10 Goodreads Review Wins

1
 Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

"I could bang Mr. Rochester like a screen door 'till next Tuesday.
That's about all I got from this book, honestly..."



2
Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

"Fuck me insensible. Oh ya cunt, ya! Ah dinnae watch the movie, bit ma heid’s spinnin fae readin this shite, ah kin fuckin tell ye. The book’s no novel – mair a collection ay short stories, likesay, aboot a bunch ay Scot junkies. The cunts go aroond, fartin n shitein n shootin smack. The book is written in the Scottish dialect, sortay like whit ah’m tryin tae imitate, ken whit ah mean? It wisnnae easy fe us tae git intae it. It made us scoobied aboot whit the cunts were sayin, likesay, bit after a while it became very enjoyable, ken. There’s like a hundred “cunts” in ivry paragraph ay this book, bit it doesnnae mean bad. Ivrybody jist caws ivrybody a cunt – no offense meant or taken, likesay. Bit nivir caw a lassie a cunt – thit shite is sexist. "

3
On a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino














"YO DAWG, I HEARD YOU LIKE READING, SO I PUT A BOOK IN YO' BOOK, SO YOU CAN READ WHILE YO' READ."




4
The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett

"The Thin Man is best read with a drink in hand. Do you have a drink? Do you need a refresher? Would you like another? Above all else, it is important that you be drinking!

Seriously...DRINK!

My god, a lot of alcohol is consumed in this book! It reads as if Ernest Hemingway had taken up crime noir."




5
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky













"Cyprus hill said it best, "there is something you can't understand. how i could just kill a man."




6
Maus by Art Spiegelman

It didn’t dawn on me until later that this brilliant piece of graphic artistry and fiction is actually a very clever allegory. On the face of it, we’re led to believe that it’s a story of the terrible suffering perpetrated by the Nazis against the Jews in Poland and throughout Europe. But if you scratch beneath the surface, I think you’ll find that this particular holocaust story was made to symbolize something more pervasive and endemic. I speak of the horrific violence that persists to this da...mo""It didn’t dawn on me until later that this brilliant piece of graphic artistry and fiction is actually a very clever allegory. On the face of it, we’re led to believe that it’s a story of the terrible suffering perpetrated by the Nazis against the Jews in Poland and throughout Europe. But if you scratch beneath the surface, I think you’ll find that this particular holocaust story was made to symbolize something more pervasive and endemic. I speak of the horrific violence that persists to this day; that inflicted by cats on defenseless mice. Perhaps the most obvious clue that this is, in truth, the intended theme lies in the title itself: Maus. For those of you unfamiliar with German, this is their word for mouse. Beyond that, when you look carefully at the drawings, you see that the goose-steppers have distinctly feline features, while the persecuted Jews in the ghettos and camps have rodent-like proboscides and disproportionately small eyes."

7

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

"It was like raking my fingernails across a chalkboard while breathing in a pail of flaming cat hair and drinking spoiled milk, meanwhile Conrad is screaming DARKNESS DARKNESS OOOH LOOK AT MY METAPHOR ABOUT THE DARKNESSSSSSSSSSS like a fucking goth on a loudspeaker."

8

American Tabloid by James Ellroy

"Sometimes i chug coffee to the point where i'm glazed with sweat, red-eyed, about to crap my pants, and i throw my headphones on and blast either miles davis bitches brew or motorhead ace of spades. i sit down in front of the computer and write write write. and the result is exactly what you'd imagine from a mediocre writer w/a flair for the hyperbolic all hopped up on caffeine. not too good. imagine, however, if a brilliant writer, a demented rotgut-drunk coozehound of a bastard did what i did and laid out some genius shit... you'd have something like american tabloid. "




9
Smashed by Koren Zailckas

"... With the amount of alcohol Zailckas speaks of having consumed, she still sounds like a child. I appreciate her honesty in admitting to all those embarassing moments high on alcohol and pot, but she should have stuck to writing poetry about dried flowers and broken fingernails.

All the childish intensity glaring from her ridiculous picture on the back of the book can't improve the drolling story which only inspired me to pour those stiff drinks and "breathe the sugary smell of hard alcohol" while "a buzz comes on like sweet music".

The result is a whining, draining, waste of time that I could have spent getting drunk--but now she's taught me how."




10
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown

"For cheap supermarket fiction, this sure was cheap supermarket fiction. It would have helped if this was the first book I had ever read. Unfortunately, having read Curious George as a child (a towering work of literary genius by comparison), The DaVinci Code suffered perhaps unjustly."

Schools give harmful BMI report cards

Most of us remember high school. Those who don't decided to give students body mass index report cards.

In short, some schools, in an effort to help students be aware of what they eat and weigh, started administering BMI tests to students. The tests are then sent home to parents with a report on suggested eating habits and lifestyle changes.

The Examiner does a great job explaining why this is a bad idea, citing bullies and shaming and encouraging eating disorders.

The root of this problem is the false belief that BMI tests are at all scientifically accurate in determining health.


Prince Fielder,
Professional Baseball Player,  BMI 37.3 Very Obese

Developed over 150 years ago, the body mass index measures only that. In case you've never had one. They take grips of your body and measure it with a caliper. These measurements are then set into a standard equation with ones weight and height.

The problem is the equation is set up for average built females roughly 5'11". he farther one deviates from the mean height the more inaccurate the information becomes. For example, Professional Football player Eli Manning, at 218lbs. 6'3" has a BMI of 27.2. Overweight.

Most demeaning of this measure of body mass is it's suggested correlation with health. This is so ingrained with society that some insurance lobbies have suggested using BMI in paid premium determinations. Having those classified as overweight pay more accounting for the research that shows they're increased risk.

Oddly, in 1998 the NIH and CDC reclassified overweight BMI from 27.8 to 25, effectively overnight making 29 million Americans overweight. They were all healthy the day before, now they're told to lose weight. This done with no concern how they feel or perceive themselves -- no medical check-up with a primary physician. Is that something we want done to our kids?

Specifically, consider my case. At my lowest, most malnourished weight I was 175lbs. I'm 6'3". The BMI chart, at that height and weight, set me directly in the center on the "normal" BMI range.
Consider then, my psychologist and doctors trying to tell me I need treatment for my eating disorder when I can clearly see my body mass index is within normal range.

Now, extrapolate that information to the hundreds of thousands of at risk teens receiving these measurements at school.

Faulty information and science (in this case BMI) make terrible way-points to a healthy society. As long as our culture continues to yolk health and weight together, progress will be slow and harmful.

One chart to rule them all.



Red Band Society Missed Opportunity for ABC

This fall ABC launched Red Band Society, a dramedy that focuses on teenagers in the hospital. There's a couple cancer patients, a girl pre-transplant and another with anorexia, Emma. A couple episodes in i knew where things were headed. Emma was nice. Flirty and confident, she was the envy of other girls at her prom.

 "Like, oh My God. I'm jealous how skinny you are."

Make no mistake. This will be damaging to teenagers struggling with eating disorders. It will fuel unhealthy body image and harmful behaviors that contribute to starvation.

I am upset. Mostly for the missed opportunity the network gave away. And for what? How could enabling eating disorder behavior ever be a good idea? Are the producers and writer too obtuse to recognize the negativity and feeling a character like this can have?
I have no answers.

I do not dislike the show. In fact I encourage a more prevalent role of people with eating disorders in media. That's why I have this blog and tell those who ask and listen.
However, this characterization of anorexia if off the mark.

So what really happens?


From Liana Rosenman for Project Heal: 

• Abnormally slow heart rate and low blood pressure, which means the heart muscle is changing. The risk for heart failure rises as the heart rate and blood pressure levels sink lower and lower. 
Reduction of bone density (osteoporosis), which results in dry, brittle bones.

• Muscle loss and weakness.

• Severe dehydration, which can result in kidney failure.

• Fainting, fatigue, and overall weakness. 
Dry hair and skin; hair loss is common. 
Growth of a downy layer of hair—called lanugo—all over the body, including the face, in an effort to keep the body warm.

Eating Disorders are a deadly mental illness. I have personally seen it take away someones life.

If you or someone you know are having problems with weight or think maybe you have an eating disorder it may help to ask someone who knows. Contact the NEDA Helpline @ (800) 931-2237  Monday-Thursday from 9AM to 9PM Eastern Time and Friday 9AM to 5PM.

Or click here to find help on their site.

Eat less. Exercise more

A common conversation with my brain goes like this:

"You need to eat before you workout so you have energy to burn."
"So I need to eat so I can go to the gym to lose weight the I gained by eating?"
"Yep."
"But if I don't eat then I don't have to go to the gym to lose weight I gained by eating."
"No."
"But if I don't eat I'll lose weight. And if I don't eat and workout I'll lose weight faster."
"No"
"But if I don't eat then ..."
"No."
"Why?"
"Science."
"Damnit, brain. You're right."

As a culture struggling with obesity we're told by media to eat healthier (read as "less") and exercise more. Generally, that's true. But for a growing percentage of Americans it's a recipe for disaster. A piece in Outside Magazine outlined, for one group, the difficulty and danger that comes from following common advice spewed from troves of lifestyle and fitness magazines.

The author told the story of a man training for a marathon, who, despite following a rigid balanced diet and daily mileage goals, was not getting any of the numerous benefits of an active lifestyle. His consulting physician said his reduced sex drive and chronic fatigue were due to eating too little, which led to a hormore deficiency and sent his body into a starvation state. The fix, while seeming counter intuitive is, with a basic knowledge of metabolism, frankly straight forward, eat more.

My mind can understand these facts but lacks the trust to use them, because a more sinister truth is below the surface.

Ten years ago when I was at the start of my eating disorder I ate very little and exercised twice a day. I lost weight. It worked, I lost weight. Years later, I did the exact same thing again and lost weight. It's how I've always done this, in a very unhealthy and dangerous way usually ending with me postponing my career and education malnourished in the hospital.

Now, on finishing substance abuse treatment, I've gained much weight -- more than my healthy weight set by a dietitian. So I'm in a position to legitimately lose weight.

This time I'm doing it right. Yes, I'll argue within myself. And it may be a struggle at time. But it's worth getting healthy the right way.

Assignment 5

In my seventh week of substance abuse treatment the assignment is to write an autobiography. Or, rather, summarize ones life with emphasis on significant addictive events, tragedy, moments of personal growth, and religion (because one can't get clean without religion, but that's for another time.)

Of course, the glaring difficulty with asking someone who has had frequent blackouts over the last decade to recall specific events of that decade is obvious.

Dozens of memoirs are on my bookshelves. The majority of them I've read. They fall into two categories. The authors who write what happened, however crude or objectionable; and the authors who write what happened followed by understanding, perspective and often remorse. That is not to say either author doesn't feel remorse or guilt -- a mistake I feel critics make if the author doesn't explicitly state regret -- only they have made the editorial decision that writing about it plays a significant role in the narrative. Most times, I think, this is done to appease the detractors.

Ultimately, I realize people will think what they want, and often, likely, say it to my face.

So, step one in writing a narrative of drug history: be confident, honest and humble.

Here we go...

Wheelchair Awareness

The second time in treatment for an eating disorder. I was in a wheelchair for several days and our group was going on a community outing for a snack. Driving to the shop, another patient looks over to me and asks what my story will be.
"My story?" I asked.
 "Yeah," she said. "You know, why you're in the wheelchair. Last week when we went to lunch for outing and I was still in a chair I told them I had heart issues."
"And I was in a skiing accident," a emaciated girl, no more than 14 years old in treatment her first time, chimed in.
I was floored. It never occur to me to lie. I have an eating disorder. They are very common and individuals require professional help and support for recovery.

It occured to me then. I need to talk about my experience often; not be afraid or shamed to hide what I'm going through. In fact, often when I share my story in a large group there will be at least one or two individuals who also share their struggle with an eating disorder.

And that's all I can do. Not be ashamed or scared and tell what I know. And the more I talk and tell people about eating disorders the likelier it is someone who needs help will come forward and tell a friend or loved one.

If you are reading this and feel the need to talk to someone or just want to know more about signs and symptoms please contact the National Eating Disorder Association at www.nationaleatingdisorders.org or call the helpline at 1-800-931-2237

My Mom and I email about God

It started simple. My mom and I were exchanging emails about books we were reading. Our conversation developed into a nice dialogue of what be both believe. I've been immensely helped by this as I've had to look closer into what I actually believe. A sort of comprehensive monologue of my personal belief.
This is how it began:

I haven't read it yet mom. (Lit by Mary Karr)
it's on my list early this year. one of the first. yeah, i agree about being choosier what one reads. i usually have 2 or 3 books going at once. sometimes if i read a couple hundred pages of one a get a little bored so i can skip to another. also, with a book like that it can be really descriptive and graphic so i like to be reading something else fun at the same time. kinda like food. whatever you put in your body or mind has an effect. very true mom.

 My mom replied the next day:

In your last e-mail you said something about whatever you put in your mind......reading, has an effect on you.  And that made me wonder if you are putting in HIS WORD?
It amazes me at times when I read something I realize that the verse was just what I needed. God has certainly blessed us.  When I look back at my mother and dad, brothers and sisters. I feel blessed even thou some choose not to be part of my life.  And then I look back on Tom's, your Dad's family and I am so thankful to God that I was part of their life.
 And of course then theirs Dad and you and Steven.....and the years have gone by. Wonderful memories!
 Funny isn't it Adam how you would like to STOP the clock and go back in time and really appreciate each day and appreciate that person or people.  But the "time" might be right now that you would be looking back on someday. Here is a verse that I read not long ago that I liked..... Ephesians 4 11-13  love mom

 My mother is a fantastic woman. She has always had a strong faith in God and Jesus. To my knowledge she has never wavered from this belief, even after the death of my father, she was resolute, strengthened by God's promises of an afterlife. Religion has truly gotten her through the toughest of times. However, our experiences with religion vary greatly. Without going into it now, here was my response:

it's interesting you should mention that. i just finished a book by Graham Greene called the Power and the Glory. i share all the books i read on this website, goodreads, so my friends and i can give eachother reviews or recommendations. anyway, this book got me thinking a lot about how individuals overcome sin. themes like: is damnation absolute or guaranteed salvation.

"As the lead character, the 'whiskey-priest', moves from one place to another, Greene takes us along on a journey taut with suspense and tension. However, it is really his moral journey which is the most captivating. We not only witness the priest's struggle to escape, we also get to look into his tormented soul and his ambivalence. He is constantly torn between following what his religious faith has taught him while his worldly sense seems to make more practical sense. He feels guilty for his sins, but he loves the fruit of his sin. He almost wishes that he be caught so that he could be rid of the fear and the misery. But doesn't his faith teach him that it is his duty to save his soul? He has sinned and is immoral, but he is also full of compassion and love for fellow human beings.
A question that haunts the priest and the reader throughout is whether he will find redemption and if his soul will achieve salvation? Or do immoralities and sins always overshadow a man's goodness? Greene makes it so easy for one to understand his characters. The priest, with his virtues and his flaws, feels like a very real person. It's not at all difficult to imagine such a person walking some part of this earth in flesh."

i like to read books that make me think. moreover, i don't like being told what to think. i don't like someone who says to me, "god (lowercase on purpose) wants you to do this," or "this verse means this." i'll figure it out on my own if that is what it means.

i just don't care for reaading the bible. i don't trust it. i don't trust men or established religion at that time (40+ A.D.) i believe in a god and i believe there was a Jesus, but that's about all i'm certain of. and i'm OK with that. i haven't met or heard of a single person alive or dead that got Jesus' teaching correct. every person has their own interpretation, i know i have mine, and that is what guides my life. i'm not pushing it on anyone else. only doing what i think is best -- not following the word (cause that's flawed), but following what I believe Jesus taught: love.

i feel like this email has gotten too long. but i wanted to explain so i don't misrepresent myself or how i feel about religion, the bible or god.

Grant it, I may have given a little more than she expected, but I felt it was a good opportunity to open a dialogue between my mother and I about what we believe. As i've been mostly clear for a long time about what my mother believes, I've suspected she felt the same way about me: my beliefs were much like hers (not true). So an opportunity arose, and I took it. I don't consider this disrespectful. I very much enjoyed this exchange with my mother.


More to come...

Untitled 05/08/10

and we sat together and watched the night burn until the flame fell, and in the morning we sat stared at the ash.

over the years the ash has blown away and left only a small mark in our memory, where, when we look back hard enough, we can see the spot of that night when the flames were so high and fire so bright it melted us into one.

Suicide Theives: The Alley

Smoke hung high in the air and drifted into my lungs. The smell of old carpet, old bowling shoes and angst was palpable. I strode through the entrance aside a confident, purposeful Samantha. At the lobby I paused to admire the dusty trophy case, in it were decades-past portraits of polyester-clad champions. Their prideful smiles couldn't have been further removed from the scene ahead of us. I turned to face the lanes. I moved through the smoke and inebriated laughter like a keen anthropologist. Being only among the faces, not a part of them. I stood beside and apart from Samantha.

I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.

I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?

A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.

"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly.  "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.

Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.

My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.

We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.

Suicide Theives

That was really the first time someone close to me died by self-harming. What happened after was another strange series of events. I was close to the dead. Close as friendly coworkers are. We spent limited time together out of work: He, his girlfriend Samantha, and I.
Tall with dark blonde hair, she walked confidently through the halls of our work. She knew her duties, and she was an exceptional worker. After work she was controlled chaos; planning and cancelling without hesitation or remorse. He was like her. They complemented each other like the blades of a scissor.

I was the youngest of us three, younger still considering life experiences. Less so after the events of that evening.

One week after he shot himself in the head with an old revolver, Samantha and I made plans to get together. Ice cream and a movie. Nothing romantic or stressful. Only an easy night with a friend.

Kids were everywhere around us. Their parents sitting peacefully outside eating their vanilla cones. Lines of Friday night teens ordering dessert for their dates. Us sitting at a high-top, one waiting for the other to break the silence -- this was not the atmosphere I wanted. I cannot remember who spoke first, but discussion lead to which film we would see. Nothing at the cineplex piqued her interest.

She raised a brow reading a message on her mobile, confirming what I feeling; the air around us was stale with forced conversation and platitudes. We needed to split and quick, before the uneasiness became suffocating. I asked what she had read. She said several of her other friends were at different location. I saw in her eyes she wanted to go. I didn't press the film idea further. We left that low-key Friday night suburban scene and took nothing from it; as when we arrived nothing was given to us.

The inside of Samantha's old Saturn smelled of cigarettes and take-out food -- the evidence of both was under my sneakers on the passenger side. From my seat, I looked and her empathetically, her eyes fixed on the road as we crossed over city lines on a steel bridge spanning the cold ice-packed Missouri River. In a vehicle, did she think about him in his vehicle with the barrel to his temple? Was she thinking about me next to her, trying to take his spot? Or was she not feeling anything at all, driving only from one point to the next.
"Keep moving!", I heard the voice inside her say. She was hopeful the anger and sorrow and loneliness would give up the chase if only she could keep moving.
To my knowledge she's still moving; living life in the moment after you leave but before you arrive.

We came to a stop in a sparsely used lot under a large half-lit blinking sign atop a building that read, BOWL.

Blessing

A sad state indeed when cyclists go through a blessing ritual each year in hopes to decrease their chances of an accident, according to this piece in the LA Times. Once a year cyclists gather outside Good Samaritain Hospital for a blessing from clergy. And to bring awareness to the thousands of bicycle related accidents Good Samaritain treats every year. Roughly 250 of more than two-thousand reported accidents are hit-and-run."Not for the faint of heart" are the roads of L.A.

Of late I've been quite proud of Fargo, ND. On my 10 mile round trip to work I've seen the city marking a handful of new roads as either shared or with specific bicycle lanes. Now the hard part is informing public how to react around cyclists, instead of acting like they've just seen an orange zebra.

Hopefully they'll get it together before september. Otherwise it'll all be foregotten for next year.

Ghetto Hikes, Yo!

Found this site by accident a few days ago. From what I understand, the writer takes at-risk inner-city youths on nature hikes. He posts some of the things they say on a Tumblr page. I could not stop laughing while reading some of the things these kids said. I had to stop myself from reading them all at once. Take a bit now and leave some for later kinda thing. He hasn't posted in a while, leading me to believe the fun is over. Treasure what you find, that's all there is.

Also, the kids in this photo are not the ones on the ghetto hike. If they were, it would be a miraculous coincident.

Againt me! singer Gabel comes out as transgender.

New issue of Rolling Stone dropped today featuring a story on Against Me!'s frontman's decision to begin procedures and identification as a transgender woman, Laura Jane Grace. In a follow-up interview, the contributor who wrote the story, Josh Eells was asked rather matter-of-factly why this is news. To paraphrase his response, he said it pertained primarily to the bands image of hard punk rock music being seen as very manly. Her voice is very gravely and raw, often screaming lyrics of revolution and anti-establishment to a vast yet tight following of fervent fans. It will come to a shock to many of them as it did to me.

I may never understand the feeling of gender dysphoria, being caught between two genders not knowing where to fit, but if Laura Jane has finally found her place then way to go. Be who you are, whoever you feel that is. And don't let anyone ever tell you different.

Skiba releases second solo album. Go buy it now.

The sport of Golf

Tomorrow I will golf. I am not a golfer. I do not golf. But tomorrow afternoon will will play the game of golf. I will attempt to hit a small white ball with my old vintage wooden club. I'm told golfing is similar to fishing; scoring matters little compared to the time enjoyed in nature with friends. In that respect, I am looking forward to golf. I haven't always been this optimistic about the game. For many years the thought of playing produced a sour feeling in my stomach.

My aversion to golf no doubt stems from my dislike of perpetuating the male stereotype. In this case embodied by comedian/sitcom actor Ray Romano, who, instead of helping his wife at home or spending time with his young children, was always humorously "playing golf". I know the point was to have Raymond in a funny situation when he is gone. Or make his wife Debra funnily deal with home life alone. I suppose in looking for an identity all men can relate to they went chose golf, the hallmark of the male wasted weekend. A sport almost designed to exclude the family.

Clearly, I'm resisting a sport to not imply I am ignoring family or friends, something of which my family would never accuse me. So I find then imperative I am doing for the right reasons -- it's fun.

One could also say I'm suggesting a woman in incapable of operating a home without a male. Obviously not my opinion if you know me. I just don't like guys, as defined by popular culture. The football watching, mother-in-law hating, emotion resisting guy's guy advertisers make men think they should be... a discussion for another time.

So that's me and golf.

Similarities of French and American election promises

I understand the realities of compromise in politics. But I feel some people are still surprised when their elected candidate conceeds or schemes with the opposition.
For example, the EU decisions do not depend on one country. Mr Sarkozy had to negotiate with a many different countries, with different economic goal and a variety of other priorities. For the French populice to believe Mr Hollande will simply arrive at the soonest summit and have his countries demands met first is unrealistic.

Really? Because every other country is expecting the exact same thing from their newly elected candidate. So the best any one individual can do, and this is in any multi-party representative government mind you, is make policy closely resembling what their constituents want with the fewest concessions to the opponents.

Think Hungry-Hungry Hippo on an international level. Except instead of tiny plastic balls, they are grabbing political clout and policy.

And the candidates play into it, promising to raise taxes on the wealthy to 75% (Hollande) or dismantle social healthcare benefits (Mitt Romney, US presidential candidate). So we the voters place our bets on the dream, thinking if we get enough support the candidate of our choice will be able to meet his promises.
The reality is he or she is just another hippo grabbing at the same amount of pellets. Who are you sending in? And what do you expect them to grab?

Jeans and Cyclists... and logic bullets!

Admittedly my physical self-=perception maybe already be a little off, but here's the problem as I've heard it from cyclists other than myself. Straight leg and some regular fit jeans or dress pants do not fit. The waist and length are always fine. It's the hip area that's tight. A lot of cyclists have large quadricep muscles in their legs, making for a tighter than normal fit.

Now, I'm probably the only one who cares this much. I'm certain other bikers just deal with it (I don't know how), but it's terrible to comfortably wear only baggy pants. I'm not some punk teeneager skating about disrupting the establishment.

For me, in the past though less recently, it's a matter of contention with my eating disorder. When I wear a pair of jeans that don't fit my theighs I fear I'm getting fat. Then I start pinching what I believe (falsely) to be excess fat on my legs wondering how the hell it got there and how much I have to workout to lose it.

Reality eventually kicks in and I smirk at the thought of cycling to lose size, as it is muscle not fat, on my legs. It irrational that I would expect to lose leg size when I'm in love with biking everywhere -- to work, shopping, recreation -- and in the process make my muscles more effective. Meaning noticably more defined and slightly larger. I try not to call myself an idiot, but with such a glaring example of body distortion and false reasoning it is difficult.

I fight with reason. Firing logic bullets at fallacies. Boom! Suck it up and tell myself how helpful my legs are. Shit, I've earned these. Cycling to and from work 12 months a year for the last four years. I'm thankful for my biker legs. haha that does sond kinda goofy... but it's true.

If you're reding this and have the same issue as me; or maybe your arms don't fit sleeves well; or there is another physical definition you have from work or activities. Next time, before you complain about fit or look, join me in acceptance.
Jeans don't fit? Whatever, I'd rather be thankful I have muscle and skill to continue on of my great passions in life.

On days when I feel vulnerable to my eating disorder I look down at my legs and say, "Hell yeah I made it to work with my own two legs, fueled by an adequate breakfast."

Characters are still when I'm gone.

I left Emma and Michael on the Penn Farm for 16hrs yesterday. Normally not a big deal, but it was only recently that the bodies of the dead, strewn across the streets and yardsof this small english town, started moving. Dead, and moving. First we tried to gather a large group of folks in a near community center, but clashing personalities divided the group. Myself and several others split and left for the city. Hoping for supplies and food we stopped at the farm outside the limits. Been living there for a few days. The walking corpses became more aggressive. Carl, who had been with us since the beginning, returned to the community center late wednesday riding a motorcycle he found on our lst trip to the city. We barricaded the farmstead with whatever waste we could find around the out-building. It was last night they came. Staggering and stumbling toward the make-shift fence, rapping a the gate with their bleeding raw boney hands. And that's when I had to go to work...

I left Michael and Emma standing there in the hallway of that aged home which may soon become their final resting place. Wearily looking out the picture window at a field of the undead advancing slowly and stubbornly across the unkempt yard, ever more aware of their short future, they wept.

Tonight when after work I'll finish the book and follow Emma and Michael to the finish. Because if I don't they will be forever in limbo. Paused in time. Waiting for the story to continue. I will help them.

... said the sailor to the tattoo

Ask and I'll gladly show you. There's no reason to lift up my shirt sleeve, rub my arm like my tattoos are going to come off. Yes, they're real. And some have significant personal meaning, but I don't feel like telling any stranger that asks.

It's great that people are curious and enjoy looking at my arm. I think it looks cool too, but I the idea wasn't to entertain. Sometimes I prefer to wear longsleeves. Not because I'm embarassed, but because I want to keep them to myself for a while.

Ideas of identity, purpose and motivation keep traveling to the front of my mind, they take up residence there, set up camp, light a fire and sing songs. Unfortunately I need that room for other things like short term recall and quick reference. So I give them physical form. An image, applied to the skin, which frees room in my conscious mind. An expression that cannot be continually held, but can be forever displayed.

That's why I have tattoos.
They free me. They clear my mind. They make life easier. Like a to-do list of thoughts I can ruminate upon and examine at my leisure without worry they will disappear if I let them go. There always to never be forgotten. I love it.

Boys of Summer '12

It started when I woke. Had scrambled eggs, pancakes, good coffee.
Grabbed my bicycle and sprinted to a doctor's appointment. Five miles later I arrived somewhat achey and sweaty. The first thing I had to get over biking everywhere was, Yes, I'll be wet when I arrive. some folks may look, but whatever I moved here with my legs. And with many things in life, excluding death, that salt-caked sweaty feeling will not last forever. In fact, with practice the body will rebound much faster.

By the time I was done filling out forms and the nurse came to check me in I was completely dryand my heart rate and breating had recovered. Easy Peasy.

Couple checks -- bend here, cough there -- and i was on way way home facing the wind that so kindly helped me there. Oh! The great equality of nature.

Finished reading Mile Markers by Kristin Armstrong then it was time for Thursday tennis with my friend Tom. First game of the year. Yes! First golf game of the year next week.

There was time for video games and more reading before I went to bed. Couldn't have asked for a better summer day. Which is awesome because I'm certain I'll have many days like this until the snow falls. I was smiling the whole day! What sun and activity and friends does for the spirit medication cannot replicate. It's pure joy and light and laughter. God, I love summer.
I must only remember to eat. That's it.