Collected Childhood

Thru a whimsical gaze, my father would recite a story to me from his childhood in a tone like he was reading it from a book.  From far away he would recount a time when the only television in the neighborhood was down the street, and on a Saturday afternoon, you could, for a nickel, watch television all day, provided you brought your own chair.

He'd tell this to lead in to a story he likes to tell often.

One unlucky saturday, my father and the rest of the Gunz' young ones had set out on their saturday mid-morning trek, chairs in hand.  My father probably remembers it as 5 miles, up hill, both ways, barefoot.  Disappointment struck our travelers as the neighborhood nickelodeon had found itself packed tight.  Too tight in fact.  So the clan made the trek home.

5 Miles... Uphill... Shoeless... Glass broken and scattered... Sulfur Burning...

Or at least, probably how he remembers it.

His father, the model he took after, saw them sadly making the long arduous journey back up the street, chairs and nickels in hand, making a pact on how they would have to all get up earlier next week to secure their spots.  He saw this and decided that that type of disappointment was too much to bear, watching his children climb back up the glass tainted, sulfur burned hill.

So he ordered a television.  It was a lot of money, but it's the ultimate babysitter.

And this story, and the 200 thousand times my father has told it to me, are the only reason I can come up with that explains why he always has at least 5 televisions in the house.  So he won't have to climb that damned hill again.

Love you, Dad.

Center of the Universe

I love my wife.

I love my wife because she is so understanding.  So lenient.  So soft.  

Her voice is how I grew up imagining it should be.  Her skin is so soft, it surprises me.  

She is so many things without me.  But we are so much together.

That's why I made her my wife.

I love my wife because there is a song the plays when we're together.  It's beautiful and serene.  But I don't know the words.  And I don't know the melody.

But if I knew the words, the words would always be different.  They would never be boring.  They'd never be predictable.  But they'd always be the same.  

But if I knew the melody, it would always sound the same.  It would sound like the rush of opening your eyes in the morning and feeling that by the end of the day, it would still be a good day.  But it would always be different.

This symphony I hear when I'm with my wife, this is what I live for.  

That's why I made her my wife.

A Moniker Less Likely

In the mini-documentary/concert DVD, "Bring on the Night", which details the exploits of Sting (Gordon Sumner) in his quest to successfully separate himself from the fame and notoriety  that came with be a member of The Police, and become a serious/semi-political solo "Rock" artist.

Some would argue (as I would) that he was successful.  Others would argue that the music would never better than he was with The Police.

One can't argue with one thing:  Sting had balls.

In the beginning of the DVD, a reporter begins a question, "Now Gordon, what do-"

"Who is this Gordon character?  Sting, my name is Sting.  My mother calls me Sting, my wife calls me Sting, my children call me Sting.  All the people who know me call me Sting.  My name is Sting."

And wow.

Today that would be career suicide.

To change your identity.  To say... I'm not that person anymore... and guess what:  You have to deal with me.

The new me.

The me I want to be.

A Quick Interruption

Jen, of jeNC17 fame has introduced me to an online comic.  

You should visit it:  http://www.whattheduck.net

You don't have to, but then you miss the funny.  Of course.  I don't care if you do or not.  I'm just putting it out there.

awkward...

Glass, My Immortal Enemy

Every superhero has an arch-nemesis. Every Jerry Seinfeld has his Newman. Every Rose... a thorn.

I have glass.

We have a pretty safe history, the two of us. More than a few incursions that left me with scars. Nothing that wasn't my fault, really.

But glass dulls my knives.

I can slice a frozen turkey in half with the draw of my angled wrist. I can quarter whole baking potatoes with no force but gravity. But you put my knives on a glass cutting board... and I can't even mince tarragon.

"Damn you, Glass!" I exclaimed, my fist raised high, a proclamation of my anger. "I'll find a way... I will find a way..."

...That doesn't include ten minutes of sharpening.

I Like My Knives Sharp, and My Meat Previously Living

I have a set of knives that I bought online. They were from J.A. Henckles. You can't even buy them anymore. They're gone.

The knives came with a sharpening steel, and because of this, I felt they were obviously meant to be sharpened.

There wasn't a warning on the package though. No mention of a problem.

I've never seen anything documented on this before. I never knew it existed. Is there something wrong with me?

Am I crazy?

Why can't I stop sharpening these knives? I can already cut frozen chicken like butter.

I can already slice green onions by moving the onions to the knife.

When you hear of an atomic explosion in Apple Valley. That will be me. Finished. My knife will have finally split the atom.

Where was the warning on that?

A Dream within a Dream

It's an extended consciousness, this digital world. I hate to get all whimsical and mysterious, but do we have a digital footprint that goes beyond what you or I may write here?

If I send you an email, asking how you're doing? Is that stopping by? Is that the equivalent of my walking to your house, and when no one is home, leaving a note on the door?

Bear with me a second. We're having a conversation now. Admittedly, it's a one way conversation, but that's the way most of them go. Almost every conversation you have with your parents, regardless of the amount of input they allow you to have is still one way. Are you married? One way conversations. We've all already made up our minds on what we want to say, we're just waiting for our chance to speak. Sometimes, the conversation diverts, but the difference between a good conversationalist and a bad one, is the good conversationalist will redirect you where he wants you to go... back on track. A bad one, stops the train, backs it up and changes the tracks again.

Of course, then you have good listeners. You must be a good listener in some way. If you sat thru the above paragraph, that is. But still, here we are, my one way conversation to you. Being a good listener means letting the conversation go wherever the conversationalist wants it to go.

Sometimes, you get two watch a fight between conversationalists. Even if they're on the same subject, there are micro and macro subjects that they push back and forth with, ignoring the previous interjections.

So my question again. Is sending an email the same as leaving you a note? Or is it more than that? Am I leaving a part of my soul?

What is the matrix?