Category: Postaday

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I’m not Lazy, I’m a Genius!

Postaday for May 18th: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream. Sleep is one-third of our lives: write a post about it. Do you love naps? Have trouble falling alseep? Wish you could remember your dreams? Remember something especially vivid? Snuggle under a blanket, or throw the windows wide open? Meditate on sleep.

Out of all the human organs, the brain is the least understood. And out of all the things it does, why it sleeps is the biggest mystery. And yet there are some fairly compelling theories out there, theories that I find fascinating. For example, one theory holds that when we sleep, our brain shrinks in on itself a little bit. This opens space between the folds, and spinal fluid literally washes our brains, removing free radicals (destructive oxygen molecules) that have built up during the day.

Which is why I reject utterly that manliness or toughness includes being able to go long periods without sleep, or being able to survive on very little sleep. There’s nothing manly about a dirty brain.

If the brain is so little understood, and sleep is at the top of what we don’t know about the brain, then dreaming is at the top of what we don’t know about sleep. And yet, one very interesting theory holds that dreaming is nothing more than a function of learning. When we have experiences we encode those in short-term memory. When we sleep, we “move” these memories into long-term memory. Sort of like moving patterns out of RAM into a hard-drive. And to continue the computer analogy: the “pointers” our brain uses to “catalog” memories for easier retrieval are novel associations. The “weirder” the better. And that’s why dream can seem so weird: we’re experiencing our brain’s making odd associations to help us remember things later.

When we’re conscious, we don’t experience the novelty of these associations, usually. Who won the last Superbowl? My brain tells me it was the Patriots, and it might have “tagged” that for me when I went to sleep on one bitter night last February, maybe by creating a picture of Christmas carolers throwing flattened volleyballs at a guy in prison stripes eating a bowl of chicken soup. That’s Pete Carol, head coach of the Seahawks, a lynch mob for RB Marshawn Lynch, deflated balls and a criminal for the Patriot’s so-called deflate-gate scandal, a volleyball or a “Wilson” for QB Russell, and chicken soup for Bill Belichick, the Patriot’s head coach.

(I’m pretty sure, if this theory is accurate, our brains are much more subtle than the above scenario.)

So, given these theories, I for one embrace sleep and and encourage it in everyone. As I said above, I am never impressed when someone tells me how little they’ve slept (in hospitals, I always ask residents: how long since you last sleep, and how much did you sleep? If the answer is not satisfactory, I ask for another doctor). Teenagers need to sleep in— it’s essential to their brain health. And this is why newborns sleep up to 20 hours a day.

So every nap— and I take a lot— is like an IQ boost. I’m not lazy, I’m a genius!

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Run, Friends, Run

Postaday for May 17th: It’s My Party. You’re throwing a party — for you! Tell us all about the food, drink, events, and party favours you’ll have for your event of a lifetime. Use any theme you like — it’s *your* party!

My wife threw me a pretty good party when I turned 40. We rented a space, invited everyone, set up an open bar, and a microphone for people to do stand-up comedy. That worked out pretty well. I love it when people have to listen to me. (Why do you think I keep a blog?)

Earlier in my life she threw me an “orange” party for my birthday. It turns out that a lot of the things I like to snack on are orange: carrot sticks, doritos, candy orange slices, etc. So she got orange M&Ms, oranges, mac n cheese… lots of other stuff. Folks came over to the house, and we played Guitar Hero till our hands were numb.

Hard to trump those things. If I have any faith in my wife, I’m sure she’ll find a way at the next milestone birthday. Me, I’m not so good at planning that kind of thing. For her 35th birthday I tried to rent a space, but wound up renting it for the wrong day. I’m not a clever man.

So it’s hard for me to say how I’d throw a party for me. I like chicken wings, so there should be chicken wings at my party. I also like beer. I also like surf-guitar music. I also like running. So how about a running party? Me and everyone I know would run together from my house on one of my favorite running routes. Let’s make it the 10-miler.

Yeah, I like where this is going. So, we’d all be wearing blue-tooth enabled headsets and we’d all be listening to the same music as we ran. We’d head out and do a mile warm-up, hit the Interurban Trail and take that to 200th street, then cut over to 10th Ave and head back.

The best part would be when we get to 10th and 155th. We’d slow down for 2 blocks, then turn left on 8th. The next half-mile would be a sprint, slightly downhill. Daikaiju’s Zombie Harem blasting in our ears as we took over the street.

And then back home for BBQ wings, beer, more surf guitar, and gathering around each other’s GPS-enabled watches to compare times.

That would be an excellent party. And it would never happen. But I can dream 🙂

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And I’d Tell Her: Keep Up the Good Work

Postaday for May 16th: Singular Sensation. If you could have a guarantee that one, specific person was reading your blog, who would you want that person to be? Why? What do you want to say to them?

(This reminds me of the prompt we had back on January 12th, but in the interest of writing fresh, I’ll try a different tack.)

I have to believe that Mark Zuckerberg knows the impact he has on liking things. My gut wants me to want Mr. Z to read my blog, because on my blog I mention the book I wrote, now and again, and then he might read it, and might like it, and might mention as much publicly, and BOOM! I’d be a best seller.

And that’s pretty selfish, but hey, my blog’s a per-blog, or perblog, or personal-blog, or exercise in extreme me-focusing blog, or whatever it’s called. Still, as they say in the Spiderman flicks and parodies thereof, with great power comes great responsibility. If I knew I had Mark Zuckerberg’s ear, (eye, since he’s reading; you know what I mean) it would behoove me to do more than just champion my silly novel.

Right? I’d have to bring up the ills that face the world and make sure he knows about them and their importance. Since he’s so powerful and can solve problems easier than I can.

But wouldn’t he know about those things anyway? I mean, could I really tell him something he didn’t already know, unless it was about me personally?

And yet a man who runs a $200 billion business still only has 24 hours a day to deal with. Who am I to take about even 5 minutes of his waking 960. That’s half a percent of his day. That’s a billion dollars. My stupid book is not worth a billion dollars.

So, I guess I’ve talked myself out of answering this prompt with “Mark Zuckerberg.”

Charlize Theron, on the other hand, seems like a nice person. And she works so hard. If she read my blog everyday, and was somehow entertained, and let slip a “bukkhead” during an ad-lib moment in one of her films, that would be pretty darn cool.

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I Hate You. But Not Really.

Postaday for May 15th: Green-Eyed Monster. Write an anonymous letter to someone you’re jealous of.

Dear So and So (I forgot your name, sorry).

I’m a pretty good writer. But you’re a better guitar player. If I was rated a 5 on a scale of one to ten for writing, your guitar playing would be a 10. If I was rated a 7, your ability to play would be a 12. If I was somehow granted a 9 on that scale, your facility for just picking up anything with strings and making it holler would be a 19. And I hate you.

Okay I don’t really hate you. I met you at my cousin’s bachelor party. You were some guy he knew back in the day when he was a rock and roll star. Back then, you guys would play music and drink and do drugs and get laid and do pretty much everything I wasn’t doing while I got on with my life. Not cause I chose to, but because I couldn’t do anything else. I can’t hold my liquor and drugs terrify me and mine’s not the type of essence that makes the ladies eager. But hey I’m not complaining. Not about that.

I’m not jealous of all the fun you guys had. Not at all. I swear to God I’m not. I’ve got a good life over here. Listen to me, you little shit. I am not jealous of the things those magic fingers bought you. I’m jealous of the fingers and the fingers alone. This is the truth. In fact, if I had fingers like that, I’d have no time for sex and drugs. Just rock n roll.

Is that why I don’t remember your name? Why you were at the bachelor party, but not the wedding? And people don’t know where you are, if you have a job right now, a roof over your head, a warrant out for your arrest? Because all you do is play all the time? You pick up your guitar and just work the strings for a few hours and hum to yourself while the world spins and crashes and burns around you? Sign me up. That’s what I want.

I have music in my head all the time. And I have no way to express it. I think maybe it’s the opposite for you. I think maybe there’s nothing in your head. Or at least not much. Look, I know I’m no Mozart, but then neither are you. You’re a guy with fabulous muscle memory. You’re a guy for whom the logic and science of music has been hardwired into the very fibers that run from your brain to your fingertips. I guess I should take solace in that. If you’re no Mozart, I don’t have to be a Salieri.

We hung out for a few days and I listened to you play and you were amazing. I asked you about bands and songs and albums and you sort of shrugged it all off like it was no big deal. No big deal! You should be locked in a room, with nothing but bread and water and a pot to piss in and about a thousand digital tapes to record on. People who can do what you do don’t get to shrug it off.

Look, you were a really nice guy, actually, personable, good sense of humor, listened to my stupid jokes and responded with genuine laughter. All things considered, I think you deserved to do all that partying and womanizing back in the day. Somebody’s go to, and it might as well be a decent fellow like yourself.

But god damn it, I wish I’d never met you. That’s a lie too. I’m lucky I got to see you in action. I hate you. You’re amazing.

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Sartorially Challenged

Postaday for May 14th: The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man. How important are clothes to you? Describe your style, if you have one, and tell us how appearance impacts how you feel about yourself.

I have no style. I am a 43-year-old married white man, upper middle-class, chubby, raised in the mid-west, work from home. I am the antithesis of style. I could wear the nattiest tux, cowboy boots and a beer hat and still be invisible. I’ve got a bear—out of laziness. I’ve got a receding hairline— thanks, genetics. I’ve got green eyes, but I’m going to have to go back to glasses soon, so say goodbye to seeing those.

I’m not bitter or anything. I’m no fashion monkey… not that I begrudge other’s their sartorial endeavors. Have at it. My wife looks good in pretty much everything (I admit I am biased, however). And some people have the body to make even jeans and a t-shirt look good, so it doesn’t matter what they wear. I guess I’m the opposite of that— nothing’s going to make people go wow when they see me, so jeans and a t-shirt it is.

If anything, lately, I’m finding that all my favorite t-shirts are gray. And when I buy a shirt for some reason, I end upo getting ray ones. Not sure why this is. Otherwise, shirt tend to run towards non-branded and plain. Or I find I’ll choose them for how soft they are. I am the opposite of the woman in the Steve Martin short story Cruel Shoes.

Sometimes I do get in a Hawaiian short mood. I have a handful of those, and I like to wear them now and again. I thinki that’s because I like tropical vacations so much, and I want to somehow magically evoke that sense of peace and relaxation. Either that, or its because on TV retired spies and private eyes wear Hawaiian shirts and while I don’t have the guys and bravado to be a spy, I think I’d be a pretty good retired spy.

At our house I’m the one who does the laundry, and even though there’s only two of us, it sure does feel like a lot of laundry. I think if I ever won the lottery, I’d just have new clothes delivered to the house every day. In a variety of styles. “But wouldn’t it be better to hire someone to do your laundry?” Nah, this is a fantasy, so let me have my dream. New clothes, every day, especially socks. nothing feels better than putting on brand-new socks.

And there’s where the proof of my style-less-ness comes through. I like hawaiin shorts, cargo shorts, and new socks. You tell me what that would look like 😉

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All I Know is I Know Nothing (NOW!)

Postaday for May 13th: Land of Confusion. Which subject in school did you find impossible to master? Did math give you hives? Did English make you scream? Do tell!

Sorry to say this, (I am, honestly,) but I was one of those know-it-all smart-alecks who thought he knew everything. I’ll go ahead and blame the education system where I grew up, which you can call Wichita, or Kansas, or the United States, or The West. It wasn’t exactly vigorous.

I can tell you about some of my fun failures, though. When I was in 11th grade I went through a rough period where I just didn’t see the point of anything. I failed many classes that year, not from lack of understanding, but just because I never turned in any homework. Lasting effects: none. Don’t let your kids read this— high school in America is more or less a joke. The best thing I can say about high school is that anyone who survives the chafing process is better suited to combat the grossly unjust social structures that society tries to foist on the populace.

I’m a still bitter? Nah…

When I took the ACT, the college entrance exam for schools in the midwest, I decided I’d major in whatever my lowest score was: the idea being that it was the area I need to do the most work in. My lowest score was on the English part, and that’s what I got my BA in. The rest is history? I guess so… I love to write, although, again, let me tell you that writing classes in college don’t teach you how to write. They do teach you how to critique, how to analyze, and more specifically, how to articulate that analysis. This is actually a pretty good skill for writers to have, in my opinion.

College itself, like highschool, is not really a place to learn anything. I don’t mean people don’t learn— they do— I just mean that success seems to come not from what you know but who you know. The education one receives at, for example, Wichita State is not going to be all that different from that received at Harvard for the sufficiently motivated student.

The key there is the “motivation,” in that a Harvard will be more competitive and drive a student more. So it’s those other students, those fellow competitors, that give someone at an Ivy League school an advantage. And then the connections made, the relationships, that’s where the real success comes from. The network you build in college is where all the potential comes from.

And if there was one skill I never mastered, it was establishing, cultivating, and taking advantage of a social network.

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The Worst Part’s The Throwing Stars– They Get Everywhere

Postaday for May 12th: Those Dishes Won’t Do Themselves. What’s the household task you most dislike doing? Why do you think that is — is it the task itself, or something more?

Sexism alert! I’m a man, and I do most of the chores around the house. Yes, yes, I do expect lauds and praises.

Just kidding. The truth is, I work from home, while my wife pulls ten-hour shifts. It only makes sense that I’d do most of the cleaning. In between conference calls and project deadlines, I can toss in a load of laundry, wash some dishes, and so forth. Its pretty easy. We have a service that comes in once every few weeks to give everything a good scrubbing, so all I have to do is keep things more or less tidy.

And I like listening to podcasts, so it’s sort relaxing to put on The Morning Stream and get up to my elbows in suds. Or walk around the house to our one thousand trash cans (I exaggerate) on garbage day. Or stand in the laundry room sunshine (it has the best window in our whole house) and sort the hots from the colds.

I guess the one chore I hate the most is getting rid the dead ninjas.

We get attacked by ninjas on fairly regular basis. It used to be traditional medieval Japanese ninjas, but lately it’s been all manner of ninja, pretty much just dudes wearing black pajamas and masks. They come in through the windows, the skylight, the back door. One even rang the doorbell and was disguised as a UPS guy. I saw right through it, though- most UPS guys don’t carry katanas on their backs.

When my wife wanted to sign up for an alarm service I scoffed, and when the guy said we could have a nidja-deterrent system added on for an extra fee, I double-scoffed. But my wife had a Groupon, so we decided to try it. Boy, was my face red the first time we found a ninja in the ninja-trap!

It used to be one or two a week, which isn’t bad. Our city picks up garbage once a week, and recycling every other week, and dead ninjas every other non-recycling week. I admit it, I sometimes lose track. I say to my wife “Is this recycling week or dead ninja week?” And she’s all like “I don’t know, check the flyer on the fridge!”

But lately it’s been or two dead ninjas per night. And that so-called defense system isn’t getting all of ‘em. There was one in my car the other day, which I had to take care of myself. Thankfully I was at a red light— the last thing I need is a DWKN.

So god forbid if I somehow forget to put the dead ninjas out on dead ninja week. They stack up, fast, and the bin the city gave us isn’t always big enough for all of them. I know, I’m allowed to stack up the excess next to the bin on the curb, but, I feel bad. I can just imagine my neighbor getting up and heading to work. The last thing she needs to see is a bunch if dead ninjas blown by the wind all over her driveway.

Then again, more than once her trash bag full of dead pirates has split open, and I never said a thing. That’s just what you get if you use cheap bags. And talk about smell! Phew!

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Viva La Revolucion

Postaday for May 11th: New Internet Order. All the world’s countries have decided that the Internet itself needs a government. Your country asks you to run for Prime Minister of the ‘Net — do you accept? If so, what will your platform be?

House of Cards is an amazing TV show, (I’m talking about the made-for-Netflix version— I haven’t seen the BBC original yet) and I even liked the book it was based on. My wife and I have been binge-watching Scandal. Back when renting DVDs from brick and mortar stores was a thing, I plowed through as much of the West Wing as I could get my hands on. My point is, I really like watching political dramas. In other words, I graciously and without any doubts whatsoever refuse the offer to run for PM of the Internet.

And I’m pretty certain I’ll join whatever 5th column springs up once this “internet government” is formed.

When it comes to politics, at least in the United States, I’m more or less left-leaning. I don’t think I’m an extremist, but no one would ever confuse me for a conservative. I can’t see myself voting Republican, but that’s because our present two-party system inexorably intertwines fiscal, foreign, and moral policies. We rarely if ever have party candidates who’s ideals bridge the aisle.

That’s said, I do think the internet, right now, thrives under laissez-faire, and is furthermore healthier because no one country— or government— controls it. Unfortunately, a representative government requires citizen participation, which means potential leaders must advertise. Advertising costs money, and so big business, via donations, has too much to say in the process. If the internet DID come under the control of one government, the first thing to go would be Net Neutrality. I’m talking day-of.

I’m jaded, of course, and would not believe any prime ministerial candidate who claimed the new internet government would be fair and representative of everyone, rich or poor. Who pays for this government? And what is its agenda? Those two questions alone would render whatever the prime minister claims moot.

Don’t get me wrong, I recognize the need for government, and I am not calling for anarchy or the overthrow of our current leadership. Quite the contrary. But an internet government would only bog down what I feel is a self-regulating entity that thrives by allowing free expression. And while I know the internet can be used for foul purposes, so can pretty much anything. Attempting to eliminate malfeasance by creating government just makes perpetrators that more saavy when it comes to thwarting the people’s will.

However, in my house, I will gladly be the prime minister of the internet. I will confer with my constituents (my wife and children) and guide us to good internet usage. I will establish and enforce rules, and I will be subject to the people’s review of my leadership and step down if my wife decides she wants to be the one to choose our ISP.

Although in this town, we only have one ISP choice, and that’s just fomenting dictatorship.

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Make an Ordeal out of Nothing

Postaday for May 10th: Journey. Tell us about a journey — whether a physical trip you took, or an emotional one.

(I had no idea what to write, so I cribbed from The Hero’s Journey to create the following. It’s entirely fictional.)

I was sitting in my home office, browsing the internet, content in a cloud of my own inertia, fused almost as one with my big orange office chair. Outside my window, my neighbor’s dog barked, a constant litany of boredom.

My stomach started with a gurgle, and then a rumble, and then a deep pang that suggested hunger. A gnawing began to grow, in gentle tendrils that laced themselves up and down my spine.

But I knew better than to hop right up and feed. I was as like to get hungry from tedium as I was from a need for nutrition. Besides, I had a conference call coming up in a few minutes. I continued internet browsing. Oh, look, a dog chasing its own tail falls into a swimming pool. Hilarious.

A window popped up on my work PC. “Need to bump the call by half an hour.” This made me a little angry. Which conference call? I work with several teams in one day, have several calls. These guys think they’re the only game in town. Sheesh.

A tinny ding, and Outlook informs me I have a new meeting invite. I check it- the pending call is the one that is getting bumped. My stomach growls, loudly, in response. I’ve got shoes on and I’m out the door before I even realize it.

The sun is bright in my eyes, unadjusted from the comfortable darkness inside my house. My feet protests the pavement, as the lymph pooled from hours of sitting works its way out. The dog barking is louder now that I’m outside, more irritating.

My neighbor’s flower bed has gone to weeds. I used to see him out there, every sunny day, weeding, or flowering, or whatever you call it. He’d say hello. I’d ask him if he wanted anything from 7-11, and I realize now that’s where I’m headed. He’d always smile and say a diet pepsi would sort him out. I’d smile and say sure, he’d gives me a thumb’s up. He was a nice old guy.

It occurs to me that I have bread and lunch meat in my fridge. I don’t need to go to 7-11. But I’m going to anyway, get something to eat, get a diet pepsi for my neighbor, pour one out on his old flower bed. Maybe that’s silly. I’m in a silly mood.

My driveway leads to a street, of course, which has a sidewalk. The next street has no sidewalk, however. I walk against traffic, the 7-11 looming ahead in the bright sunshine.

I walk into the 7-11. The clerk knows me, smiles. My stomach growls again, fiercely. I have no idea what I want. The frozen burritos look like bricks. The bags of chips look like bags of sawdust. There’s greasy slices of pizza, oily hot dogs on rollers, a cabinet full of dried-up donuts. My head swims with hunger and indecision.

I grab a bottle of diet pepsi, walk a few more aisles. Candy bars and gum and more bags of chips. My phone in my pocket beeps—a text from a coworker. The call that was bumped has been unbumped, and starts in two minutes.

Shove my phone into my front pocket, where it pushes against my hip at an odd angle. I check my wallet. There’s only one dollar in there. I take a step away from the counter, and there’s a twinge in my hip. My phone is at an odd angle because it’s resting on some loose change. I fish the change out—that and the dollar are just enough for the diet pepsi.

I leave the 7-11 and start to run down the road. At a cut in traffic I cross the street so I can run on the left side. A car honks, but I ignore it. The barking of that damn dog is a beacon. I turn onto my street, and as I approach my driveway I realize I’ve shaken my neighbor’s diet pepsi up, but good.

I check my watch. Con call in one minute. I trot up to my neighbor’s weedy flower bed. I’m standing there, and I glance up. His old wife is peeking at me from behind the curtains. I give her a wave, and the curtains close. The dog stops barking all of a sudden. It’s an eerie quiet as I stand there for a second or two.

Then I run back to my house, into the door and up the stairs. Join the conference call. I’m a little bit sweaty from the jog back, and a little thirsty. I open the diet pepsi, and it explodes all over the place. I’m stunned. On the con call, someone is saying “Jason, what do you think? Is that a good idea? Jason? Are you there? Talking to the mute button again?”

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Don’t Sing For Me

Postaday for May 9th: Cringe-Worthy. Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?

I’m not a big fan of cringe TV. Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Office. There’s a scene in Rachel Getting Married where Anne Hathaway’s character gives a seriously cringe-worthy speech at the rehearsal dinner. I remember shrinking into my seat at the theater and lityerally scrunching my body up. This, despite the fact that it’s one of the best films of 2008.

And Curb Your Enthusiasm is well written, too, and The Office is excellent. But I just can’t stand to see people embarrassed. Or do embarrassing things. Even if they’re not embarrassed, I feel a big pit of dread opening up in my stomach. Suffice it to say, I’m super-bashful when it comes to interacting with strangers.

Which is probably for the best, probably keeps me safe. I’m fairly opinionated, and not a little arrogant at times. I’ve I opened up my mouth every time I saw someone doing something I didn’t like, I’m sure I’d have wound up in the hospital by now. Yesterday, at a stop light, I saw two different people texting on cell phones. Oh the things I wanted to say! But I was too afraid of embarrassing myself, not just in front of the texters, but other folks as well.

It shouldn’t be that way, of course. I mean, I should refrain from embarrassing people because it’s just rude, and not merely because I’m a coward. I’ve met a few people in my life who seem to have no fear whatsoever, and always speak their minds. Always call others out on their nonsense. It takes some getting used to, I guess, but they seem to have as many friends as anyone else.

You know what makes me squirm? When people sing in public. I don’t mean a concert or recital, but spontaneously, for whatever reason. Not just someone walking down the street, but when, for whatever reason, someone decides to sing to the people there with. I’m trying to think of an example. A bunch of people at dinner, and the conversation turns to music, and one person says “My favorite these days is ‘Call Me Maybe,’” and then she proceeds to deliver a few lines. Man does my cell phone come out for some distraction, fast.

Probably some innate fear in myself. They say that fear of public speaking is the number on fear in the world. Not for me— I can talk to crowds of any size, no problem. But ask me sing in front of people? Not going to happen. I’d rather die.