to try and do that. I don't blame people for wanting to keep it all anonymous.

In fact, it's almost like we have no choice but to keep it anonymous. Does anyone who's read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius actually think they know Dave Eggars? I hope not. As much as Eggars might try to spill his guts onto the page, there is inevitably a filter between the memoirist and his audience that prevents the reader from truly knowing the self of the writer. And the writer knows this barrier exists, and the writer knows that it's the barrier that makes it possible for him to write at all. So, yes, even the memoirist, with his name on the cover and his picture inside the jacket of his book, remains anonymous.

We're all anonymous until we sit across the table from each other and say out loud into each other's ears that our heads are full of Nazi flags and women's underwear, and that's the only time we can achieve true intimacy with each other.

Unfortunately, the world is getting too big for that. And the bigger it gets, the higher we need to crank the volume. Thus we invent media, and the blogosphere, and sky writing, and smoke signals. We must share. We must let the world know that we are in pain, in love, in anything, in the hopes that in some small way our lives will be recognized and shared and made more real through connections with other people. Yet we must do this anonymously because it's too scary to do it any other way.

So, in that tradition, I thought it would be an interesting experiment (and experience) if, in the comments of this post only, people visiting Smooth Verbiage would post anonymously and just say whatever the hell they wanted.

WTF?!ADS?!

Yeah, that's an ad at the top of the blog. I thought long and hard about it and decided I need money and every little extra way I can get some is fine with me. (I'm also available as a cheap prostitute, just FYI.)

Yeah. So.

Expect it to get worse before it gets better, too. I'm planning to put up a paypal button so I can beg more blatantly, as well as a link to my amazon wishlist.

The silver lining to all this sleaze is that every cent raised/donated/solicited is going towards grad school. (I'd love to put it towards the motorcycle, but I haven't sunk that low (yet) -- though, now that I think about it, I'm so putting the motorcycle on my wishlist. Ha!)

If anyone has any other ideas for how I can make some extra bucks (tattoo the golden arches on my forehead?), post 'em in the comments.

Oh, and, I think the ads pay on a per-click basis right now, so, if you love me, how about you visit my advertisers.

Hooray, money!

Finally.

My Harvard application is finished. Howdy-doody. Unfortunately (sort of) it's a lot stronger than my Stanford application; I nailed the essay, and the rest of the format felt like it was really highlight my strengths. The reason I say this is unfortunate is because the weather in Mass. sucks. I mean, would it even make sense to own a motorcycle there? If I'm gonna buy a bike, then I've gotta go to school in Cali. And for a while I felt like Stanford application was as strong as can be. But now... Well, getting accepted to either school would be a thrill, and I certainly wouldn't say no to Harvard (money permitting). In spite of the weather, I'm quite enthused about the possibility of going. The program seems top notch, and I was just reading some stuff by one of their professors and I felt really in sync with her ideas and philosophy. Anyway, there's nothing to do now but wait for the letters.

Fellatio

I would love to be fellated right now. To relieve stress. My Harvard application is almost done! Ayyyeeee!

And I have to confess, I pussied out on the whole Hogwarts thing (see below). The more I got into my essay, the more I realized I'd really really like to be accepted there and that I shouldn't fuck around about it. I'd like to believe that having a little fun with my application would have endeared me to the application committee, but it's all such a finicky businesses that in the end I decided it's best not to give them an excuse to reject me. Alas. I am a wuss and have capitulated to the play-it-safe-ism of the system.

Blogger.com all f-ed up

Sometime around the 3rd, Blogger.com started eating anything I tried to post, including comments responding to comments in older posts, and including a really good post about what books I've been reading, which was fucking genius on the order of sliced bread). So this post is a test to see if Blooger.com is working again.

New TV Series Idea!!!

It's called The Jhonny Homicide Investigations.

The main character's name is Jhonny Homicide -- Jhonny, because he's Hispanic, and Homicide, because he investigates murders!

HolyfuckI'magenius!

Operation: Motorcyle, part 5.5: Elite Task Force

My mother has told my father to "strongly discourage" me from getting a motorcycle. My dad, however, doesn't seem interested in doing that. "Mom says I should strongly discourage you from getting a motorcycle," he said, "because she's afraid you'll get hurt." Then he said, "So, do you want to go with me to the Suzuki dealer out in Riverhead?" Funny stuff.

So we went out to Riverhead and found a bunch of motorcycle dealers and checked out every brand of motorcycle one could want. Still, nobody has a freakin' SV650 built for me to look at. One guy I asked about it got this surprised look on his face and said to me, "Are you looking for a track bike?" I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that, so I just said I'm looking for a standard or a naked bike. Another dealer kept mixing up the SV650 with the SV650S -- the second time that's happened to me. And all the dealers have pooh-poohed the SV650 and pushed me towards something more expensive (like some Kawasakis, which are very nice, but outside my price range).

It's weird, because on the Internet, tons of people post about how much they love their SV650s and Suzukis in general. And a number of magazines have given the SV650 great reviews. But walk into a showroom and the sales guys are all like, "What do you wanna buy that bike for?" I guess they're used to selling to kids who want crotch rockets. Whatever. After looking at a ton of motorcycles, I'm set on the SV650 at this point; I'd just really like to see one and sit on it before buying.

Also, many of the dealers are telling me about how other dealers hit you with all these crazy fees. The dealer out in Riverhead showed me a receipt from a dealer in Port Jeff and there were $3000(!) worth of extra fees added onto the cost of the bike. WTF? According to the receipt, the fees covered everything from opening the crate to assembling the bike and all sorts of odds and ends. I don't know if that's typical, but it would put even the cheapest bike out of my price range. I was also told to expect to pay "a few hundred dollars" every 3000 miles for regular maintenance: oil change, adjust the chain, adjust the rear wheel and the brakes, tighten stuff, etc. I was advised that some of the work I could do myself (like changing the oil), but the rest should be handled by an experienced mechanic. On the one hand, I feel like that's a lot of bull so dealers can make more money. On the other, I don't want to be riding around on a poorly maintained motorcycle and get myself killed.

On the plus side, one of the dealers offered to give me a free lesson before I bought a bike, and he and a second dealer both offered to supply a chase-car and driver when I take my road test. A third dealer has its own insurance office and DMV branch(!) right in the building with them, and they do all the associated paperwork for you for free.

Thus, the overall shopping experience has been bizarre. You start talking to the sales guys and it's like you can see the little devil on one shoulder and the little angel on the other. The devil is the stereotypical car salesman who desperately wants to make a winter commission on a bike. The angel is the genuine motorcycle enthusiast who is eager to bring another rider into the fold. It would be very helpful at this point to have an experienced rider go shopping with me, to help separate the good from the evil.

Operation: Motorcyle, part 5

Newsday has lately been full of stories about motorcyclists getting killed. Discouraging! And I've also been getting some negative vibes out of Stanford, which could impact my moving to California, which is where I really wanted to be with my motorcycle. Why does life hate me?

But screw all that. I'm planning to get to the DMV this Thursday or Friday to get my learner's permit, and then I'll have to decide if I want to take some lessons first and then buy, or buy first so I've got a bike here to practice with between lessons. (The latter is probably the better choice, but I'd really like to be able to test drive a new bike around the parking lot before buying it. Alas, that probably won't be possible.)

So, once I've got a bike, and can ride it, I'll be in the position of wondering how badly I want to force myself to move to Cali in the event I'm not accepted to a school there. It's weird how our wants push different aspects of our life into focus. I want to live in a fun in the sun place and either be at school or be able to chill and work on my writing. And I want a motorcycle and a Jeep and that big-ass 30-inch monitor for my Mac. Ideally, Scott will strike it rich and I'll move into his happening new pad and live rent free and have sex with the maid. (Of course, I'll film the sex and then post it on the Internet, which is how I'll make my own fortune, which I'll use to buy tons of political influence, eventually catapulting myself into the Presidency, and then and then I'll tell the rest of the world it needs to get its shit together, and then I'll drop a few nukes to show I'm not fucking around.

And it'll all because I went and bought that motorcycle.)

Sunnyside up

On a lighter note, check out Hatebeak, the death-metal band with a parrot(!) for a singer.

Sadness in America

Here's a blog someone linked me to: post secret.

It's strangely touching, yet strangely horrible. Like, do people in other countries -- countries, like, I dunno, Iraq? -- need as much therapy as we (Americans) do?

We're the wealthiest, most powerful, and (arguably) the most comfortable country in the world. Why is everybody so unhappy all the time?

This is something I've wondered about for many months now as I've struggled with my own unhappiness. When I look at where I live, the lifestyle I'm able to lead, and compare it to the rest of the world, I wonder what right I (or any of us) have to be anything but glowingly happy every second of every day. To have been born in America is to be blessed, because even America's worst is still better than the best of what 95% of the rest of the world has to offer.

Where do we get off being so lazy, and petty, and dissatisfied? How can we each not feel a little guilty on the days we get up and don't do a damn thing to help bring the rest of the world up to our level? I'm not talking about upending your life and joining the Peace Corp. Just do a little something -- donate 50 cents a day to UNICEF or something. Or something closer to home, like Meals on Wheels.

Chalk this up to solipsistic projection or whatever. But I think it's incredibly arrogant of us to think that we don't have some responsibility to our neighbors. Being born into the USA is not a virtue. We didn't do anything to earn it or deserve it and it has no inherent moral value and it doesn't give us the right to act like everybody else is either (a) inferior, or (b), just plain unlucky and so that's the breaks. We got lucky. We should be thankful. And, in recognition of our good luck, of the blessing that comes from being born here, we should take advantage of our advantages and do something a little more productive than wallow in our own narrow world view.

Readings: The Phantom Tollbooth

One of my tutees recommended The Phantom Tollbooth to me the other day, so I picked it up and gave it a read. It's a tough book to get through in the sense that it's written for kids but without that little something extra that makes it work for adults. However, it is very cute and very clever. And it should be required reading for everybody today, young or old. Why? Because as I was reading it, I was struck by how the non-sense world of the Phantom Tollbooth is so very much like our world today -- specifically the world of illogic that the neo-cons have constructed around us. The book was written in '61, yet there are some amazing caricatures of everyone from Bill O'Reilly to the 101st Fighting Keyboarders. It wouldn't take much of a satirist to recast the entire book as a parable for the last six years. Hell, I might even do it myself. In any case, get yourself a copy of The Phantom Tollbooth and let me know what you think.

From Hogwarts to Harvard

So, what I'm doing, see, is I'm pretending in my application to Harvard that as an elementary school student, I didn't attend schools out on Long Island, but instead I was whisked away every year to attend Hogwarts. This is probably not an original idea (though I don't know of anyone else who's done it), but it's an idea that only I can execute with such daring and panache. But I need (or, more precisely, would benefit from) your help.

So far, I've included a short sentence about Hogwarts in my statement of purpose -- just enough to arouse a chuckle, to show that I am a person of both intellect and wit -- and I've included Hogwarts on my list of attended schools, and I am whipping up a quick faux Hogwarts transcript to include amongst my other transcripts. What I could use from you, dear blog reader, is a letter of recommendation in the persona of a Hogwarts professor. You could pretend to be one of the professors from the books, or you could pretend to be one of the countless professors we undoubtedly haven't read about. Or, if you are feeling adventurous, you could pretend to be one of the ghosts, or Mrs. Norris the cat, or whomever. I have access to a fancy printer and a bunch of quill-like fonts, and am in the process of getting some Hogwarts letterhead. All in all, the finished product will look disturbingly authentic. Go ahead and paste your letters into the comments section, or email me directly, and I'll take care of the rest.

This will either be a feather in my cap for getting into Harvard, or it will be a black eye. Either way, it will be fun. If I get in, it will make quite the story.

Poem

Here's a poem I wrote a long time ago. It isn't very good. And I say it isn't very good even though I hate when people post their creative shit and then immediately begin ducking away from it. So I'll elaborate and say that I like this poem a lot because writing it was fun and there are parts I get a kick out of every time I read it. But I am not a poet. I have never been good at poetry, and I seldom if ever try to write poems. Sometimes I wish I was a poet. There's something about a good poem that makes it, I think, a superior form of art compared to almost everything else. Which is probably why I never read poetry either. Half the time I don't get it. Or, when I do get it, it seems so simple, so obvious. Most poems are a disappointment. Most poems suck. But when they're good, they're really fucking good. So here is my poem, which, even though it sucks, for me it is really fucking good.

The 5-Day Forecast for Bullshit Land

The snow missed Manhattan,
hit Bullshit Land instead. No soft powder,
only ice, sharp in my face.

I paused, inhaled frost, tightened
my chest, nipples erect, cursed
Sam Champion for raising hopes,

And made my gentle steps down
the sidewalk. After 13 blocks I was
snotty and winded at your door.

You insisted I keep my jacket,
didn’t offer tea, only six reasons
not to untie my shoes, to tighten my scarf,

step back into the ice. The storm inside
was worse, you said, with lies and anger
followed by make-up sex as we move into

the weekend. Better if we spare ourselves
the bullshit. I paused, inhaled frost, and
made my gentle steps down the sidewalk.

Eight "yo mama" jokes

1. Yo mama so fat were in her right now

2. Yo mama so fat she has been declared a natural habitat for Condors

3. Yo mama so stupid she called Dan Quayle for a spell check.

4. Yo mama so lazy that she came in last place in a recent snail marathon.

5. Yo mama so hairy you almost died of rugburn at birth!

6. Yo mama so nasty I called her to say hello, and she ended up giving me an ear infection.

7. Yo mama so ugly they didn't give her a costume when she tried out for Star Wars.

8. Yo mama so flat she's jealous of the wall!

*BONUS JOKE!!*: Yo mama hair so nappy she has to take Tylenol just to comb it.

Today's Wisdom

Most tattoos demonstrate bad taste.

Can I have sex with you?

I would like to have sex with you. May I?

Operation: Motorcyle, part 4

Today, I went to the DMV and got the reading material for taking the motorcycle learner's permit test. On my way back out I was completely spaced and jumped right in front of a car and I'm not sure how it didn't kill me. I then was spaced and in shock from my near-death experience and so I promptly stepped right in front of a second car, this one coming from the opposite direction(!). Now, thoroughly concerned about where my head was at, I got in my car, drove off in the wrong direction, drove back, missed my turn, missed my turn a second time, pulled over, yelled at myself in the mirror for a minute, and then got going again. (They really shouldn't let people like me on the road.)

I went to Borders and got The Idiot's Guide to Motorcycles (endorsed by Jay Leno!), and Street Strategies by David L. Hough. Street Strategies was recommend to me by some old-school cruiser guy who was hanging out in the motorcycle section. He was bald and pot-bellied and said he's been riding for over 35 years, so I will trust in his wisdom re: the book.

Then I stopped at the motorcycle dealer and inquired again about the used Z1000 and an SV650. I tell ya, I'm starting to get a little skeptical of these guys. I talked with a different sales guy today than I did last time, and it turns out that the Z1000, which I originally heard was an '05, is in fact an '03. So it is no longer the amazing deal that I thought it was (though it's still not bad, and still within my price range). They have an '05 SV650, which the sales guy said he could knock down to $5500 from $5900, making it the best deal I've seen so far for a new bike. However, today's sales guy kept saying the SV650S is the "standard" version of the bike, while the non-S is the sleeker "sport" version. This didn't sound right, so I checked the Suzuki site when I got home and sure enough it's the reverse -- the S is the slightly more expensive sport version. Not a killer mistake, and I can understand how someone would make it, but that's the second time I've walked out of their with some degree of wrong information. Regardless, at $5500, the SV650 is hard to beat.

I also saw a Kawasaki Vulcan while I was there. It's a nice bike and costs less than $5000. However, it doesn't have fuel injection or a rear disc brake, and it has a smaller engine than the Suzuki, so since I can get the SV650 for only $500 more, I think the extra niceties are more than worth the price. (The one possible down side on the SV650 is that I forgot to ask which color it was and they've only got the one '05 in stock. If it's the fugly yellow color, I'm not sure I could stomach it.)

And I got info on a good riding instructor from that guy at Borders. Allegedly there's some dude in Ronkonkoma who has a bunch of small bikes that he teaches n00bs to ride on, so I'm going to check that out. It sounds like a cool deal.

The ethics of continuing to shop at Small Dog Electronics

I try to shop at Small Dog Electronics as often as possible when I need computer stuff. I prefer to support them because I like to support smaller, mom and pop type stores instead of big chain monsters. And I like that as a business they support a number of lefty causes. But pretty much every order I've ever made through them has had something wrong with it. I've gotten the wrong stuff, I've gotten broken stuff, I've gotten broken stuff that was then replaced with the wrong stuff... on and on and on. It's maddening. They did once go above and beyond the call of duty, getting me a laptop overnight, which was great. But it's hard to let that outweigh my annoyance at so many other orders having gone wrong.

So, should I stick by Small Dog no matter what? Should I tolerate these inconveniences and take comfort in the knowledge I'm helping to keep the world safe for the little guy and for businesses that give a hoot? Or is it time to move on to Mac Mall, who has not yet made a mistake on one of my orders and who also has great prices -- even though one day they might turn into the next Wal-Mart?

I suppose it's a question of values: reward the business that actually does the best job at being a business? Or reward the business that does the better job at being a socially conscious corporate citizen?

Braces off

Twenty-seven months later, the braces are finally off. Amazing. Everything still isn't finished, however. I have a temporary bond holding one of my teeth in place because it has suffered a lot of bone loss, and I'm getting a temporary bridge on Feb 6 to replace a missing tooth, and the final bridge goes in about a week later.

It's been a weird experience, having braces as an adult -- one I'm still reflecting on. Somewhere within it all is a commentary on American values. I'll write more about it later.

Today's Wisdom

Leftovers for dinner are a disappointment, but leftovers for lunch are a treat.

Done with white girls

As I was mentally chronicling the last week or so of my new dating experiment, it occurred to me that the top three best dates I've been on have all been with non-white girls.

The number two and three spots are held by girls who are black or half-black, half-other, and the number one spot is held by a Chinese girl who believes in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster, the theory of Atlantis, rock 'n' roll, national healthcare, sailing, fancy wines and cheeses, omelets instead of pancakes, leather-bound books, and kicking people in the face. With them I've been to all sorts of bars and clubs and scenic overlooks and other crap I might not have ever gone to otherwise, and I've had an all around great time. There's even a chance that me and the Chinese girl are going to take a one-hour "flying lesson" together (for $100, an instructor takes you up and lets you steer the plane around for a bit. Pretty cool.).

By contrast, the white girls have seldom been up for more than the standard movie-dinner-beer triple play. Not that that can't be a fun time, but you figure the singles scene is just a non-step merry-go-round of dating and you'd want to raise the bar instead of doing the same 'ol same 'ol all the time. Especially since the triple play is what you'll be doing all the time once you're an old and tired established couple. Why dive into the rut so soon?

So I'm done with white girls for a bit. Hopefully one will come along soon and show me she's got more going on than the suburban blues; but until then my eye's going to linger a little longer on the ethnic honeys.

Operation: Motorcyle, part 3

After another day of 'cycle browsing, the Suzuki SV650 has emerged at the top of the running for my first bike. It's such a deal, in fact, that I'm wondering what the catch is. Going to go check it out more thoroughly this weekend, I think. Plus there's a motorcycle show at the Javitz center that my dad and I might go to. If only the weather were nicer I'd be inches away from owning a bike any day now. Alas.

Operation: Motorcyle, part 2

Went to the Honda motorcycle dealer today. Turns out the Honda Rebel, at less than 250 ccs, is going to be way too underpowered. I'm not sure who that bike is for -- wafer thin 16 year olds or something -- but regular-sized adults need something in the 650+ cc range. So now I'm looking at spending a minimum of $6000. Which isn't horrible, just more than I was thinking. But insurance is dirt cheap, and gas for it will also be very cheap, and lessons won't be too expensive either.

And, since I'm now mentally preparing myself to spend a minimum of $6000, I get to take a serious look at the BMW 650 CS, which is about $8000. It's quite a cool bike, and my first choice if I can get the money together.

It's a shame the weather is all shitty right now, because now that I've gone and looked at some bikes up close, touched, got a sense of how physically big they are, how much they weigh, I'm eager to start learning to ride one. But I need time to sock away some cash, so it's for the best.

Speaking of my casual sex quota...

I decided that since I've been bored, and have my evenings free, I should start dating people again. To facilitate this, I've revived my Match.com profile. I've been on a handful of dates the past week or two and have had a good time and met some cool girls. I don't think any of them are going to become long termers. I'm not emotionally ready for that at the moment, I think. And because of that, I realized that in a sense I'm lying to my dates about my intentions, which I guess makes me a dick. Well, I don't enjoy being a dick (even if it is convenient, and even if I suspect most girls secretly prefer to date dicks who treat them like shit), so to assuage my conscience I took out an ad on Craig's List that basically said "Who wants to meet tonight for some sex?"

Ads like that glut the casual encounters section of CL, and I always suspected they were posted by desperate people who knew the ad was going to go unanswered. Oh how wrong I was. It turns out there are lots of girls who are willing to meet you on a moment's notice for a good romp. They don't care who you are or what you look like, as long as you're clean, disease free, and can supply a solid pounding. Amazing. However, I have not yet taken advantage of any of these girls. I was too shocked that they even exist to respond to the first few emails I got. But I've emailed a few just to chat, and went on a "date" with one to see how we clicked and if we might start up a "friends with benefits" relationship. (So far it's looking promising.)

Turns out there is a world of rampant casual fucking that one only needs the courage to enter. Money, looks, age, personality -- none of the usual factors apply. Balls are everything. And I am tempted. Oh, so tempted. I want to dive right in. Hump every girl on Long Island. And I've got some big balls, but I'm not sure they're quite that big just yet.

Operation: Motorcycle

I've decided to buy a motorcycle. I have to save up, first. And then I'll have to learn to ride it. But I want one, and they're cheap enough, so I'll get one. At $3,100, the Honda Rebel is my current favorite. (I'd put a link to it here, but I forget how.)

Every time I tell people that I want a motorcycle, they invariably tell me that motorcycles are fun but super dangerous. This is probably true, but it seems like a weird thing to keep coming up. Aren't most things fun but dangerous? Casual sex, even casual safe sex, is fun but dangerous, but you don't hear people saying "I'd like to go have casual safe sex, except it's fun but dangerous." No, people go around fucking each other's brains out willy-nilly with nary a second thought. Well, I'm well behind in my casual sex quota, so I'm going to make up for it by buying a motorcycle.

Lower Education

As I work on my statements of purpose for my grad school applications, I've come to the conclusion that academic writing is a crime against humanity.

I've hired an "admissions consultant" to look over my stuff before I apply. She's got like 30 years of experience doing this, works at Harvard, and, from what I can see, knows more than most about putting together a solid college application.

She just returned the first draft of my statement of purpose for Stanford. And she made very few comments on the essay's substance, but has strongly advised me to change the tone from casual (and humorous) to formal. Which, to me, means boring. I don't doubt that that's good advice, either. Anyone who's ever written or read an A+ college essay, knows that they're written in a suicidally dull tone. Not that students should be encouraged to distract from their paper topic by goofing around on the page, but at what point did dead and oblique jumbles of sentences become the signature of "intelligent writing"?

From my experience with students, it seems this style of writing hasn't accomplished anything except to turn people off from learning. Which, obviously, is the opposite of what academia is trying to achieve. Of course, it's typical American to put tradition and formality over quality and effectiveness.

Battle against bureaucracy

Turns out I never graduated college.

"What?" you say. "But! But! Mr. Mond," you say, "you graduated in 2003!"

That's what I thought. Until today, when I started getting ready to have my transcripts sent out for my grad school apps. Hunter College, apparently, has three "stops" on my record -- and those stops have been sitting there for nearly 3 years. They've never once mentioned them to me, and thus I'm only finding out now when it's absolutely critical that my transcripts get sent out ASAP so I don't miss my application deadlines. Better still, the Hunter Registrar is only aware of one of the stops. The CUNY Grad Center, which ran my degree program (it's complicated), says Hunter has three stops on my record. So how does Hunter only know about one while CUNY GC knows about three? Good question. No answers. It's a safe bet, though, that the answer has something to do with whatever bureaucratic nonsense let them keep any stops at all on my record for three years without ever once notifying me.

So tomorrow I will spend all day in the city, driving two hours to get there, then ten hours in traffic on the way home, and hopefully when all is said and done I'll actually have graduated from college and my transcripts will be on their way to my grad schools of choice.

And just for the record -- just so the alien overlords who dig this blog up in 10,000 years know -- this is the year 2005. We are days away from it being 2006. There is absolutely no excuse for any modern American institution to be run this poorly. Alas, it turns out city agencies continue to defy our lowest expectations.

Book book book

The first draft of the early chapters of the book is now available for friends and family who want to read it. Email me if you haven't already.

I've already sent copies to a bunch of people, and I'm excited to get their feedback. The best thing about this stage of the process, actually, is hearing what's not working and then starting to make changes. I already have gargantuan rewrites in mind, and though some of it feels like I'm back to square one, I'm actually really looking forward to it. Anyway, it's time for me to get back to work.

More on the book

I'm about 4,000 words behind schedule right now. Wanted to hit 30,000 today, but I'm only at 26,000. And those 26,000 aren't quite consecutive. The last few thousand are choppy and need a lot of work before they feel like a whole. Fortunately, that's what I'm planning to do with the missing 4,000 words.

Anyway, I wound up doing a lot of rewriting, so I've actually written a lot more than my 30,000 word target, but I cut a bunch of it and started significant chunks anew. Rewriting is, I think, where the true art of writing takes place. You read what you wrote, are unsatisfied, and begin to craft it into what you want. It's also the most painful part, because, at least for me, I oscillate between feeling like a genius and a hack. And a lot of what I've written so far is hack. Avoiding hack writing is tough, especially with fantasy. There's a cliched hack tone that pollutes most fantasy novels, and its hard not to absorb it unconsciously and then use it in your own work. So I keep rewriting whole sections in order to get the tone -- the voice of the piece that I'm looking for. Because, in my opinion, there are two things that separate a good fantasy story from a lame one: the voice, and the characters. The stories are all generally the same -- save the princess and defeat the evil wizard -- and that's fine with me. The world's are generally the same too. Dragons, magic, elves, dwarves, etc. etc. etc. And again, I don't mind. In fact, it's comforting. Having similar stories played out in similar places makes it easier to get into the things I look for most, which is good characters and thoughtful writing -- or rather, characters who come to life via the way they think about the world.

So far my characters are coming along the way I want them to. I'm enjoying getting into their heads and making them think. Unfortunately, in setting everything up, getting the characters in place, getting the reader the info he/she needs to understand what's going on -- that's the part that's kicking my ass. As a story teller, you want everything to come across as clearly and quickly as possible, and you don't want the reader to feel like you're pushing exposition on him. But you've got an unusual and complicated world that, much as it's like every other fantasy world out there, needs explaining. And all the models for how to do this are where you find your hack writing.

So what to do?

And the answer is rewrite and rewrite and rewrite until everything flows the way you want it to. It's not easy, but once you've finally chipped away all of the stone that doesn't look like a statue, it's an amazing feeling. You say, "I wrote that," and you can't wait to wow people with it.

Book update

So, what I'm referring to as "my kids' book" (which is actually a young-adult fantasy type book) reached the 22,000 word mark yesterday. In less than a month I've written more for it than I wrote for my memoir over many years. Crazy. Anyway, this feels like the book I'm "supposed" to be writing right now. It's moving along quickly and I'm having a great time working on it. In fact, I haven't had this much fun with my writing in probably seven or eight years. Anyway, if all goes as scheduled I'll reach 30,000 words by the end of the week, at which point I'll send out sample chapters to any friends and relatives who want to see how it's going and who hopefully will provide useful criticism that will guide the book to its completion. Get psyched!

Dogs eat bees

Turns out my parents' wiener dogs will eat bees. We have a bunch of bees in the house (don't ask) and when they make the mistake of falling/flying down to wiener dog level, the dogs eat them. Somehow they do this without getting stung (or, if they are getting stung, they don't seem to care). I'm tempted to try it myself. Maybe bees taste good.

Shin splints

I'd been having pain in my shins during my runs, so I went to 2nd Wind Sneakers and the sales dude looked at my feet and said the pain was from lack of arch support. So I bought a $100 pair of Nikes (selling out my principles for the sake of comfort, which is basically the definition of "American") and went for a run first thing this morning, and man, do these shoes make a difference. No pain. At all. My calves aren't even sore. The old dude who I sometimes encounter while jogging to the beach, and who I saw this morning, still kicked my ass though. Sometimes the high school girls' track team kicks my ass, too. I try to do all my jogging while they're in school so as to preserve some of my pride.

Eye of the Tiger

Jogged the full three miles to and from the beach today, without stopping. A personal best. I jumped around with my hands in the air and sang the Rocky song. Actually, I felt like I was going to throw up. But it felt good to feel that way.

Since the weather was crappy I hadn't been running in days, so it was nice to put some miles on my feet. I need to buy some foul (fowl? I forget which -- there are lots of ducks and geese and swans out here, so maybe either is appropriate) weather running gear (been saying that for weeks now), and I need to take advantage of the nice weather we're supposed to have thru Monday. Viva la weather!

I read in Runner's World (my mom got it for me! hooray mom!) that you shouldn't try to increase your running distance more than once a week, so I'll probably go shorter distances over the next few days, then push for an increase, then even out at the full three miles for a week or so after that, and then push again. If I could get up to five miles a day, 20 miles a week, I'd be thrilled. Plus, my main motivation for jogging, other than that I want to look good naked, is I like to pig out every once in a while. So the higher I can push my metabolism, the better. Viva la pig out!

Gay Blogging

Those of you who aren't reading Absorbascon are missing out on one of life's true pleasures. It's all about crazy comic book stuff, but you don't have to be into comics at all to laugh at it. I haven't read a comic in ages, but I still can't get enough Absorbascon. The "Superman is a dick" series, and the "Loneliness of Aquaman" week were personal favorites.

Anyway, I'd been reading the site for weeks before I realized that the dude who writes it is gay. In 99% of the posts, sexuality is a non-factor, but every now and again that 1% pops up where he makes no secret of his gayness. In today's post, he's trying to get hooked up with a designer at DC Comics. (Is that redundant, Detective Comics Comics?)

Anyway anyway, this has made me wonder if the dude's gayness effects his readership at all. Based on the number of comments, I'd say his site is pretty popular. But are there people being turned away by knowing this guy is a homo?

I especially wonder because comics are very masculine, yet very sensitive. The heros, like WWF wrestlers, are symbols of hyper masculinity. The women are drawn as sexily curved and scantily clad as possible. Yet the comic book audience is stereotypically your shy loner kids who can't get girls in high school because they genuinely like girls and don't act like dicks to them. And comic book story lines often reflect this sort of conflicted adolescent complexity, sensitivity, and general nonjudgmental attitude that lets one in ten of their friends come out as gay without fear of being abandoned.

I'd like to believe that in 2005, everybody was cool with the fact that some people are gay. But I know there are still tons of people who'd love to get back to the dark ages of burning witches and stoning homosexuals in the public square. I'm especially curious to know which percentage of each group makes up the comic book reader demographic.

Like Shaking Hands with God

Banged out a few thousand words of the new "fantasy novel" almost instantly. It's a great feeling when the words and ideas just flow, as if from nowhere, each burst of imagination giving life to another and another. Vonnegut described this phenomenon as "shaking hands with God" (in his small book of the same name). It's an amazing experience and it's the reason why I think everybody needs some form of creative outlet in their lives. I sit down with maybe a sentence or two in mind, type them out, and then a third and fourth sentence follow with no planning on my part. At this point in the writing process, I'm out of my own control. I don't know where it all comes from. It's creation but with no act of conception (an immaculate conception!) Later, I'll dig in, sculpt and refine, word by word, thought by thought. But for now I just open myself up to whatever force, internal or external, drives this creative process.

I used to have this feeling all the time when I wrote fantasy in junior high and high school. My head used to keep me up at night imagining everything I wanted my characters to be and do. Somewhere during college I lost the ability to write like this, however. I don't know where it went. Maybe it's a product of writing "serious fiction." I wish I could experience it more often while working on my memoir, which, at this rate, hard as I work on it, will soon be dragging far behind the fantasy novel. In any case, I'm glad to be able to shake hands with God once again on at least one of my projects.

Beautiful Stack of Pancakes

For the longest time -- from that moment in June 2003 when I was handed the rolled-up blank piece of paper that symbolized my college diploma, until roughly 5 days ago -- I couldn't stomach the thought of reading another book. Which is not to say I didn't read anything during that time. Somehow, reading always sneaks itself into life. Mostly I read short stories -- stuff from One Story, which my pal Jarrett got me a subscription to for Xmas, stuff in the Atlantic Monthly, the New Yorker, whatever. I have a sense that I did read a few actual books during that time, but I can't remember what they were. I also read a lot of blogs and news, though those things don't seem to qualify as "reading" in the sense that I mean it. Anyway, I basically went more than two years without even wanting to walk into Border's to browse the new releases -- something I used to do weekly, if not daily.

At last, however, the spell seems to have broken. I now have a beautiful pile of books sitting beside my bed, and I can't wait to get through each one of them.

The stack at present:

The Intuitioinst
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Eragon
Freakonomics
Fast Food Nation
Children Playing Before a Stature of Hercules
Don't Get Too Comfortable

Eragon is the book I'm looking forward to the most. Pure candy. And hopefully it will serve as inspiration for my newest writing project. I'll be reading it and Zen at the same time (while finishing off Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa-Puffs, which I'm about done with), and I'll be writing my memoir and my new "fantasy novel" simultaneously as well. My brain seems to enjoy being spread around lately.

My brain is hungry.

My body is hungry.

My creative urges are hungry.

I almost feel like I'm back to a form of myself that I haven't been in years. It's nice. There's a sense of contentment waiting just out of reach. And that's not a bad thing. I didn't used to be able to feel it at all. But if I can get my writing projects done by my self-imposed deadlines, get my grad-school apps in order, keep losing weight (down about 8 pounds since joining weight watchers, and more than 10 since I started tracking it on the blog), and keep my freelance marketing gig going, I suspect I might actually start enjoying life again. Weird how such a simple thing like happiness can be so elusive, but it's been avoiding me for years without me even realizing it until recently. Anyway, positive strides are being made.

I wish I were funny again, though. I vaguely recall being quite witty, especially in writing. Now, it's a farce if I manage it at all. And my writing is suffering, I think, as a result of it. Hopefully that quality will return as my brain, body, and creative passions become more and more fulfilled.

Running: Update

Running is still hard. But I made it all the way to the beach for the first time today, so I'm psyched.

The shitty thing about exercise is that when you're out of shape, it hurts like hell no matter how little you do. It's immediately discouraging. You force yourself to suffer for 45 minutes and when you're done you've basically got nothing to show for it. Repeat every other day for a week, and maybe you lose 2 or 3 pounds and looking in the mirror you can't see the fruits of your efforts. It hardly seems worth it.

But keep it up and you quickly reach a tipping point where you see and feel the rewards after almost every workout. During the workouts themselves, whether I'm running, biking, or doing sit-ups, or lifting weights, I'm now consciously aware of being able to push myself harder than ever before. After a workout, I can look in the mirror and see new definition in my body. It's subtle -- the big results I hope to achieve are definitely going to take time -- but I see it every day. And I can eat junk without worrying about gaining weight. Sure, I have to not eat junk if I want to lose, but as long as I'm working out regularly, I don't worry too much about tipping the scales in the wrong direction if I have Goobers and popcorn at the movies once (sometimes twice(!)) a week.

I suppose the moral of my story is that our need for instant gratification is relative. In the beginning, it feels like it never comes. But keep up with it and you'll soon feel like you get it every day.

Instant gratification is worth the wait.