If I knew what you liked, my brother, I would have it waiting for you.

Anyway, if you aren't too busy, feel free to stop on by. Would love to chat!

OK, so, I'm checking my pitiful stats for this site ( :( ) when I come across a glimmer of sunshine. Someone has translated my site into German (I think that's German). Here's the link:

http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=de&sl=en&u=http://spaces.msn.com/members/brokensword/Blog/cns!1pRplEbeDpwC4MgJzkeoZG5Q!257.entry&prev=/search?q=emasculation&start=80&hl=de&lr=&sa=N

Dude, I am so PUMPED! Much better start than yesterday.

Here's the original blog: http://spaces.msn.com/members/brokensword/Blog/cns!1pRplEbeDpwC4MgJzkeoZG5Q!257.entry 

Wow.

Wait...

EMASCULATION!

Holy CRAP!

Some dude in the Bundesrepublik Deutschland is trying to off his NADS!!!!!!

Hey, don't do it, dude! Come to America and join the Insane Clown Posse, or become a paparazzi. Gotta be better a better way out than saying goodbye to your John Thomas! (I knew a John Thomas, once. Was a regular at the bar I worked. He was from Wales and was a great guy.).

We gotta stop this guy!

If you are reading this and are living in or around Germany, please call der Polizei!!!!!

<That is *German*, right? Proud product of America's public education system.>

How dissapointed was this guy when he found out that blog wasn't a "how to" but rather an excuse for not cussing like a sailor...(which probably accounts for my low hit number)....

<um, keep telling yourself that, big guy>

<Linus> “You suicidal?”

<Rusty> “Only in the morning”

I’m tired.

I’ve been tired for a long time.

And it doesn’t help being assigned to write 50 use cases (that won’t get read) for a product (that won’t get released) in a project that has been postponed.

I’ve been at the office for two hours, now, and I need a break…

So, I’ve been watching Star Wars, a lot, lately. Guess I’m starting down that well worn path toward disappointment. Get pumped, get let down. Lucas is two for five. If he can stay centered in the world that his audience lives in, maybe he can get to .500.

At the very least, he will probably get me out of the house to see a movie for the first time in months.

Not even Sin City, ultimately, could do that. And I’m a big fan Rodriguez (the man, if not all of his movies) and Frank Miller. They couldn’t get me into the theater because my karma can’t handle the cost of the boorish behavior displayed (inflicted) by the standard movie goer.

However, as Jar-Jar, the Ewoks, and Midi-Chlorians have already taken their toll, I’ll probably risk it.

Speaking of disappointment, a picture of the “new” Superman costume is out.

Maybe Bryan Singer can pull off Superman IN THAT costume. But, after seeing Wolverine cry in X-Men II, I’m not too sure (I don’t care that she was the love of his life. If Logan is going to shed tears, he will shed them alone and he will NOT comfort the man that stood between him and his love. Period)

Still, it could be that I am just done with Kal-El.

First, DC convinced me the big guy was practically Reagan’s right hand man.

Second, Bill, convinced me that old Kal really doesn’t think much of my people (neither do I, for that matter – but who is this alien to judge us!)

Well, I’ve got to get back to these use cases.

Maybe later we can watch “Fight Club” on the big screen. Tyler’s been whispering in my ear a lot, lately, and I need something to keep me awake. 

Starting today, deep in the heart of Texas, the French are coming.

It’s a cultural “exchange” program. They come over here with writers, photographers, cinematographers, and performers and put on shows/talks/readings/exhibitions.

Awesome. We need more of it. I just hope we send more than Cowboys (unless they are Cowboy poets) and drilling technology.

I love the French. Always have. Hope to get over there before I die.

Anyway, you have to be wondering why I’m writing about this week long celebration of things French and American. Why, its so I can list the website in case you want more information:

www.tfaarts.org

That just kills me!

As I’ve mentioned a few times, I’m spending about 9 hours a day listening to Indie 103.1. Mostly, its to drown out the loud talkers, conference callers, and the hacking and the NOT spitting (gulp?) going on around me.

Music as white noise:

But, every once and awhile, a song sneaks up on me and then its more than just something to cancel out the audible detritus. Suddenly, I’m in the middle of some song (a few minutes ago it was “Dakota” by the Stereophonics). And, when I say ‘in the middle,” I mean I am somewhere else.

Not in this cube. Not writing the dreck they pay me to write. Not working an extra hour every day just so I can avoid traffic.

For almost four minutes, I am somewhere else.

Wait.                           

That’s not right.

During the hook, I am gone. Literally, during that part of the song, my eyes are closed tight and my right foot is pounding the industrial grade carpet.

When the song is over, there are times when I wonder where I go and how this response has become so Pavlovian.

And it has been going on for awhile.

But, today, while in mid-nirvana, a thought crashed my little vacation (though it was more like a voice than a thought). Raised, without screaming, it said:

“Music *used* to be your life. Music *used* to be everything to you. You used to go to nirvana all the time, everyday. Period.”

Eyes open. Foot silenced.

It’s been a long time since music mattered that much to me. And now I can’t help wondering if that is where things took a turn. If the path that lead to these cubes, this work, a life avoiding traffic, began on that day.

That voice is gone. It took nirvana and left me with its nasty echo ringing in my skull. That voice is gone and I feel empty. And I think I’ve been feeling that way for too long.

In my previous blog, as I have in many others, I edit out certain words. “F***”, for example, or pimp them up like this: “Nizzipple.”

And as someone who has felt almost persecuted for his use of ALL OF THE WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN NECESSARY, I feel an explanation is required.

It’s simple: the internet is full of people looking for p0rn. They are not the intended audience (well, not *when* they are looking for p0rn).

So, this is not censorship or any kind of prudishness.

It is a compromise.

Buschick blogged today to tell us about finishing her first novel, "Wonderland." Its a good read for anyone who thinks or wishes they were a writer. It certainly got me thinking.

She's been working on this book for five years. And, you would need to read her blog for yourself, but more important than the actual text was the process. A process that had a beginning and, most importantly for me, an ending.

Now she is free of "Wonderland." It must feel like getting a free pass on gravity. My head spins just from the idea of it.

It spins because I am not free. I am not free because there are two unfinished scripts and several unrealized ideas on my desk, in a file. I am not free because they won't let me go.

Rather, I won't let go.

And that's the whole point. I started this blog because I wanted to be a better writer ("You said something about best intentions?" - Jules). Sure, it has got me writing more than I was. But, it is not the work of a writer. It is the work that I have been avoiding/ignoring/running away from...whatever.

So, Buschick got me thinking. And I have a lot more to do. Am I writer? If I am not willing to do the work, commit to what has always been so painful for me, then shouldn't I make the call? Decide that "I am not a writer" and be done. I can't imagine the freedom. I don't want to. I'm afraid to.

For all the years I was a waiter, bartender, service advisor, software installation specialist, business analyst and tech writer, being a writer was always what I thought of myself (outside of those silly jobs). Always, in the back of my mind, the image of a writer, the life of a writer, has been with me.

But, I guess the time has come. Time has come to choose, and to act. If I am a writer, published or not, read or not, then I must do the work. Otherwise, stop the illusion. Grow up. Move on to something else.

Thanks, again, to Buschick. Thanks for waking me up. I hope to, one way or another, follow your path, soon.

The Glamazon was blogging about why her and Buschick like watching sports. While they acknowledge a deep respect for the sport (whatever sport it is), they also admit it is the bodies they are really checking out. And THAT lead to the question "why do *men* watch sports.

As a man, I got to tell you, I have no clue why.

Rather, I have almost zero desire to watch *ANY* sporting event on TV. Team or otherwise. I enjoy the occasional Triathlon and highlights from the Tour de France, as well as some events in the X-games, Rugby and Aussie Rules football can be fun once and awhile. My last great love was the Rockets during the Rudy T years (can I tell you I'm glad he left the Lakers. I would have *hated* to watch/cheer for the Lakers).

And I am no pencil neck geek. I played team sports from the time I could wear a cup and tie my own shoes until the end of my sophomore year in high school. Football and Baseball. Tried Basketball and Soccer. They didn't take. AT ALL.

Now, until I left the game, I watched everything I could. Mostly football (Cowboys). Some baseball (Rangers - I was young). But, since I made the decision that I wasn't going to devote my high school career to the pursuit of football, all organized sports have really turned me off.

How I came to quit football: It was the end of the school year. Spring training had ended a few weeks before. With the long summer ahead, the coaches decided that we needed some guidance as to our upcoming "free time". So, Coach handed me (and the whole team) a schedule that covered the "off" season until the start of next season. It was very detailed. Covered every day.

But, before we get to the "schedule," let me give you just a touch more background. I'm a big guy. I've always been a big guy. As such, I dominated on the field (O'Reilly Alert: I was big and got double teamed. A lot. My "impact" was to free up every one else to make tackles). Well, this went on until my "sophomore" year...(the connection).

Now, this was the schedule *during* school: two hours before school, one hour during school - during the season -, and two plus hours *after* school.

This was my level of commitment *before* my peers caught up to me. From then on, if I wanted to maintain my edge, I would have to commit to more work.

Now, back to the summer "schedule." It was day seven that really pissed me off. Between eight and noon: Church.

Done.

I clearly remember thinking, "who the hell are these clowns to tell me what to do on Sunday?" Which lead to "who the hell are they to tell me what to do ABOUT ANYTHING?"

So, I quit.

At this point, *THIS POINT*, Coach decides to tell me what am important player I am on this team. About his plans for me and my future. Before my moment of independence, the only time I heard from Coach was if I blew a blocking assignment or didn't man-handle the Center when I played defense.

Too late.

He asked what was I going to do about college.

College. Man, this guy didn't even know me. I had no plans for college because I didn't plan on being alive long enough for college to matter.

Let me explain: Hard living, hard drinking, and hard drugging run through my family like the Nile river runs through Egypt during a flood. At this point, I had to search out second and third cousins and lost aunts and uncles if I wanted to find someone who had *attended* college.

Besides, I had no illusions about playing ball "as a career." College or Pro. I knew that playing ball in high school was about making my Mom proud and scoring with chicks. Well, I was pretty sure I could still score with chicks. As for Mom, it broke her heart. She called Coach to get me back on the team. But I wouldn't budge. I was done.

From then on, watching any kind of sporting event on any kind of regular basis just didn't interest me. And I think I am right. There is no team loyalty. There is no loyalty to the home town. The players use drugs. It cost to damn much to go and see anything.

Money has ruined team sports. And it won't change. There's too much of it.

But I will say this: As long as LeBron can keep his head together, maybe there is hope for us all. But I doubt it. Too much money. And we are just temporary holders of *their* money and boosters for *their* egos.

Screw'em. Screw'em all!

And NASCAR, too. 500 Left hand turns are so boring.

I wish that I had something profound (or even funny) to say about Hunter S. Thompson. His impact on me during my college years was significant. I drank a lot while trying to write something of meaning, back then. It wasn't his fault. He just gave me the excuse I needed. And, to be fair, it wasn't always a disaster (though, there were some "residual" ill effects).

But, he also taught me about the falsehood of "objective journalism." Since you can't divorce your perceptions from yourself, you must dive in. HST was part of his stories. You knew that going in. He never hid his preferences/prejudices. You read his work, you knew what you were getting. What a breath of fresh air.

Making a trek to Woody Creek had always been in the back of my mind. Now, I guess it will never happen. Though, maybe I can just drive by. Real fast. Try to gleam a little bit of the Doctor's spirit while avoiding nightmare that will be the aftermath of his end.

If I still drank, I would pour a tall one and pop "Fear and Loathing" into the dvd player. Now, I guess I'll have to go and borrow my buddy's M1A1 and head out to the hills. Fire off a couple of rounds and enjoy the pretty blue flame.

------------------------

Two books and two movies.

Hell's Angels (Before the Hype)

Fear and Loathing: On the campaign Trail (Deep in the hype)

Where the Buffalo Roam (Bill Murray as HST. Not what I would call "accurate," but not wrong either)

Fear and Loathing in LV (Johnny Depp as HST. What I would call "accurate.")

-------------------------

FYI: I'll be writing more about HST. I will never be rid of him. Until then, check out this from Salon.com. Much better than I will be able to do.

You know, Clinton lied about having oral sex. The economy was pretty good, then. It seems we all felt pretty safe.

A President lying ---> good economy, safe

<processing...............>

HOLY CRAP!

I've figured out why this whole thing is all screwed up! A certain President (who shall remain nameless) isn't getting serviced!!!

I mean, there's enough lying and obfuscation going on at the White House, right?! It's just HAS TO BE the missing BJs and cigars that are gumming up the works.

Someone call Pam Anderson and get that man a Macanudo.....

Quick Examples of Lying:
WMDs
Bin Laden Determinded to Attack in US
Medicare
Social Security

Hmmmm. That's a lot.

Maybe we should give Snoop Dogg a call. Think we're gonna need a little more firepower to work out all this bad mojo.

My dad used to have this big buck knife. Well, it seemed big at the time. I was about twelve, at the time. He would leave it on the kitchen counter when he got home from work. He was a painter. Commercial. Ran his own crew. Mostly apartment renovations. His knife came in very handy with that kind of work. There was always some box that needed opening, tube of caulk that needed trimming, and so on.

I remember that he had this particular way of opening the blade. It was this very precise, sharp flick. I always imagined it was something he learned in Viet Nam. Always thought there was something vaguely sinister about the way he would make the locking mechanism snap. It was always the same movement of his wrist.

That was until the night we ran out of gas. We were not in the best part of town. My step mom was pregnant. He decided that He and I would go get gas and leave her there. It was cold, and I guess that was why he didn't want her out. I guess he thought I was too young to go and get gas by myself. And I always wondered why *I* had to go.

I don't mean to imply that I didn't want to go. It was almost an adventure. Walking along the highway with your dad in the middle of winter in the middle of the night. Still, I never knew why it wouldn't have made sense leaving me there. Maybe he didn't think I would be able to protect his wife. Maybe he figured her maternal instincts would allow her to do whatever it would take to protect herself.

What I remember is what she said and how she looked when he pulled out his knife to give it to her. She made it clear that he was over reacting (well, she thought so, anyway). I was always struck by that. Couldn't tell if she thought it was useless gesture (like nothing was going to happen or she would never have the nerve to use it) or what. I could tell that she was completely unimpressed both by the knife and his ability to open it with that "thwack" that meant so much to me. But, she took it. And we left.

Nothing ever happened. In the years since my father's death, I've looked for a knife like his. Can't seem to find one with the right weight and that satisfying sound.

But, it might just be me.

What got me thinking about this is I finally bought me a knife. Well, I finally found one that meets my form and function requirements. And it is nothing like my dad's knife. This has two blades, made of carbon steel. But it looks, feels, and cuts just exactly the way I want it to. It feels good in my hand. And it makes me think about pop. It draws out good memories.

Another year has slipped through my fingers.
Fingers that are starting to look more and more like my dead father’s (well, before he died).
I remember how large and powerful they were, in life.
How tiny and impotent from the casket.
Its been ten years since we sealed them up.
And I miss watching those hands work the harmonica.
God, how he could play.
Some days, when I am missing him the most, I pick up one of mine and let out a few, bent chords.
Then, if I don’t think about it, I can hear his voice and his laugh in the next room.