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?

Extorting Your Childhood

Most companies will allow an amount of evil, a percentage of evil, if you will, in order to maintain profits. Apple's evil meter has been relatively low for the last 20 years, guaranteeing a lack of market-share. Microsoft on the other hand, started with a terrible balance, and while that balance tips occasionally back to neutral/bad, it stays bad and Microsoft owns 90% of the operating system market.

Classmates.com however, is evil in the most vile sense.

Yes, I understand that you run a company to make a profit. And yes, I understand that sometimes, in pursuit of profit, you must do evil things. Occasionally. Classmates.com is a little different, however.

They ransom your childhood. And they don't do it very honestly.

You start with a free membership. Which allows you to enter their database. Then if you want to do anything else, other than peruse names you don't recall ever being able to spell correctly, you pay them $50 a year. To email your ex-friends.

Well, ex-friends if you're a dick like me, who chooses to disappear from sight for years at a time, only to resurface as a completely different person with the same name.

Myspace does the same thing... for free... but now you're a hipster douche bag, trying to contact that kid in 3rd grade that you picked on just a little bit too much, before he goes on a shooting spree with your name at the top of the list.

So... let's be honest with ourselves. Be the douche bag... or get killed.

Damn you Classmates... damn you all to hell.

Where Language Fails Us All

Pain is impossible to explain unless you have some unpleasant experience to relate it to.

"Well, it's kind of like when you get kicked in the knee..." or "Yeah, it's a dull stabbing pain."

These metaphors and similes don't make any sense to someone who hasn't experienced that kind of pain. I could tell you that it's "something like getting shot" and without a frame of reference, you have no idea what that means.

Ever been electrocuted? Can you explain that feeling? I'm not particularly apt to explain it myself, and I wonder if it has something to do with our language? Or is it that we're not readily able to explain pain.

For me, pain is always a distant memory. It isn't particularly horrible to remember, but I do recall being an unpleasant experience. Even something that happened hours ago. Though, with a frame of reference, I can explain what it feels like to break one's ankle... or wrist.

I'm at a loss, however, as to how one explains to a woman what feeling you get when you sit on your balls.