And They Say That He Got Crazy Once

Do you remember the first time you heard "Rocky Mountain High" on the radio? I do.

I was driving up to Elk Creek in northern California with Joel, who was about two, I believe. We had friends up there who lived on a 76-acre spread and who'd invited me up just to get away. They had man-made lakes, mountain streams, riding paths, cattle, horses, peacocks, and a big front porch that faced the eastern ridge of the Sierras, where I spent my evenings with my 12-string, writing songs.

When "Rocky Mountain High" came on during the drive, I felt completely in tune with what John Denver was singing about; the scenery outside the car windows seemed to illustrate the song's lyrics. Up until then I'd never even heard of John Denver. Of course, I knew of John Deutschendorf, who'd penned "Leaving On a Jet Plane" and "Follow Me", but I didn't know he'd picked up a nom de plume. I wanted the song to go on and on. It was one of those songs that, had it been on a cassette tape, I would have hit rewind many times.

I was a seasoned folkie, but this was a music I'd never heard before. Not quite folk, not quite country, not quite pop. The guitars rang like bells, Denver's tenor voice as clear as a crystal mountain river, and the tight vocal harmonies made my heart constrict and ache with pleasure. Sweet Jesus, you could hear the guitar picks hitting every note of every chord. It made me dizzy.

Forget 70s pop culture, forget John Denver exuberantly exclaiming "Far out!" through his broad, toothy grin. Forget how mainstream television glommed onto him and forget the Muppets. John Denver was a master songsmith and one of our great American troubadours who never really got the respect he deserved. Perhaps it was the shiny, bright-as-a-new-penny image, or maybe it was that during a time when our country was so wounded and cynical, his optimism and joy rubbed some people the wrong way. Forget, too, the pictures in this video. It's the best I could do. Close your eyes and think on the song, not the image or the marketing. Listen to it again as if for the first time.

The Insomniac Interviews: Bob Slentz-Kesler

Bob Slentz-Kesler (aka Bob S-K)
Bob's blog, Neither Clever Nor Witty, is not the place to go when you're in the mood for prolonged reading. Let's face it, he doesn't have the time. Instead, Bob posts (usually) daily insights into his fragmented but surprisingly balanced life. A stay-at-home dad, novelist, and a member of the Beer Of The Month Club, Bob has become one of the five bloggers I'd take with me if I were to be stranded on a desert island. It's time for you to get to know him too!


ii: What made you decide to start blogging? In what year did you open your blog?
Bob: 2005

ii: Has your blog and/or blogging style changed over time? In what way?
Bob: Even though I've tried from the beginning not to put pressure on myself to write something interesting each day, I find that as time goes on I'm even more cavalier and nonchalant about what I splash onto the page each day.

ii: What advice would you give someone who is new to blogging?
Bob: I'm not a person who gives advice. To anyone who's new to blogging, I say "Welcome, and pull up a chair. It's going to be fun."

ii: Do you see a time when you may decide to stop blogging?
Bob: I can see a time when I'll take breaks (maybe even months at a time, much later in life), but at the moment, it's a habit I can't break.

ii: What are your 3 favorite blogs?
Bob: Irregular Times - An unapologetically partisan blog with excellent writing, good citing of sources, and concrete recommendations for taking action.

Incurable Insomniac - No, seriously! I do love your blog. I love how the layout changes from time to time, and I love your graphics and the way you write and what you write about. Silly, serious, bawdy, sad, introspective. Good stuff.

Foner Books Blog - As a self-publisher, I love reading about the experiences of others. This fellow, Morris Rosenthal, has a lot of experience and has amassed a great archive of blog posts about self-publishing and print-on-demand technology.

ii: What do you most enjoy blogging about?
Bob: Nothing in particular. I really do splash up whatever's in my brain at the moment. I avoid themes.

ii: What is your "Day Job"?
Bob: Stay at home dad.

ii: What one thing in your life has suffered since you began blogging?
Bob: Nothing that I can think of. The amount of time I spend writing the blog is less than 10 minutes a day. It's often closer to 5. Also, I don't read the blogs of others every day--I might check in every few days. I recognize it could become addictive, so I try to keep a laid-back approach to the whole thing.

ii: What one thing in your life has been enhanced?
Bob: Connection with people, definitely. I've made new friends online, and I feel more connected to the readers I see around town from time to time.

ii: Is there someone, either living, historical, or fictional, that you wish had a blog?
Bob: A toss-up between the musician Dave Guard (dead), and the writer Reynolds Price (living).

---

Bob Slentz-Kesler Online
Weblog:
Neither Clever Nor Witty

Website:
Thatcher Forest Publishing

Books:
Sylvia, Rachel, Meredith, Anna - A wonderful book, rich with characters and deceptively complex with sparkling prose.
Search For the Flaming Chalice - I haven't read this one yet.

Articles: Romancing the Sauce

My Quasi Hermetic Life

The life of a writer is not for the would-be author. It's not for those who are looking for a glamorous lifestyle, or for those who consider being on the A-List a good thing. It's not for those who are attracted to the romantic image of the tortured genius in his garret, drinking absinthe.

For every book one may get asked to sign there is a night of sitting alone, hammering ones head against the monitor. For every compliment one may receive, there is a day of sitting, staring blankly at the computer.

If I lived alone, our neighbors would probably think me a very odd person. The car battery would die for lack of use, the front door would only open once a week when food, wine and coffee were absolutely necessary, and the downstairs lights would never come on. The window above my desk would be the only sign of life, but no one would know, because the light there is only on when the rest of the world is asleep. Fortunately, my solitary lifestyle is punctuated by the comings and goings of family and friends. They make me look sociable and cast a soft light of normalcy over my "cave".

I like the image of the writer clicking away at the keys at a table in the local bookstore coffeehouse while sipping cappuccino, but the truth is, it's too distracting. When I see someone doing that I draw one of several conclusions about them:

1. They're posturing as a writer, trying to look like they're writing the Great American Novel,
2. they're writing email or chatting,
3. they're doing homework,
4. they're conducting research,
5. like me, they're writing a blog entry, or
   
6. unlike me, they possess a powerful capacity for concentration.
   

One of my pet fantasies is to get away to a mountain cabin or a beach cottage for two weeks of undisturbed writing, but how much would I actually get done, really? I know me. I'd start the evening by making a great steak dinner, after which I'd put on a movie, or some music, and take a nap. When I awoke I'd take a bottle of wine outside and sit to look at the stars and contemplate life until I was ready to go to bed. Of course, nothing would get done in the day time, because I'd be outside exploring, or inside blogging.

My other fantasy is to spend a summer alone in a tiny apartment above a cafe in, say, Provence or Soho. After spending the night drinking wine with the locals downstairs, I'd awake in the morning to go buy breakfast and fresh flowers, then return to spend the entire day writing.

Yeah, right.

As I've gotten older I've become friendlier with the unstructured lifestyle. Do you know how weird this is? I an A-Type! I'm the proverbial Early Bird! I'm the one who worked all day, came home to take care of a family and wrote all night, the only sleep grabbed during my lunch hour. I'm the original Go-Getter! But as my father used to say, "My get-up-and-go has gotten up and gone."

Watching the new 20 and 30-somethings just makes me tired. I remember having that kind of energy and I do envy them for that, but truth be told, I'm easing into my Old Fartitude with an unsettling ease. Sure, I have days like yesterday, but most days I'm just fine with sitting here watching the wheels go 'round.

If it weren't for the killing, I could even enjoy going fishing.

Composing Thoughts

I seldom write about composition because it's such a personal thing to me and because when I try to put my feelings and thoughts into words, they melt away. This is probably only natural because music itself is intangible; the transcribing of music is always wanting when the composer is faced with interpreting what he or she hears within.

In my opinion, music is the most mystical of the arts. With the exception of dance, it is the only one that takes place during the passage of time. A painting is a static thing. Someone paints it, then it hangs on a wall, is bought and sold and then hangs on another wall. It is a picture of what the artist saw, or imagined and does not change, is not interpreted again and again. It does not require time to express itself. Without time, music could not exist.

Besides the mechanical physics of music, it is the art form that is most widely appreciated--even needed--by people. Music ties itself to our memories in much the same way that smells do. We hear a tiny snip of some music that we liked when we were younger and we are magically transported. We hear the rest of the music in our head, down to the minutest detail and sometimes carry it with us for a while. Throughout human history music has been associated with our most significant moments: love, nationalism, religion, etc. We may remember a favorite painting, but we cannot recall every daub of color, every hue, every brush stroke. Nor does a painting get "stuck in our head" like a melody will. You will never witness the best painting being hoisted up at an athletic event in lieu of even the worst performance of The Star Spangled Banner. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not pitting music against paintings, I'm merely drawing a comparison.

When I compose, it is usually because something has gotten itself lodged in my mind. Often, I don't even realize that I'm humming the same tune and/or rhythm over and over again for days or even weeks on end. Suddenly, I'll discover that the music has taken more form, that it has developed harmonies, texture, and that it has grown "too large" to remain confined in my mind. If I don't sit down then and there to write it down, it will plague me, keeping me awake and bothering me until I have no choice. It forces me to give it life and I really have no choice in the matter.

The first hour of composition is the hardest for me. Once I'm at the piano I'll find a million things that need to be done. "I should take out the trash before I commit to this", or "I forgot to feed the fish", or "I think I'll change into something more comfortable." Once I exercise some self-control over this avoidance impulse for an hour, I'll sit there composing for hours. It's not uncommon for me to be lost in my work for fifteen-hour stretches.

I've been in a dry period for some time now. It's not a block, but something else that I could not name for a long time. After virtually flagellating myself over it I finally came to the conclusion that it's entirely hormonal. Think about it. The creative passions, whether they be the yearning to create a piece of art or a baby, originate in chemicals and hormones in the brain. I can trace this dry period clearly back to when I underwent a radical hysterectomy. As long as I took synthetic hormones I was fine, but as soon as I decided to stop, the decline was dramatic. And composing when one doesn't feel it is like making love when one's not in the mood: all work and no pleasure. What's the point? Then came this Hashimoto's Disease. That pretty much pronounced a death sentence over my former wildly fecund creativity.

I feel cut off from my soul. Like a caught fish, my creativity is trapped half in the water and half on the sand; too little water to thrive, and too much to actually die. It's torturous and I'm considering talking to my doctor about the hormone issue. I still have many pieces of music inside me and I'd like to feel that passion again.

I cannot imagine a world without music--most of us can't--and I'm always horrified when I hear someone say that they don't like music. My instinctual response is that there's something wrong within them on a deeply spiritual level. They frighten me and I'll find any reason I can to extract myself from the conversation.

Happily, I've found myself pulled into the written word. For me, writing is more cerebral than music, but when one possesses the creative fire it will find a release somehow. Like a torrent of water, it will carve a channel if none exists.

You Can't Captcha Me

Am I the only person who's mildly bugged about having to say "captcha" instead of "capture" when referring to those little jumbled letters we have to type before we can do just about anything online?

Wiki tells me that it's an anagram for "Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart", but that doesn't justify it for me. In this case it should be CAPTTCHA. Why not "STUDS" ("Spam and Troll Ultimate Deterrent System") or "BITE" ("Back Into The Ether")?

I'm not under 25, I'm not from the hood and I love and protect the English language. Why did they decide to give these little buggers an urban dialect rather than an actual name? WHO decided this? When I'm forced to say it I feel stupid, like one of those middle-aged weekend Mods in the 60s who tossed around words like "groovy" and "outtasite" thinking that it fooled us into thinking they were cool.

I'm not cool, okay? So I'm not going to say "captcha". I don't say, "The Untouchables was about gangstas", or "Please pass the pepa." Forget it. You can't make me.

False Noses, Kaiserschmarren & Evensong

What a great day yesterday was. Actually, it began on Saturday night when Nettl and I settled back to watch the 1948 version of Oliver Twist, with Alec Guinness in the role of Fagin. I was a bit offended by the false nose they gave him, but his performance was brilliant.

I slept in until nearly 11:00 (!) and was promptly delivered a cup of hot coffee as I checked my email and various websites. Downstairs, Nettl and Heather were making the brunch of a lifetime in honor of Mozart's 252nd birthday: Kaiserschmarren, hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages and orange juice. It was fantastic!

Afterward, I showered and dressed and all that and then settled into my laptop again while listening to a King's College Choir concert of various pieces composed for Evensong on EWTN.

Soon, Charity arrived for her usual Sunday afternoon voice lesson with Nettl. Because she is due to have a baby at the beginning of March, her latest lessons have lately consisted of listening to recordings and watching videos. The telly is in our bedroom, so Nettl brings her upstairs. For the last three weeks they've been watching In Search of Mozart, a well-produced documentary of the composer's life. After she left, our friend Jaeson came by for a little bit, then it was time for Masterpiece Theatre and my usual Sunday night Britcoms on PBS. Now, here I am winding things up before I go to bed.

It was a lovely day, really. Relaxed and cozy, and just what I like a Sunday to be.

Interplay

Alison Jackson creates films, photographic images and sculptures about our fixation with fame and celebrity culture. These Mimeses use look-a-likes of celebrities and public figures to create a photographic or filmic image, which challenges the observers' perception of reality by creating a false reality. Only on second or third glance does the viewer question the truth of what they are seeing. Jackson describes her work as an exploration of what we see and what we imagine, the interplay of our voyeuristic needs and our urge to believe, challenging the photographs' claim to tell the truth. Jackson is an astute observer of the contemporary cult of celebrity. Her reinterpretations of familiar media images have shocked, provoked, amused, and most importantly caused an entire generation to re-assess its perceptions and expectations of modern-day Icons.

Kudos to Simplicity.

What??

The manuscript is finished and ready to mail...
All of the website projects have been delivered to my clients...
My different sites are all current...

Does this mean that I actually have free time to work on my screenplay?

No, it means that I finally can get around to emptying the trash and cleaning the house.

Friends I Can't Wait to Meet

I've met a lot of really fine people here in Blogsville. I've even met a few in person. But sometimes I like to think about the others whom I haven't met, and if we ever shall. Here are those I hope to meet one day. If you're not listed here it's not because I don't want to meet you, it's just that I nowadays have to know someone online for a long time before I trust that a face-to-face meeting will be a mutually happy thing. I know that most of these meetings won't happen, but that doesn't mean that I can't want them to.

Bob S-K: I'm looking forward to kicking back a few beers with Bob and meeting his wife and kids. Hell, I feel like I know them already, due to his candid blog. And I want him to give me a tour of his back yard and show me his masonry. We'll even take a couple of goofy pictures of us together!

RW: Sitting in leather club chairs sharing brandy and cigars while comparing notes about who we met in the Sixties. What could be more cozy than two Libras cruising together in a situation like that?

Merisi: Melange at a Viennese cafe, she with Max and I with Fritz II. Gemütlichkeit indeed!

Emma: I'd like to share some tapas with her and talk about Photoshop. And if I were a man (and single) I'd ask her to dance.

Joe: Come on. I want to meet him at what he knows to be the best deli in New York City, and shoot the shit.

Things I Just Don't Understand

There are some things in this world that I just don't get. Sure, dark matter and gamma ray bursts are up there on my list, but they don't make me wag my head in utter disbelief. What I'm talking about is mainly people stuff. We're a fascinating species, full of paradoxes and possibilities, and I believe that even we don't get us. Here are a few of the things I don't understand. Some of them have to do with human nature itself and some have to do with the situations we create. Feel free to comment on mine, or name a few of your own. But please, no Steven Wrightisms. Those have been hackneyed to death and have more to do with semantics than anything else.

• Why do advertisers want us to believe that men are attracted to women with "buns of steel" and "6-pack abs"? Do men really like hard bodies on women?
• Likewise, are men really attracted to boyish bodies on women, except for the fake, gigantic orb-like breasts? What's up with the boyish hips, emaciated limbs and grotesquely large boobs that look like two hard globes riveted to the upper torso?
• Robert Kennedy's assassination. Where were the inquests? Why did that case go cold so quickly? Where's Oliver Stone on this one?
• Why is pot illegal, but every other commercial on telly introduces some new pharmaceutical, shamelessly naming lymphoma, tuberculosis, coma, and "fatal occurrence" as side effects?
• Why are young people so obsessed with being hairless all over?
• What's really behind tattooing, piercing, tongue-splitting, embedded horns, etc., etc.? What's up with the trend of being the most shocking, the scariest, the loudest, the weirdest, the most disgusting, and most obnoxious looking creature on Earth? Will we ever get back our social graces? Hell, how about some balance?
• Why do people treat everyone around them like crap, then are so surprised when it's done to them?
• World War I
  .
• Telemarketers. Do they make so many sales that it's actually justified?
• Why is insurance legal? Why is it any different than organized crime? Why isn't some of our money refunded when we pass a year without reporting any claims, and why are we required by law to carry auto insurance? How long will it be until we have to have proof of medical insurance, or get arrested?
• Why are Americans so "icked out" by the bidet? It's certainly less "icky" than the hands-on method we use.
• In the same vein, why are German toilets designed the way they are? Is it about examining their waste before they flush it down? Besides, it must be disgusting to clean. Use a bidet instead.
• Why do we crave sleep and covet long, extended hours of it, but are afraid of death?
• Why are people who are most afraid to die also those who are most afraid to live?
• How can some intelligent, educated people, especially university professors with Ph.D.s, believe in literal creationism, virgin birth, the Rapture, and physical resurrection?
• Why is it that religious people look forward to praising God and singing hymns throughout all eternity the same people who can't sit through one hour of church one day a week without nodding off? Is this really their idea of heaven? Sounds like a living hell to me.
• Why is being crowded in a hot car for hours on end for two weeks (usually arguing) with people we normally only spend an hour with each day called a family vacation? Why do people work all year for this?
• Censorship. As George Carlin said, when you're on television, you can prick your finger, but you can't finger your prick. The censors aren't censoring words, they're censoring ideas while trying to make you think it's the words they don't like. Likewise, why, on certain channels, do they overlook, say, ass, but bleep out shit? Or allow bitch, but take out bastard? And why do they leave in the ass, but bleep the hole?

Help yourself.

Ooh, Look!

Random Crap

Why does everything go at once? Not only is it freezing downstairs, but the ice maker has quit working. I know that sounds paradoxical, but that's because it is. When it's 16º outside and 66º inside, why would anyone want ice? What's weird is that while Heather's room is like an ice box, across the hall Micah's room is an oven. How does that happen? The upstairs is fine, except for Joel's room. While ours is toasty, his stays cold. Looks like I need to call the property management company.

I'm sick and tired of this cold. I've spent the first 23 days of the year with it, and I want it to leave. My nose hurts, I'm tired of swallowing down icky golf balls and I want to breathe again, damn it. What's really bad, though, is that everyone seems to have it, too. Enough already!

The death of Heath Ledger is tragic. He was a fine actor only just starting out in what I thought was going to be a distinguished career. The only good thing about it is that we were spared a full day of television without Brittney Spears. My condolences to Mr. Ledger's family and friends.

I Have Never Met a Miserly Wine Lover

There is little that gives me more pleasure than drinking a glass of red wine late at night while I'm writing. Second in line would be doing what we did on Saturday night. Jacey came over and we sat in the livingroom drinking red wine and listening to folk music of the mid-sixties, with soft, cuddly blankets thrown across our laps while we talked and candles glowed.

Red wine possesses a quality that whites just can't claim. It renders me mellow and soft-spoken. I become more of a listener and less of a talker and I feel a glow from the inside out. I usually wax poetic, not in the sense of writing prose, but in the way I think and feel. And I wonder about things.

Often, when I take a sip, I wonder about all of the countless people throughout human history, both the famous and the obscure, who have relished that very taste, enjoyed that particular dryness, sunk into that softness.

"To take wine into your mouth is to savor
a droplet of the river of human history."

That's exactly the kind of thought that red wine gives me, although I'm seldom that eloquent. I like to imagine being part of this world's creative thinkers who are remembered as lovers of wine: Oscar Wilde, George Sand, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Dylan Thomas, Franz Schubert -- the list is endless.

Red wine brings to me images of cafes, candles in glass jars and black turtleneck sweaters. In my imagination I sit at a bistro table with Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller. I smoke brown-papered cigarettes while Bob Dylan sings on stage at Cafe Wha? in Greenwich Village. I sit cross-legged on the floor while Gordon Lightfoot sings by the fire. I amble through a French salon while Franz Liszt smokes a hooka with Delacroix. And I am taken back to my own sweet memories of people through the years who have lounged about my various livingrooms talking and singing over basket bottles of Chianti Classico.

But it's true. I cannot remember ever meeting a true lover of wine who was stingy with their affections, and red wine has an especially generous spirit.

"Wine to me is passion. It's family and friends.
It's warmth of heart and generosity of spirit.
Wine is art. It's culture. It's the essence of
civilization and the art of living."
Robert Mondavi

Mérida Esta Noche!

Want to check out Mérida? It will be featured on HGTV's House Hunters International tonight at 10:00 pm CST.

Every day, we're leaning toward spending a year in Mexico's "White City" before going on to Vienna.

Find out why!

As Seen From Space

This is purportedly the largest Coca-Cola logo in the world, created near Arica, Chile, out of something like 70,000 coke bottles to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the company.

There are 19 other such images in an article, 20 Awesome Images Found In Google Maps, written by Chris Silver Smith at Search Engine Land.

How Did I Do That?

Last night I made a steak fajita dinner for the first time. It was a big hit and a definite "Make that again!". Later, as I sat adding up how much it cost to make such a successful dinner, I was stunned at how cheap it was. The following are approximates:

Pre-seasoned steak for fajitas: $3.26
Season packet: $0.76
Flour tortillas: $1.79
Red bell pepper: $0.88
Green bell pepper: $0.88
(already had the onion)
Sour cream: $1.32
Grated Fiesta cheese: $1.76
Refried beans: $1.06
Mexican rice: $0.96

Grand Total: $12.67
For FIVE people. That's just a little over $2.50 apiece.
Wow.

The Ten Tenors...

Because three just weren't enough...

And speaking of TV commercials, why, oh why do we have to look at a 50" waisted, half-naked Tony Orlando?

I'm permanently scarred.

Child Interrupted

This is a subject I shy away from here on my blog mostly because, if I've learned anything through my long life, I've learned that people don't want to hear about it. From strangers to my own mother, the subject of child abuse--especially child sexual abuse--is one they'd rather me shut up about because no one wants me to blow their tidy image of what childhood was like for me and how it still affects me half a century later.

I'm one of the fortunate ones. I somehow was able to analyze my abuse as I grew into adulthood, neither allowing it to destroy me nor causing me to repeat it. Sure, I know that all of the partying and wild living of my late twenties and thirties was part of a self-destructive bent, but I pulled out of that as well.

So here is the obligatory disclaimer: If you don't want to know about child abuse of others, or perhaps face the fact that you might be an adult survivor yourself, click off of this page now.
It's my opinion that America is a nation of child abuse victims. It explains the self-mutilation, the self-destruction, the suicide rate, the movies glorifying murder, rape, torture and death, and all of the violence in our streets and schools. It's obviously the cause of abuse in the homes, so it has to spill out into the world from both conscious and unconscious motivations. Besides, the statistics stand behind me. An estimated 906,000 children are victims of abuse every year and the rate of victimization is 12.3 children per 1,000 children. We are a nation acting out our fear, paranoia, apathy, violence, obesity, over-spending, depression and isolation. If America were a person lying on a psychiatric couch, the physician would certainly begin asking questions about abuse.

What brought this subject to my mind today was my own ongoing self-analysis. I began wondering (not for the first, or even the one-hundredth time, I can assure you) what I would be like if I'd not been abused. Who would I be? Would I be a retired rock star by now? Would I have more confidence? Would I enjoy better physical health? I'm very proud of myself for the way I've turned out. It was no accident; I carefully and tenaciously re-invented myself, drawing on images of how I wish I were. Transferring my abuse onto others has never been an issue since I've never been a violent person nor a pedophile, but I admit that I was self-destructive, as I mentioned earlier. Age, as well as the love of my spouse and children, took care of most of that, although every once in a while I wish I could just trash myself on drugs and alcohol. But reality being what it is, I cannot and will not do that. I'm wiser now and I'm not ashamed to blow my own horn about it. Nor do I regret those wild escapades. That would be as stupid as doing them in the first place.

There is a little child in me who sometimes keeps me from living fully actualized, regardless of how I try to "manage" her. She sits on a cold bathroom floor, laying her face against the toilet seat, gagging as she cleans her brother's semen off of her. She is anywhere from the age of 2 to age 11. Her bottom, as well as the backs of her legs and lower back are welted from a doubled black leather belt wielded by her mother. She wants to keep me in that bathroom with her, but I cannot stay. I look in the window from outside coaxing her to come out, but she cannot force herself up onto her weak legs. She is too wounded, too traumatized. After years of trying to be her champion, of holding her close and telling her she's safe at last, she only turns her head and continues her retching. The truly sad thing is that there is a girl just like her next door and a little boy on the next street, another girl in the next town and yet another in the next state. There are millions of these children across our country, and it's killing us as a nation.

Sometimes I wonder what this country would be like in a couple of generations if certain adults could get it through their sick heads that children are neither their blow-up dolls, nor their punching bags, nor the receptacles of their own pain; if they would be self-accountable, face their own demons, and say, "Enough is enough!"

Imagine it. Create it.

I'm Consummate!

AKA_Monty has honored me by making me the subject of this week's Word Picture Sunday. I'm flattered and honored. Thank you!

Please Pass the Guacamole

For the past two or three weeks Nettl and I have been tossing around an idea to go to Mérida, Mexico for a year. Because housing is dirt cheap and the currency rate is about 10 cents to the peso, we could invest a little money here, then live in the Yucatan to allow it to grow. In a year's time our move to Vienna would be a lot easier. Besides that, it would give us a year to lay back and heal after all of the traumae and crises we've been through over the past decade.

Imagine lying in a hammock during siesta, shopping in the local mercados, dancing in the streets on Sunday and being only 45 minutes from Cancún. Imagine a house whose entire back wall opens to the scent of Jasmine, citrus and wisteria.

Imagine the knife sharpener who steers his pushcart through your street every week, telling you he's there by playing a penny whistle, and who sharpens your knives right outside your front door.

Imagine the feel of cool, hand-painted pasta tiles beneath your feet and of year-round average temperatures of 87º.

Imagine living in an 150 year-old Spanish Colonial with Cuban doors that allow air circulation when closed and shutters that keep out the heat while allowing filtered light to paint the stucco walls with the tropical light.

Imagine a culture that is a lazy blending of Mexican, Caribbean and European.

Imagine a place that is GLBT friendly, where we are not only tolerated but welcomed with open arms, a place that celebrates the arts (especially classical music) and claims a large enclave of expat artists. If you want to know more, watch House Hunters International on Monday the 21st at 10:00pm (CST) on HGTV.

Winter being my favorite season, I couldn't live in paradise forever, but a year wouldn't suck!

A Hot Weekend

We don't cook around here on the weekends; dinner is each family member's responsibility in what we call "fending". Sometimes Nettl and I will order something in, but usually we'll just eat when we're hungry, throwing some frozen crap into the microwave.

I worked on the new site all day then took a nap. When I woke up Nettl asked me if I wanted her to order some hot wings to be delivered. Yes! I loves me my capsaicin! They were so hot that we had to stop in the middle of them to give our mouths a rest. Then we were back at them.

Tonight at 9:00 we'll be tuning into the OETA Movie Club to watch The Paper Chase and A Shot In The Dark. Being a show that airs only "classic" films (although they never go back as far silents, damn it), we enjoy their weekend programming. Last night I watched The Seven Year Itch and the original Moulin Rouge starring Jose Ferrer.

Yep, capsaicin and old movies. I'm a happy body.

Vienna Dreaming

If I could be anywhere today, I would be sitting in a cafe in Vienna -- doesn't matter which one -- drinking copious glasses of beer with my friends.

That is all.

Losing My Religion

I'm tempted to supplement my income by hacking out a bodice ripper under a nom de plume. Seriously, how hard can it be? And cashing in? Don't bother me with that; some of the world's greatest writers have turned out dime store drivel in order to pay the rent.

If I were to do this, I'd write something about pirates, or maybe a tale about a woman in love with sailor who's in love with the sea ("Brandy, you're a fine girl..."). Or maybe I'll combine these ideas and write about a good girl from a good family, who falls in love with a pirate and becomes a pirate queen. Oops, I think that's been done...

I've even toyed with the idea of trying my hand at writing a Lifetime movie. That's a pretty simple formula. After all, they're basically just romance novels on film, minus Fabio.

Or I just may have to forsake my ethics and throw more sex into my current manuscript. Nah. If this publisher doesn't take my book, I'm putting it on the shelf for my family to decide what to do with after I'm gone. I have other things I want to write before it's too late.

The Insomniac's Progress

I've been walking a certain road for many, many years; 43 to be exact. Like a traveler who researches and plans a trip to a new destination, I've always understood where I was going, although I'd not yet actually been there. I've experienced a lot on this journey. From Good Samaritans to Headless Horsemen and everything in between, everyone and everything I've encountered has served as a teacher, whether they had my best interests at heart or not.

I won't lie to you. I thought I'd finally arrived at my destination, but when everything fell through in November, I fell too, coming as close to a nervous breakdown as one can come without allowing oneself to be sucked into the abyss. But I'm made of some strong stuff. I have a steel thread running through me that may bend from time-to-time, but never kinks and certainly never breaks.

Yesterday was a difficult one emotionally as I reached a personal crisis point. Sitting here working on my manuscript I took a good long look at myself, or what I have become over the past two months. I saw a vivid image of myself at a dead end, two-track road after having taken a wrong turn. I was sitting on the side of this road, ankle deep in a mud puddle, my head in my hands, with a small black cloud pouring rain on my head while all around me it was sunny and dry. I went into this "mini-vision" and in typical fashion, gave myself a swift kick in the pants.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you wuss," I told myself. "Get up and retrace your steps. At exactly what place in the road did you get distracted and lose your way?"

The answer was easy: it was when I learned that my millionaire uncle had died and that there was a will and trust, and I was the next of kin. Like the proverbial Israelite in the desert, I allowed myself to be distracted by the Golden Calf. All that sparkle! The orgiastic celebration! Damn, it felt good! Like falling in love, it released addictive chemicals into my brain and I was high! At least this wrong turn occurred recently and not years ago; retracing my steps should be relatively easy. Before I had that ace up my sleeve (or thought I had), I always counted on getting where I'm going through my art, my hard work, and my tenacity. But don't we all wish we could get an easy ride to the realization of our dreams? If you've been walking for miles and miles, wouldn't you accept a ride if it was offered?

I refuse to allow my dream to die and I refuse to settle for second-best, or a consolation prize. I have so much going for me that to remain in that puddle under that rain cloud would be gross ingratitude on my part and ingratitude is never rewarded. That much I have learned. Besides, that's just not my style.

I never completely expose myself to you, my readers, of course, but I tell you enough that I want to apologize for the depressive tone of my posts lately. It will change. It has already changed.

The First Normal Week of the Year

I don't know about you, but I'm damned glad that the holidays are over. This was a schnozzwangling flapdoodle of a season at our house. Like the most extreme roller coaster at a monster theme park, 2007 began as a hair-raising ride and ended up the same way. I'm green with nausea and my knees are shaking as I step into 2008. All I want to do is sit down in the shade with a snow-cone.

This is the first day of the first normal week of the year. The parties are over, as well as the concerts, shopping and haunting the mailbox for checks that never came from wealthy clients who promised to pay before the end of the year. Did you even stop to think that our family really counted on that money? Thanks for nothing.

It was a season of burying and grieving cherished dreams. Everything that made up 2007 culminated during the last three weeks of the year and I'm about 25 minutes from selling everything and moving to Mexico, where I can lie in a hammock on a patio drinking Corona with lime. I'm serious. I came into 2008 feeling like I was swimming upstream with sand bags attached to every limb. I want to shake it all and go someplace where I can exhale and not run around like Henny Penny, looking out for the pieces of sky that have been falling on my head for so long.

I'm used to toasting an exciting New Year on December 31st, but this year all I asked for was an uneventful one. I want to pass the coming year quietly, calmly, invisibly. I'm worn out.

Still Meming

Still Loving: Nettl.
Still Not: Financially secure.
Still Glad: I listened to my heart instead of my head.
Still Enjoying: My laptop.
Still Doing: What it takes to get my book published.
Still Proud: Of making it through a damned hard life.
Still Amazed: That I can dream.
Still Hoping: My hard work will be rewarded.
Still Grateful: For Nettl and our family.
Still Wanting: To be an expatriot.
Still Trying: To figure out if there's a God.
Still Failing: To be a success.
Still Passionate About: Life.
Still Taking Up New Things: Learning German.
Still Working: On my book.
Still Reading: My favorite blogs.
Still Thinking: There's an order to things, even if I sometimes can't see it.
Still Wondering: When my ship will come in.
Still Dressing: in "Dad" shirts
Still To Do: Have a happy childhood.
Still Cherishing: Those who have stayed with me through the years.
Still Will Never: Understand people who enjoy hurting others.
Still Will Always: Laugh.
Still: Meming after all these years.


Harvested from Kay's Thinking Cap. Thanks!

Conspicuous Stupidity

There's a commercial that begins with, "People are smart", but I have to disagree. Overall, I think that people are pretty stupid.

Take the lottery. Why is it that nearly everyone who wins has front teeth missing, looks as if they reek of tobacco, cheap beer and motor oil and say things like "we was" and "it don't"? Why is it never a widowed grandmother, or a young couple who is working hard to save for their child's college fund, or, well, me?

It's because Uncle Dad and Aunt Mom spend their money on lotto tickets instead of pulling themselves out of the trailer park, or getting their kids off of the free lunch program. It's because the widowed grandmother and the diligent young couple can't--or don't--spend their extra money at the local Stop-N-Rob. One woman won several one-million dollar tickets, but that was because she spent nearly $100 every week on buying them. Hell, I wish I could afford to shell out that much money each month on something not food or shelter related!

Our country is one of conspicuous consumption. Most lottery winners piddle their money away on things that are designed to impress others and fill the void rather than invest in a comfortable future and something to pass along to their children and grandchilden. A garage full of cars takes precedence over a family trust, being encrusted in diamond watches and gaudy rings almost always wins out over prudent planning, and filling their noses with white powder is more fun than helping the poor.

Let's face it. Winning a large amount of money only magnifies what's already there. If you're an unhappy, empty person when you're broke, you're still going to be that way when the big check arrives at your front door, but if you're stable and self-accountable that will evince itself whether you have a fat bank account or not.

What's In A Name?

How did these names happen? How do we get Bob out of Robert or Peggy out of Margaret? Here are some others that bother me:

Chuck out of Charles
Dick out of Richard (no jokes please)
Hank out of Henry
Nancy out of Ann
Hal out of Harry
Bess out of Elizabeth
Ted out of Edward
Bill out of William
Jim out of James

And I'm afraid that's all I can muster up today.

Tuesdays With Mozart - "Mozart's Tuesday Begins on New Year's Eve"