Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

WordPress is acting wonky. I upgraded it a few days ago, and have posted a few things here since then. However, every now and then it (or my browser) just won’t let me type anything in the content field. When that happens, I click frantically for a while and then give up.

Dashboard Widgets to the rescue! I don’t know whether QuickPress is just part of WP now, or if I installed it, forgot about it, and never used it. If it’s the latter, then it’s awesome that it has “survived” so many upgrades. If it’s the former, you’d think I could find that information somewhere.

I defeated drug addiction Monday. A friend, who meant well but wasn’t helping at the time, gave me some information that made me doubt my “freedom.” Briefly.

This week has been difficult, of course. However, being an optimist means always knowing that I will always have plenty. Plenty to wake up for, plenty to stay up for. Plenty to eat, plenty to drink.

Speaking of drinking, I had my first real “Never Wanna Drink Again” experience. It was my own fault, of course. I lack the ability to realize when I’ve had too many, especially on days where I’m already dehydrating myself through the eyes.

Plenty of fire, plenty of ice. I can make fire if I have to, I have the patience and the knowledge. I’ve done it before. I know where to get ice, and I know how it’s made. I’ve never made any myself in weather where machinery is required to do so, but I’ve never been in a survival situation where it was necessary to do so.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

My template is going to be a bit weird, and I’m sure it will change. Feedback is welcome. Here’s the gist: I like to cook. I can usually come up with something edible without much notice. With a trip to the store and a couple of bucks, there’s a 90% chance that I can put together a delicious feast for several. Tooting my own horn, yes. But it’s science, so I’ll always win. Except for maybe 10% of the time.

I’ll post a receipt, some general info about what I cooked and how, and then something resembling a recipe that you might use to attempt the dish yourself.

Steak, cheap

Dish: Beef Tenderloin with Grilled Broccoli, Pan Fried Garlic & Eggplant, and hummus.

Grocery Store Damage: $19.28

Bought and Didn’t Use: Basil. Trust me, it won’t go to waste.

What Was Missing: Garlic on the steak. I cooked this on the Foreman, since my propane grill is currently overseas. Since the Foreman gets rid of a shitload of juice/fat/flavor, it could have used a little kick. It’s been a while. I miss my grill.

Why This Was An Adventure: This was the first time I’ve ever really attempted to use eggplant. I bought some once a few years ago, but chickened out. With some roasted garlic, it was tasty as hell.

Better Name For Dish: You tell me. I don’t have a photo of this one, but I intend to have them for subsequent meals. Hopefully my resident photographer will lend a hand there.

Meal Price, Adjusted: Less than $8 per head.

Brian May Says: “Call it simplistic, but if this inaugural dish were the Big Bang, the Universe would be far more delicious!”

“Recipe”: Soaked some beef tenderloins in yogurt, salt, Lee & Perrin (just a drop), pepper, and cumin. Dusted some broccoli with salt, pepper & thyme. Fried some fresh garlic in olive oil, then pan-fried some salted eggplant in that same oil. Grilled the broccoli for about two minutes, then place it on top of the eggplant and covered the pan, decreasing heat to low. Grilled tenderloins for about two minutes on each side. Arranged on plate around a dollop of store-bought (Sabra) hummus.

Wish I had a picture. The broccoli was greener than I’d ever served, and I actually ate all that I served myself. That’s a first when it comes to veggies. The eggplant tasted more or less like slightly exotic garlic mashed potatoes.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

We’re making an effort to eat better, and in such a manner as to recognize that eating better should mean both more healthy and more delicious food. There’s only one way to make a conscious change to the patterns of your life: consciously!

Brian May knows physics. Brian May knows music. Brian May don’t know cooking.

Let me rephrase. I’ll bet you a meal that Brian May won’t read my recipes. I’ll bet Brian May a meal that you won’t read my recipes. Prove either of us wrong, and you win. Feel free to collect anywhere, and at anytime. If your name is Brian May, please call ahead.

I know a little about cooking, and I know a lot about eating. I know more about buying than I care to admit.

The Gentle News concept is now this: one receipt, one meal, and one story. I’ll give you, sweet Internets, one of each, every single day, or else I’ll give you nothing. I’m bound to break that promise now and again. If you know me in person, surprise me and show up for dinner. If we’ve never met in person, interact with me here (wherever here is) and I’ll buy or cook you dinner, or else convince Brian May to do one or the other.

If you think you’ve caught me on something, take a look at the date and think, “Hey, I wonder how many he has saved up in case he forgets a day or two?” I’m OK with being a statistician if I have to be.

I got soups to cook and crackers to fix.

* Edit: It occurs to me that the logic regarding bets and Brian May and proving things isn’t very sound. Doesn’t matter. If Brian May reads any of my recipes, then logic prevails!

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I am no less skeptical today regarding the possibility of paranormal and supra-natural activity than I was the day I had my own personal revelation about God and the Infinite. Mind-reading is not a verifiable, tangible concept, insofar as there will never be a non-artificial method of detecting the electrical patterns in another human being’s brain to such a degree that one could reconstruct the accompanying thoughts in real time. We will never see a report on CNN about God, Jesus, Buddha, and Vishnu holding a press conference to straighten everybody out. Nobody will ever get James Randi’s money. However, I’m coming around to the idea that stupid people who believe in such magic are not necessarily more stupider simply because they do.

If you follow the above to its rational conclusion, an honest logician will also arrive at this tasty salt: Really smart people who nevertheless succumb to the allure of spirituality, religiosity, or outright incantation are not necessarily any more intelligent or enlightened simply because they have figured out that which, by definition, cannot be figured out. I’m only just now, at 28 years of age, beginning to understand the phrase “holier than thou.” I’m probably not 100% cured of the crime, but I think at the very least I’m calm and open enough now that I might never again claim to know what a True Scotsman would (and more importantly, wouldn’t) do.

Revelation of the week: I want to open a restaurant. Still keeping score here? I hope somebody is.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Happy Boy

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

This boy loves beer.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Happy Girls

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

These girls love the beach.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Welcome to Paradise

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

This thing didn’t cause me nightmares, but it did make me spend about 5 minutes trying to make it shut up. Alarm was set for midnight. While trying to turn off the damn alarm, I inadvertently made it start tweeting and bubbling. I still don’t know how I eventually made it shut up. Mom informed me this morning that there’s a main power switch on the cord. The only switch I could find in my sleepy frustration last night was the one that turns off the backlight/motor. That caused the 30-year-old-fridge farting and grinding to stop.

Why does this thing have a motor in it? To make tide appear to shimmer, of course. Duh.

I do not love this clock. I do love my mother.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

For the first time since some indeterminable night in high school, I am lonely in Beaumont, Texas.

I know my mother will probably read that at some point and freak out at least a little bit, but I’m sure she will soon understand that it’s natural to feel a bit lonely. I am not moping, and I am not miserable. I just miss my best friend and wish I could hold her right now. The pangs will soon ease. I will eat some food. I will go get Mama a card reader so that she can easily put pictures on her digital photo frames.

I genuinely enjoy being around all of the members of my immediate family. There is very little I’m not comfortable discussing with any of them, and for the most part I feel just as at ease around them when I’m happy as I do when I’m depressed. Some people find that strange, and others find it hard to believe. I’m sure plenty of people I know have similar relationships with their family, so I don’t really feel unique in that regard. But I do feel special, in the sense that I am extremely lucky to have such a functional and fulfilling arrangement with three people who, by most modern standards, should harbor tons of resentment for each other for one petty reason or another.

Just typing this has relieved most of the pangs of lonliness. Also, Mama just said something silly that made me feel good. Sitting in her chair, watching the Ayatollah on the Early Show (I doubt she’s paying attention to that) and browsing Facebook or Myspace or whatever Internet singles bar she currently hangs out in, she said, “What am I going to do today?”

I paused and looked up. I flipped my rolodex of responses around in my head for a second, and before I could say anything, she looked up and said, “I’m gonna love you, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Yeah, we say shit like that. And it genuinely makes me feel good. I don’t know where it came from. I can’t really imagine her mother or any of her siblings saying stuff like that. It’s a tiny bit Papaish, but even if he did say something similar, it would probably not be quite so blatantly saccharine.

Just another reason I know she is and was a damn good mother. And here’s another reason I know she’s a hell of a lot smarter than she likes to lead people to believe: I’m certain she used the power of suggestion to make sure I didn’t sleep in this morning. I haven’t had much trouble waking up early lately, but I really hadn’t planned on waking up at 6:50. However, just before she went to bed last night, she said (to herself, but outloud), “I wish I could sleep in tomorrow.”

This confused me a bit, and I asked “Why can’t you?”

Her response was, “I don’t know, I just never can sleep late.”

When I woke up this morning, my first thought after getting over the usual mini-panic involved in waking up without Bonnie next to me was, “The sun is up, no reason for me not to be.” I figured it was 9 or so and I’d walk out to find Mama slurping Folger’s.

“6:50?!? Jesus! Oh well, I can go back to sleep.”

Wrong. Couldn’t stop thinking about sleep, and then food. So I read for a bit, then ventured out to find that even Mama wasn’t up yet.

One more cup of Folger’s and I’ll go find us some breakfast. And a card reader. And a sledgehammer for this Dave & Buster’s clock looking over my shoulder. I swear it just farted. I’ll tell you more about that guy later.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Last night was Vicki’s birthday party. We sat by (and in) the pool and watched Jaws. I got there early and pretended to be useful. My sister and I went to three different Sonics before a manager agreed to fill our 5-gallon cooler with Cap’n Crunch ice. Linda is really good with people. If you ever need to return a cracked aquarium that’s full of dead goldfish and feces, she’ll not only help you clean it, but she’ll talk to the manager of the store and deflect all of his (or her) horseshit. Just don’t ask her if I am a very good navigator. I am.

I woke up this morning wanting to watch cartoons. I waited until I thought B had slept enough and then I let the cats wake her up with coffee and the promise of leftover kolaches. Once her beautiful blues were back in business, I flipped on the TV. Hong Kong Phooey confused me a little bit. As fondly as I remember Penry and his secret alter ego, I’d rather listen to Sublime sing about him than watch his show I guess. I didn’t make it through a single episode before switching over to Sanford & Son just in time to hear Fred use the phrase “faggoty jacket.”

Fred Sanford is the real number one super guy.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

This is kinda large and might break stuff:

I know of better ways to do this now. Hopefully I'll put them into practice.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I’ve never deleted stuff from a blog or online texty-thingee unless it was actually causing someone undue harm. I’ve been causing someone undue harm recently, but I’m also not the type to delete myself. I’m an editor. I fix things to the best of my ability, but once it’s published I don’t have the power to take the urine out of the pool.

Much like the dumb shows and movies I like to watch, repeated readings of my writings and those of the people I love give me a much better understanding of just how important the scribe is to me.

To the one who knows: Above all else I agree that people have a tendency to throw shit back in your face a lot. I don’t know why that is, and I wish I did. So many people find it too easy to continually argue with you in a manner that reinforces the feeling that your point of view is invalid. I cannot be a part of that anymore. I will always be honest with you, but I will never again continue to bandy the ball around the fire beyond the point at which I realize I’m just squirting gasoline on it. And my visit with the Wizard has given me a shiny new crown to remind me that it’s easy to stand up and roar for something important to you.

We’ve always disagreed on things, even fundamental things, but that’s absolutely no reason for me to keep myself from evolving beyond my inability to understand you and support you in the ways a lover and friend should. That’s my job from this day forth.

I’ve spent at least a year hacking away, in my sleep, at the pedestal I put you on long ago. You fell off a few times, and I just threw you right back up there and picked up my axe again. Instead, I should have been climbing, hoping to get to the top in time, and with enough strength left, to bring you back down where I found you so that we could start building a more appropriate structure to grow on together.

I still don’t know what that structure is, but it’s something far less boring and demeaning than a stone display column. Something more fitting of a woman who can take care of herself, and a girl who doesn’t necessarily always need or want to.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I’m finally watching the second part of the Red Dwarf special, Back to Earth. In two rooms. On two screens. While I jump between billable work and home decluttering. If you’ve seen this part of the special, you know how ridiculously fitting that is.

“Science Fiction… It’s all a bit bollocks, isn’t it?”

If it wouldn’t get me in more trouble than it’s worth, I’d dress and act like The Cat.

“All my life I’ve wanted to go on a metaphysical odyssey. For years I thought I’d never get the chance.”

Hey, now they’re doing a Blade Runner thing. And it’s kinda funny.

“I don’t know such stuff.”

Art Car idea. Star Bug Smart Car. Probably been done.

And now it’s over. If any of that spoiled the show for you, you’re not much of a Red Dwarf fan. So consider this your spoiler warning. Oh, wait. Damn.

Update: I went ahead and watched part three. Holy shit, the Blade Runner thing was even funnier than I anticipated. WATCH THIS. DO IT.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

When I first started really using the MacBook, I wanted everything to be just like my desktop PC, which is currently a 24-inch iMac. I’d only been using the iMac a few weeks, but I had gone crazy installing apps and trying to make it feel like home. So I put the iMac in target mode and migrated my entire user account to the MacBook.

The next time I recall thinking about whether the laptop (Is it still OK to call them that? Do I HAVE to call it a notebook now?) and the desktop were still in sync, I was at work trying to keep some notes from getting so huge that I wouldn’t be able to make use of them later. At that point, I made two major changes to the way I compute. The first was to start using Dropbox. I installed it on both Macs and on Bauer, our home server and theater PC. I’ve been using it for four months and so far it hasn’t caused me any grief, so I’d recommend it for anyone who wants to keep files in sync between multiple machines. It prevents a lot of the wasted brain cycles I might otherwise use up thinking about backups and whether I need to roll my own script. If the space limitations and internet bandwidth weren’t factors in the equation, I wouldn’t have to worry about backups at all.

The second change I made was to try using Spaces, only on the MacBook. I thought keeping apps separated would help me stay organized while working, but after a few months I realized it wasn’t really helping with the problem I wanted to solve and turned it off. I don’t need it on the iMac since I have a shit-ton of screen real estate there thanks to the combination of its built-in 24-inch screen and the 30-incher looming above it.

So, if you’re keeping score: Dropbox, yes. Spaces, not until I find a better use for it.

Speaking of Bauer, I might need the help of fellow OS nerds to figure out why the display turns off every 30 minutes. It’s Ubuntu 8.10, with nothing extremely screwy or customized. I’ve turned off the screensaver and added the following section to xorg.conf:

Section "ServerFlags"
Option "BlankTime" "0"
Option "StandbyTime" "0"
Option "SuspendTime" "0"
Option "OffTie" "0"
EndSection

So if Gnome isn’t doing it, and Xorg isn’t doing it, what’s left? Syslog/messages show nothing when it happens. Could there be something unconfigurable in the display driver (intel) that prevents anything in userspace from keeping the display awake for more than 30 minutes?

It wouldn’t be as annoying if we didn’t have to walk over to the keyboard and hit a key to wake it back up. If input from Microsoft Media Center remote were recognized as keystrokes, we could just hit Info or Pause to wake it back up and chances are it wouldn’t even happen as often since we pause and rewind quite a bit. I still haven’t found a wireless keyboard and mouse combo small enough to keep under the coffee table with a good enough range to keep us from having to do the “Work, Dammit Dance”. If I just knew for sure WHAT was doing it, I could probably fake some kind of keepalive.

I hear our squirrel on the roof of the porch. I should give him some money so he can go to Home Depot and come back and fix the damn thing if he’s going to continue to treat it as his own. That squirrel needs a summer job.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

“In my attempt to focus on what people mean rather than what they say, I’ve tried to stop focusing on what I mean and just say what I’m thinking.”

What’s wrong with that quotation? First of all, it’s a trick. It shouldn’t be in the middle of the page or italicized. I don’t know how long it took me to put those words together, but they seem to fit. So I wrote it down, and then later began to wonder if it was original. As a result of my desire to determine the originality any of the things I say or do, I got stuck in a loop. It’s that same loop that keeps me from getting really comfortable anywhere. Of course I want adventure, but I don’t know what drives me toward it. We make lists and come up with little mantras to try to keep ourselves grounded in what we know, but even that keeps changing.

“Watching this movie is like being forced to sit through a remedial philosophy class.”

Movie reviews, whether professional or amateur, usually confound me even if I agree with the ultimate thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Not only is it usually difficult for me to determine whether I like or dislike a film, I think it would be damn near impossible to make myself rate one based on a 1 to 5 stars/thumbs/cheesecakes scale without some algorithmic scoring method. I tried that, jokingly, with limericks a while back. It got old and boring after a while, but probably because I’m not enough of an engineer to come up with workable rules, even for a prolonged joke.

After I watch a show, read a book, or hear music for the first time, the only thing I know for sure is whether I enjoyed it. I also retain a few judgments regarding technical merit, but I don’t always allow those to immediately determine whether I could have enjoyed it more or less. This is part of why I like revisiting creative works. Including old television shows. Skepticism lives comfortably in my brain, and my brain makes my body comfortable when the characters in it chill out long enough to let me find the fun I want. Many reviewers come across as cynics to me, so I bristle at them. But if I keep using cynicism vs. skepticism to determine how much I let myself enjoy things, I’ll go crazy.

(I’ve reluctantly ignored Grace’s morning whine party for about 15 minutes in order to get this far. I’m going to pick her up and love on her, because I love her. Future action items in my head now: Set a reminder to change litter box daily, and another to completely wash it out once a week? Experiment with new food so that we know she’s not just bored or dissatisfied with the relatively healthy stuff we give her? Keep a log of when she whines, observable environmental differences at the time, and the duration of the resulting contentment she displays?)

I’m trying to reduce or eliminate unnecessary, quantitatively comparative (and especially superlative) language from my writing. It’s mental practice for preventing myself from using it inappropriately in my speech. This makes blogging require more time than it has in the past. (Look, I didn’t even make it through one sentence.)

For the recovering pedant, The Elements of Style is still a very good reference for how to communicate with people and actually enjoy it without turning everybody off. Just don’t talk about the damn book unless you’re actually discussing writing. Or if it’s funny. Oh, and here’s a tip: correcting someone’s grammar or usage is rarely funny. I’ve almost taught myself when and when not to do it, and it feels great.

I have to be cautious about setting these types of syntactical rules. I’ve done it in the past, such as trying to wean myself off of parentheticals. But they’re just too damn fun, so I embrace them, and try to learn more about my own style by rereading things long after I’ve written them. Sometimes they look stupid or out of place, but then again so do I.

“You’re talking to people who aren’t here.”

Sometimes I do that, but even then it’s usually myself I’m talking to. Sometimes I’m not fully present, even in the company of people I hold dear, and end up talking to myself. In order to reconcile my need to be creative but still ground myself in facts and natural order, I’ve gently coaxed myself into being OK with the comparison of creativity to mild schizophrenia.

“There is nothing new under the sun.”

Rhetoric is ancient, as is the proclivity to treat particularly clever pieces of it as final, like a stinger at the end of a song or a finishing move in a beat-em-up video game. I really don’t see words as bullets. My hesitation before opening my mouth to say something I think is interesting is not me loading a gun and aiming for a kill. It’s me putting my foot in the pool before deciding whether I can handle jumping in, or if I need to ease my way into it. You’re free to be the guy who always says “Oh, just jump in, you’ll get used to it,” but that’s not me.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference.”

Everybody has (or knows) a grandmother with an old cross-stitch of this prayer on her wall. I like it, because it really is a difficult thing to do, but not so difficult that it should be ignored or dismissed, even if you don’t believe in the entity being asked.

Two things three important people have in common: none of them knows what he or she wants. That belongs on a sticky note for everyone to bump into regularly.

Next time somebody who has it all figured out tries to explain The Blues to you, just listen closely to them. Look him or her in the eye, because he or she is the only expert on the source material.

If Mickey and Mallory really are demons, then what are we chasing? What are we facing together? What’s the answer to a question you can’t answer? “What?” is the answer to a question you can’t answer. Face it together.

I just thought of a very boring and disastrous drinking game: “I always.”

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

With the right sun protection and pest control, I can be calm anywhere. Having a time travel expert nearby helps, too.

I just had the best night’s rest in weeks. And I didn’t sleep a wink, but I did expend an uncountable number of calories ensuring that the two not-quite-sentient members of this household were locked inside and safe.

This is an honest playback of the events of last night and this morning as I recall them:

Thursday evening, I watched Animaniacs with Bonnie up until the very last moment that I could, at which point I stole as many kisses as possible, loaded my equipment into the FARR15 and headed for the audition/gig in Frisco.

The audition part was a snap. Of COURSE we play well togther, we’re all good friends. And of COURSE we had fun. Of COURSE we’re playing Disco tunes at that chick’s wedding. But I repeat myself.

After the gig I jumped back on stage and thumped along while the sound guy sang a Bill Withers tune. Then I packed my gear back up and went home.

We did science for the next several hours. I remember a lot of Dr. Kaku, the infamous duck, and of course the Bitch with Perfect Pitch. She isn’t actually a bitch, as far as I can tell, but it wouldn’t rhyme otherwise, so allow me just a tiny bit of misogyny here.

I also got shit on by that same damn tree again.

Here are some high-lights. You may take the quotation marks around the items in quotation marks to mean whatever you wish. I take them to mean that I heard them outside of myself before I felt them. But, rest assured, I felt all of these.

• The grass in our backyard is extremely green.
• “It doesn’t matter if you trust her, she’s pretty.”
• “She’s OK, because she’s hot.”
• “TrES-4 is like a MARSHmallow.”
• I need to read more about Ward and Brownlee.
• “It’s all Hubble’s fault. I feel sorry for him, but it’s all his fault.”
• Am I really learning this much so fast? Slow down. There’s plenty to learn together.
• I fixed the guest toilet because it had been running for at least an hour at some point.

After all that, I woke up and made one of the same silly, uneducated conjectures I’ve been making for years.

And then I got busy correcting it. And made coffee.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I’ve started writing this several times. Each time I do, something distracts me and I throw it away because I wanted to actually BE calm when I wrote it. Something tells me I might not be able to do that any time soon, so I’ll just close my eyes, count to 3 (hundred) and do my best. This time around, it’s my little black kitty crying in the living room that’s causing mild anxiety. It’s hard for me to ignore or otherwise deal with neediness, especially when the subject is so damn cute and loving.

Tom came by to pick up our generator for Flipside. We chatted for a few minutes. It’s usually the most banal items from casual conversations that stick with me and cause me to worry about trivial things for a long time. I spent most of the conversation just listening and trying to offer some sort of help. I left him with a mnemonic, and quite possibly a hint into just how neurotic I am about borrowing/lending stuff due to my own unpredictably faulty memory.

(While writing that last paragraph, I gave in and walked into the living room to pick up Grace. She purred all the way back to my office, sat in my lap for about 10 seconds licking herself, then jumped to my feet, licked them a few seconds, and lumbered over to the kitchen for some comfort food because Daddy wasn’t paying enough attention to her.)

Tom said something that made me think about the first time I took Xanax. I had been working a gruelling (for me) job at a mediocre steakhouse. Some people don’t believe me when I tell them I served Ron Jeremy a salad there, but it doesn’t matter. Even if The Hedgehog himself doesn’t remember having meatloaf at the Cattle Company in Beaumont, Texas, I know he was there. And I know that particular night he wanted a lot of pepper on his salad.

It was very early summer and I had just finished some of the most difficult and fulfilling classes I’d ever taken in high school. Some friends and I decided to get jobs together. We figured if we were together, then collectively we wouldn’t lose our shit no matter how boring or stressful the job was. One of those friends had the clairvoyance not to come back after the first day of work. I think it was Kevin. I know it wasn’t Kenny. I don’t remember how much longer I lasted, but it was long enough to learn that food service ain’t my gig.

My car, a 1988 black Chevrolet Corsica, had been overheating that day and I didn’t know jack shit about cars, other than the fact that I had no money to fix them. I had “No More Tears” stuck in my head, which is far better than “Brimful of Asha,” which had been the uninvited guest in my brain the day before. It was tip-out day, so I was somewhat excited by the fact that I’d be leaving with actual cash in my pocket. I was cutting lemons, something I still enjoy to this day, and trying not to think about the goofy dude (wish I could remember his name) who had cut himself performing the same task the day before and gone apeshit, running around screaming and spurting blood all over the walls of the kitchen.

I was thinking a lot about vacation. A huge group of friends had been planning a trip to the beach. The “band” hadn’t played in quite a while, but we decided to bring our gear and just set up on the beach and jam. This was exciting. Even as of today, I’ve never played in a band or jammed with a group of musicians that felt nearly as fun or relaxed as this group of high school retards who (myself proudly included) knew so little about music. That isn’t to say I haven’t played better music with other folks, and I’m certain a few people reading this know I’m talking about them when I say that.

My selective memory hasn’t retained enough data to allow me to say that I never dropped anything at that job, but that day I was especially worried I was going to do so. However, I’m certain that something at least mildly disatrous happened because I left work early. Walked up to the boss, said I needed to leave immediately, and asked if I could go ahead and get my tip-out. He said, no come back tomorrow.

I don’t remember the walk back to the car. I barely remember the drive home, and even that only because I was fiddling with my makeshift FM transmitter (took the mic out of a $2.88 Mr. Microphone and soldered on an 1/8″ plug) and cheapass Koss portable CD player velcroed to the dash of Michael Jackson (The Corsica. It was black, but spent so much time at the refinery where my uncle worked that it had been chemically altered to look sort of pale tan in places). I don’t even remember walking in the house.

The next thing I remember is being in the urgent care exam room making jokes with the Doctor about pH levels that I couldn’t have made 6 months prior because I’d just completed the first Chemistry class I ever actually learned anything from. Before I knew it, I was back in the passenger seat of the MRS (Manly Red Stationwagon, which wouldn’t become my car until sometime in 2000, I believe) with an Eckerd pharmacy bag in my lap and a plastic hospital bracelet on my wrist.

Back home again, I swallowed a little yellow pill with the help of my best friend at the time, Coca Cola. The pill was small enough that my then almost completely unchecked emetophobia wasn’t too much of a problem, as long as I put it just far enough back on the center of my tongue so as not to gag myself with my finger or fear that the tablet would slip to the left or right and touch my throat in the wrong spot once properly washed over with Coke.

The next thing I remember is waking up to the doorbell ringing several times. It took me a few minutes to realize nobody else was home. I answered the door to greet the smiling face of a really good friend who heard I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to bring a card. She also had flowers or a gift basket or something, which I thought was kinda strange at the time. Whatever it was, it probably had cows on it. That’s another story.

She asked how I was. The only thing I remember coming out of my mouth during that conversation, standing there in the front hallway in my red plaid, flannel boxers was this:

“I think I shit my pants.”

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

There are times during each day when I just have to do something with my hands and eyes because the rest of me is performing multiple functions over which I have negligible control. I’m not *just* referring to water closet tasks, but that’s the only example that comes to fingers at the moment. Over the last 2.78 decades I’ve come across numerous shovels and rakes and implements of destruction to aid in this requirement, some of them productive in and of themselves.

One of the first I can remember is a pair of Hit Stix. I wore out at least two pair running around the house beating the air, myself and various family valuables. I’m sure if I got my hands on some now I’d wonder how I ever found them entertaining, but I did. I had some Hit Keys, too, but they were far less functional than any of the several Casio keyboards at my disposal, so I rarely found much use for them. They probably ended up going to a dirty-lipped neighbor kid for a quarter in a garage sale.

I wish I could find a picture of me with my giant (to me, at the time) plush Fievel. Fievel got to watch all the mundane shit that grade-schoolers go through, even the ones that said grade schoolers rarely ever tell anyone else about later. The F-man and I were somewhat inseparable until my brother puked all over him and he had to be euthanized. The mouse, not the brother.

The subsequent lineup of physical distractions, for lack of a better word, mostly remained within the realm of electronic trinkets. Computers, video games, bulletin board systems, digital calculator watches, talking Ninja Turtles. When I was thirteen a third-hand, black, short-neck Hondo electric guitar and Crate GX12 practice amp with an upside down logo put a new twist on the affair. Near the end of high school things like Zippos and slap bracelets gave the transistors and batteries an occasional break.

The evolution of the mobile phone has given me many new hand-eye toys. I was playing (well, sort of) with the Magic 8 Ball app on my T-Mobile G1 when something terrifying hit me. I’ve always used a Magic 8 Ball to make decisions about what I want or need to do. I can’t come up with any answers on my own, so I ask a question, shake something (or someone) and wait for an answer. It’s rare that I don’t “like” the answer it gives me, because I didn’t really know what I wanted in the first place. But sometimes I don’t understand the answer, which makes sense given that it’s as close to random as any earthly machine can generate. But I go crazy and get irrational, begging for some kind of resolution.

I can’t just put it aside and realize it’s a damn game. So I shake some more and the game escalates.

Farris: "Is it really going to happen?"

8Ball: "Better not tell you now."

Farris: "Is there anything I can do to stop it?"

8Ball: "Yes."

Farris: "Should I stop it?"

8Ball: "Don't count on it."

Farris: "What the hell does that mean?"

8Ball: "Very doubtful"

Farris: "No, seriously, that doesn't make any fucking sense.
Should I just put you down and go do something else?"

8Ball: "Cannot predict now."

Farris: "Am I doing something really stupid right now?

8Ball: "As I see it, yes."

Farris: "What's wrong with you?"

8Ball: "If you shake me one more goddamn time I'm going
to throw up, and then you'll throw up and there won't be
anybody to clean up the mess."

I don’t like this. I don’t like being incapable or unwilling to truly make decisions on my own. I’m sure there are plenty of exceptions to this, but I can’t conjure any at the moment.

In an effort to gain direction and perspective, I’ve tried to be quiet more often lately. Every time a question or curiosity hatches in my brain and starts tunneling its way to my mouth, I grab a harsh liquid and gargle or swallow until it’s close enough to dead it can’t escape. But I haven’t stopped shaking that damn 8 Ball. I need to. I need to know whether I can actually find ways to ask myself questions and receive answers I can get behind.

Reading over this again, it’s appalling to me how much it comes across like I’m just using people I care about as some sort of crystal ball without any respect or regard for what they really feel or think. So I’m going to stop shaking this content management system looking for an answer.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Monday was a good day. Exciting, scary, fun, fulfilling, a tease.

One of the biggest internal challenges I’m overcoming is realizing that I don’t necessarily have to justify something I said before this minute, day, month, etc. I was/am dumb, and therefore said/say dumb shit. No need to find a reason for it or defend it simply because I said it. Not that I won’t own up to something important I’ve said. Or that I need to say less. Just… You know, say it.

I use the phrase “I’m seriously considering…” way too much. Not gonna do it. I’m going back to school. For music. Mostly production/engineering/composition. But some performance. I know I’m not a great performer, and will never be a great vocalist, but I love making the shit. It’ll happen. I just need to find a way to utilize my nerdifying skills in such a manner as to financially support my silly dreams of being the next John Williams or Frank Zappa. Hell, I’d settle for Mike Post.

There was more to this, hence saving the above paragraphs since late Monday. It fell out of my ears between then and now.

Long story short: I gave my 2 weeks notice. Things can only get better, and I mean that. Sincerely and cheerfully.

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Mixed assortment of males and females on vacation together in some far-off, hilly city. Late evening, the group is atop a particularly high and green bluff. Not sure what time of year it is. Some are wearing light jackets, some are in shorts and t-shirts. Nobody’s trashed, but everybody’s tipsy and happy. A few of the revelers are looking down at the lights in the city through binoculars. One of them [I think this was me, because it was the character I most identified with, though I saw none of this from a first-person perspective] says he wants to go see the lights. Another says she’d rather just stay and watch from above [I think this was B, though dream B did not act very much like real B].

As the dude who wants to go check out the lights starts high-fiving friends before heading down, another girl [pretty sure it was V], obviously a good friend of the dude, tackles him to the ground. They roll around laughing for a minute about an old friend who moved away [pretty sure it was Devo, though in the dream the guy seemed to be a much closer friend than Devo].

After a few more minutes of mirth, the girl suddenly, and without breaking her smile, informs the dude that someone told someone who told someone who told someone who told her that the dude had fellated another dude at his last New Year’s Eve party.

The only dialogue I can recall from the dream occurred at this point, which was also the point I was ripped from sleep in a cold sweat: “What?”

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

• Index Cards
• A snazzy watch
• An awesome camera
• Coffee
• Coffee Creamer
• Zip Fizz
• Canadian Bacon
• Creativity
• A brain
• A heart
• Courage
• Two tickets to Kansas
• Clarinet