Loneliness
Is a disease
That twists and distorts the soul
But is cured with a touch.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
How's Tricks?
Last night I went to dinner with my friend Machu Pichu. We had a burger and some fries, then headed to her place to surf the internet for cheap air tickets. Of course this is risky given all the problems the airline industries are suffering...
At her house, her dog, Honey, kept following me around like a crack addict school girl follows a stranger with candy. So I scratched her behind the ears. Then I felt guilty and dirty. I have a dog too, and playing with other people's dogs makes me feel like I'm cheating on a monogamous relationship. But I got over it and went to the bathroom. Honey followed me again. Why can't I get human females to be so interested in me?
After I was done marking my territory, I figured I would test Honey on how well trained she was.
"Sit."
Honey sat.
"Beg."
Honey begged.
"Speak."
Honey spoke.
"Change the oil in my car."
Honey changed the oil in my car but forgot to tighten the oil filter an extra 1/2 turn after gasket contact.
"Do my taxes."
Honey stared with a blank look.
"You didn't do your taxes yet," Machu Pichu asked.
"Oh, I did," I replied," but I wanted to see Honey do it."
Honey still had a blank look.
Which just goes to show you, boys and girls, that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
At her house, her dog, Honey, kept following me around like a crack addict school girl follows a stranger with candy. So I scratched her behind the ears. Then I felt guilty and dirty. I have a dog too, and playing with other people's dogs makes me feel like I'm cheating on a monogamous relationship. But I got over it and went to the bathroom. Honey followed me again. Why can't I get human females to be so interested in me?
After I was done marking my territory, I figured I would test Honey on how well trained she was.
"Sit."
Honey sat.
"Beg."
Honey begged.
"Speak."
Honey spoke.
"Change the oil in my car."
Honey changed the oil in my car but forgot to tighten the oil filter an extra 1/2 turn after gasket contact.
"Do my taxes."
Honey stared with a blank look.
"You didn't do your taxes yet," Machu Pichu asked.
"Oh, I did," I replied," but I wanted to see Honey do it."
Honey still had a blank look.
Which just goes to show you, boys and girls, that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Sophmoric Sophistry
"Parting is such sweet sorrow... but meeting you is better than not having met you at all." That line was on an 8th grade girl's folder.
Funny thing, these middle schoolers are. They're children on the verge of becoming young adults. Having said that, they're mostly in limbo. They're learning the norms and etiquette of being an adult, but they're still clinging to, and basing life on, their childhood.
You see, many adults end up dismissing the social behavior of middle schoolers. They feel it is beneath them. Not worthy of adult attention. Much the same way, adults tend to overlook middle schooler feelings and emotions. I once shared a poem written by an 8th grade girl with some friends. The only thing those adults could do was point out how naive the author was. But is it naivete or just a fresh outlook on a future life?
I think one of the wonderful things about my profession is that I get to deal with people who are not yet jaded in society. They haven't been stifled by society's rules and roles. They're still at that stage in life where they wonder just why do they have to wear shoes to a fancy restaurant.
So when you come down from the ivory tower, you can actually learn a lot from a kid. Kids live life with passion. They don't realize that they're doing it, but they are. And that's one thing adults always bemoan. They always wish they had more passion in their lives.
You see, when kids are happy, they're not afraid to show it. They will smile from ear to ear. They will laugh out loud. They will dance and sing. Hoot and holler. All those things.
When they are angry, they let everyone know. They don't hide it. They will scream. They will scowl and clench their teeth. Their hands would be balled up in fists. And sometimes they cry.
When they're sad, they cry. They hug each other for support. They will actually tell you that they are feeling sad.
And when they're in love, that's an incredible thing to watch too. They act awkwardly embarrassed in front of the object of their affections. They will give their favs gifts. They do nice things for each other. And sometimes, they will do those things in front of their friends, risking ridicule.
How many of us adults can say that we live life as passionately as a middle schooler?
The only hearty laugh I recently produced was the result of a girl tickling my ribs. And the only time I heard her laugh as hard was when I tried to smell her feet... and gave her the "Portagee Torture". How sad is my life that I don't laugh like that more often?
Have I been so angry I had to scream? No. OK, wait. I've been frustrated to the point where I did have to scream.
I've also been sad enough that I, a grown man, got teary eyed. But could I do that in front of others? Could I grab my friends and hold them tight and share their pain? Stupid adult male role. Doesn't allow one to be too emotional.
And how about love? Oh boy that's a doozy. Let's just say that I've spoken and acted in ways which adults would consider weird... by their own constricted standards.
I haven't even told you the secret to all this. Just what is it that allows these middle schoolers to live so passionately? Memory. Or lack of it.
They don't think of the future in terms of years. They think of the future in terms of days. They don't think of the past in years either, but in days too. So any consequence, such as ridicule, only lasts a short time. Any hurt that they feel, is but a passing irritant. It's like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Once he realized there was no future, he lived each day like it was the last day of his life.
The kids do that too. Though not on purpose.
Once again, I've probably gone way off the point. But hey, I felt like writing, so dammit, I'll write. It's my prerogative, and I'm gonna forget all the snide remarks come tomorrow. Heh.
BTW, underneath that bit of philosophy on the folder, the girl wrote, "I poop rainbows."
Funny thing, these middle schoolers are. They're children on the verge of becoming young adults. Having said that, they're mostly in limbo. They're learning the norms and etiquette of being an adult, but they're still clinging to, and basing life on, their childhood.
You see, many adults end up dismissing the social behavior of middle schoolers. They feel it is beneath them. Not worthy of adult attention. Much the same way, adults tend to overlook middle schooler feelings and emotions. I once shared a poem written by an 8th grade girl with some friends. The only thing those adults could do was point out how naive the author was. But is it naivete or just a fresh outlook on a future life?
I think one of the wonderful things about my profession is that I get to deal with people who are not yet jaded in society. They haven't been stifled by society's rules and roles. They're still at that stage in life where they wonder just why do they have to wear shoes to a fancy restaurant.
So when you come down from the ivory tower, you can actually learn a lot from a kid. Kids live life with passion. They don't realize that they're doing it, but they are. And that's one thing adults always bemoan. They always wish they had more passion in their lives.
You see, when kids are happy, they're not afraid to show it. They will smile from ear to ear. They will laugh out loud. They will dance and sing. Hoot and holler. All those things.
When they are angry, they let everyone know. They don't hide it. They will scream. They will scowl and clench their teeth. Their hands would be balled up in fists. And sometimes they cry.
When they're sad, they cry. They hug each other for support. They will actually tell you that they are feeling sad.
And when they're in love, that's an incredible thing to watch too. They act awkwardly embarrassed in front of the object of their affections. They will give their favs gifts. They do nice things for each other. And sometimes, they will do those things in front of their friends, risking ridicule.
How many of us adults can say that we live life as passionately as a middle schooler?
The only hearty laugh I recently produced was the result of a girl tickling my ribs. And the only time I heard her laugh as hard was when I tried to smell her feet... and gave her the "Portagee Torture". How sad is my life that I don't laugh like that more often?
Have I been so angry I had to scream? No. OK, wait. I've been frustrated to the point where I did have to scream.
I've also been sad enough that I, a grown man, got teary eyed. But could I do that in front of others? Could I grab my friends and hold them tight and share their pain? Stupid adult male role. Doesn't allow one to be too emotional.
And how about love? Oh boy that's a doozy. Let's just say that I've spoken and acted in ways which adults would consider weird... by their own constricted standards.
I haven't even told you the secret to all this. Just what is it that allows these middle schoolers to live so passionately? Memory. Or lack of it.
They don't think of the future in terms of years. They think of the future in terms of days. They don't think of the past in years either, but in days too. So any consequence, such as ridicule, only lasts a short time. Any hurt that they feel, is but a passing irritant. It's like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Once he realized there was no future, he lived each day like it was the last day of his life.
The kids do that too. Though not on purpose.
Once again, I've probably gone way off the point. But hey, I felt like writing, so dammit, I'll write. It's my prerogative, and I'm gonna forget all the snide remarks come tomorrow. Heh.
BTW, underneath that bit of philosophy on the folder, the girl wrote, "I poop rainbows."
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Where's Waldo (Emerson)?
“How the hell do I write poetry,” I asked my online friends. I’m not a poet, and my friends were eager to remind me. They suggested I stick with what I do well, which is prose.
Determined to prove them wrong, and with visions of wearing all black, sporting a goatee, donning a beret, and being surrounded by bohemian women, I set out to write a poem. But how do I do that? Well, I checked out some web pages on how to write poems. That prepared me as well as any college level class.
So on a boring Sunday, I hopped on my motorcycle, determined to write. I stopped by my work place to grab a tablet and a pen. Hey, there were some other people working. Crazy. Working on a Sunday. Don’t they know it’s the day of worship that should be spent goofing off?
Once armed with the tools of an author, I rode up the mountain. I finally made it to the canyon lookout, having to pass tourists like I was a MotoGP rider. The sky was blue. The air was cool. The breeze was gentle. The grass was green. The tree was lonely. So I sat on the green grass, under the lonely tree, feeling the cool air of the blue sky. And I wrote.
I quickly wrote two pages of really sappy stuff that I would be embarrassed to show my friends. If those pages ever got out, I would have to turn in my man-card. However, now that I had a bunch of thoughts, on paper in prose, I figured I just needed to distill the verbiage until what remains is just the essence of feelings. So off to riding again to reset my brain.
After a quick lap down the mountain and back, I started my rewrite. No wait. Before that, there was a Japanese tour group at the lookout. The translator was the mom of a childhood friend. She talked to me for a bit, then she talked to one of the female tourists. My Japanese sucks, but she explained how the tiger ears were mine, and how I was a 4th generation Japanese-American. That tourist kept staring and smiling at me. Of course I will admit that I am such a stud that foreigners can’t keep their eyes off of me, but I think the reason she kept staring was due to the way I was dressed. I had a shirt on that said, “pervert,” in Japanese.
So the tour group left and I was alone to rewrite my poem. I worked on it for about an hour. Scribbling, rewriting, erasing, thinking. In the end, I was totally unhappy with the result. I hate to say it, but perhaps my online buddies were right. Maybe I should forget about poetry and visions of beatnik grandeur, and I should just stick with prose.
The only thing I wrote that I was happy with was: She’s the etch on my heart that makes it skip a beat.
Determined to prove them wrong, and with visions of wearing all black, sporting a goatee, donning a beret, and being surrounded by bohemian women, I set out to write a poem. But how do I do that? Well, I checked out some web pages on how to write poems. That prepared me as well as any college level class.
So on a boring Sunday, I hopped on my motorcycle, determined to write. I stopped by my work place to grab a tablet and a pen. Hey, there were some other people working. Crazy. Working on a Sunday. Don’t they know it’s the day of worship that should be spent goofing off?
Once armed with the tools of an author, I rode up the mountain. I finally made it to the canyon lookout, having to pass tourists like I was a MotoGP rider. The sky was blue. The air was cool. The breeze was gentle. The grass was green. The tree was lonely. So I sat on the green grass, under the lonely tree, feeling the cool air of the blue sky. And I wrote.
I quickly wrote two pages of really sappy stuff that I would be embarrassed to show my friends. If those pages ever got out, I would have to turn in my man-card. However, now that I had a bunch of thoughts, on paper in prose, I figured I just needed to distill the verbiage until what remains is just the essence of feelings. So off to riding again to reset my brain.
After a quick lap down the mountain and back, I started my rewrite. No wait. Before that, there was a Japanese tour group at the lookout. The translator was the mom of a childhood friend. She talked to me for a bit, then she talked to one of the female tourists. My Japanese sucks, but she explained how the tiger ears were mine, and how I was a 4th generation Japanese-American. That tourist kept staring and smiling at me. Of course I will admit that I am such a stud that foreigners can’t keep their eyes off of me, but I think the reason she kept staring was due to the way I was dressed. I had a shirt on that said, “pervert,” in Japanese.
So the tour group left and I was alone to rewrite my poem. I worked on it for about an hour. Scribbling, rewriting, erasing, thinking. In the end, I was totally unhappy with the result. I hate to say it, but perhaps my online buddies were right. Maybe I should forget about poetry and visions of beatnik grandeur, and I should just stick with prose.
The only thing I wrote that I was happy with was: She’s the etch on my heart that makes it skip a beat.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Watch That Floor
I fell asleep on the floor last night. That's never a good thing. Now I feel like writing.
I recently bought the movie Enchanted with Patrick Dempsey. It was pretty good. I liked it. I think there was an article on how Dempsey is a rediscovered hottie. I wouldn't know since I'm not gay. However, people still insist that I might be gay, and even girls I've slept with suspect I'm a homosexual. I guess I was that lousy. But I digress.
Anyway, I was thinking about Dempsey in a non-Tony Curtis way, and I remembered two of his older movies. Loverboy and Can't Buy Me Love. I figured I would try and look up those movies to see if I could watch them again. Doing a search for Loverboy turned up music stuff, of course, but I did get a hit on youtube for Can't Buy Me Love.
When I followed the link, I found out that someone posted the entire movie. Sweet! But then I got distracted. That same person also posted the movie Girls Just Want To Have Fun. That movie starred Helen Hunt and Sarah Jessica Parker when she was young and mildly attractive. And that movie led me to Cyndi Lauper.
I have to say that Cyndi Lauper was one of (still is) the greatest female vocalists ever. Time after Time? Everyone and their sister does a cover of that song. Most of them suck compared to the original. It's like doing a cover of Open Arms. You can never top the original, so don't embarrass yourself.
Then I came across I Drove All Night. Three versions, to be exact. Roy Orbison, Cyndi Lauper, and Celine Dion.
The Man. Roy Orbison. The coolest legally-blind mofo. I give his version a 9 out of 10. Although the song is originally his, his version wasn't released until after Lauper's cover version became a big hit. But something about his voice and style rocks. And this video kicks ass. It's simple, but is full of passion. I figure that is the point of the song. Someone so in love that they would drive all night long to be with the one they love. Jason Priestly and Jennifer Connelly did an excellent job in convincing me they were in love.
I have to give this version a 10 out of 10. I just love Lauper's style. The video is meh though. Apparently, when the video first came out, it caused controversy since it shows her naked. Forward 20 years and I didn't even notice.
I know a girl who would totally match wearing Lauper's 80's collection.
(Dion's version would go here if it didn't suck.)
Crap Karaoke bar version. Nuff Said.
Oh, and I'm afraid of big spiders.
I recently bought the movie Enchanted with Patrick Dempsey. It was pretty good. I liked it. I think there was an article on how Dempsey is a rediscovered hottie. I wouldn't know since I'm not gay. However, people still insist that I might be gay, and even girls I've slept with suspect I'm a homosexual. I guess I was that lousy. But I digress.
Anyway, I was thinking about Dempsey in a non-Tony Curtis way, and I remembered two of his older movies. Loverboy and Can't Buy Me Love. I figured I would try and look up those movies to see if I could watch them again. Doing a search for Loverboy turned up music stuff, of course, but I did get a hit on youtube for Can't Buy Me Love.
When I followed the link, I found out that someone posted the entire movie. Sweet! But then I got distracted. That same person also posted the movie Girls Just Want To Have Fun. That movie starred Helen Hunt and Sarah Jessica Parker when she was young and mildly attractive. And that movie led me to Cyndi Lauper.
I have to say that Cyndi Lauper was one of (still is) the greatest female vocalists ever. Time after Time? Everyone and their sister does a cover of that song. Most of them suck compared to the original. It's like doing a cover of Open Arms. You can never top the original, so don't embarrass yourself.
Then I came across I Drove All Night. Three versions, to be exact. Roy Orbison, Cyndi Lauper, and Celine Dion.
The Man. Roy Orbison. The coolest legally-blind mofo. I give his version a 9 out of 10. Although the song is originally his, his version wasn't released until after Lauper's cover version became a big hit. But something about his voice and style rocks. And this video kicks ass. It's simple, but is full of passion. I figure that is the point of the song. Someone so in love that they would drive all night long to be with the one they love. Jason Priestly and Jennifer Connelly did an excellent job in convincing me they were in love.
I have to give this version a 10 out of 10. I just love Lauper's style. The video is meh though. Apparently, when the video first came out, it caused controversy since it shows her naked. Forward 20 years and I didn't even notice.
I know a girl who would totally match wearing Lauper's 80's collection.
(Dion's version would go here if it didn't suck.)
Crap Karaoke bar version. Nuff Said.
Oh, and I'm afraid of big spiders.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Kommuneekashun
The way I communicate has been a topic of conversation recently. Someone whose opinion I care about, besides my own, said I was articulate in my feelings, and that I should write more poetry. Another person said I'm very analytical and observant. The same person also caught me using one-liners, though I'm not sure what I said. Yet another person described me as being laconic.
Now I will get this part wrong, and the girl will rag me about it later, but in a recent phone interview, I was given an example of how I write. Instead of saying, "a woman walked into the room," I would have described the woman and then point out how her green clothing brought out the color of her eyes.
(I just realized that this entry will be completely disjointed. Too bad. Deal.)
I tend to see myself as a left brained author. It might seem like I'm being creative and right brained, but I think it just looks that way. I mean, I know some literary devices, and if it feels like a logical place to use one, I just do it. It's like playing Tetris with words.
For example, while some more creative people would describe rainbows by how it makes them feel, I would try to find an original way to describe them. So in the end, a rainbow would be: a technicolor brow across the blue sky forehead.
(Yeah, this is gonna be a really sloppy entry. I should be working, not writing.)
You know, I wished I wrote down some of my so called one-liners. Apparently I said a few things before Indian Girl left that was amusing. Too bad beer does not aid the memory.
I do remember calling my UK friend an "other worlder". I was just thinking about how we Americans view the world in a USA-centric point of view. Everything is either American, or Other-Than-American. Thus, other worlder.
And there was this one time where I was completely at a loss for words. I blame a girl though. "Now I understand what it means to be lost in someones eyes." But sometimes it may be a good thing. The more I talk, the dumber the world becomes.
I did manage to spell the word "vagina" during a game of Scrabble. But my vocabulary is still stunted by living out in the middle of Nowhereville, Hawaii.
Now a friend made an observation that I tend to be patient and quiet, even about my feelings, or even when I have something to say. I think it has to do with my upbringing. I've never really sat and talked about my feelings with family. Maybe that's why I feel like writing sometimes?
That could be a reason why I seem to prefer female friends over male friends. Females communicate better... sometimes. Sometimes they're speaking on two different levels, and if my double entendre radar is off, I completely miss the meaning of what is said. But it is easier to talk to females about feelings. With guys, you appear less alpha if you talk about feelings. With guys, it's all about sex, ball scratching, and adrenaline bs.
OK, done. I should get back to work. And if this post makes no sense... err... sorry?
Now I will get this part wrong, and the girl will rag me about it later, but in a recent phone interview, I was given an example of how I write. Instead of saying, "a woman walked into the room," I would have described the woman and then point out how her green clothing brought out the color of her eyes.
(I just realized that this entry will be completely disjointed. Too bad. Deal.)
I tend to see myself as a left brained author. It might seem like I'm being creative and right brained, but I think it just looks that way. I mean, I know some literary devices, and if it feels like a logical place to use one, I just do it. It's like playing Tetris with words.
For example, while some more creative people would describe rainbows by how it makes them feel, I would try to find an original way to describe them. So in the end, a rainbow would be: a technicolor brow across the blue sky forehead.
(Yeah, this is gonna be a really sloppy entry. I should be working, not writing.)
You know, I wished I wrote down some of my so called one-liners. Apparently I said a few things before Indian Girl left that was amusing. Too bad beer does not aid the memory.
I do remember calling my UK friend an "other worlder". I was just thinking about how we Americans view the world in a USA-centric point of view. Everything is either American, or Other-Than-American. Thus, other worlder.
And there was this one time where I was completely at a loss for words. I blame a girl though. "Now I understand what it means to be lost in someones eyes." But sometimes it may be a good thing. The more I talk, the dumber the world becomes.
I did manage to spell the word "vagina" during a game of Scrabble. But my vocabulary is still stunted by living out in the middle of Nowhereville, Hawaii.
Now a friend made an observation that I tend to be patient and quiet, even about my feelings, or even when I have something to say. I think it has to do with my upbringing. I've never really sat and talked about my feelings with family. Maybe that's why I feel like writing sometimes?
That could be a reason why I seem to prefer female friends over male friends. Females communicate better... sometimes. Sometimes they're speaking on two different levels, and if my double entendre radar is off, I completely miss the meaning of what is said. But it is easier to talk to females about feelings. With guys, you appear less alpha if you talk about feelings. With guys, it's all about sex, ball scratching, and adrenaline bs.
OK, done. I should get back to work. And if this post makes no sense... err... sorry?
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