Identity

my 10-year-old son wrote this poem in class based off of a poem called "Identity" by Julio Noboa Polanco...

Let them be as poodles,
Always pampered, cared, loved, admired,
But harnessed to a rich lifestyle.

I'd rather be a wild, dangerous wolf,
Howling at the moon like a warrior
Yelling his battle cry in war.

To have broken through the
Cages of humans, to live, to feel
Free of the open wild in nature.
To be swayed by the scent of carcasses
Carrying my soul, my legacy,
Running through the woods of time
or into the wilderness of the bizarre.

I'd rather be unseen and
If then be hunted by everyone
Than to be a small helpless dog,
Being dyed a different color every day.
Where they're raised, pampered, and decorated
By wealthy human hands.

I'd rather smell of bloody rotten stench
than of sweet, dainty dog.
If I could stand alone, strong and free
I'd rather be wild, dangerous wolf.

Behind the Scenes of Bad Grandpa

10 Again

the sun broke through

the clouds 'round noon.

raising the temperature up

to a cool, yet mild, 52 degrees.

my first instinct 

was to reach into the change jar,

count up my dimes & nickels,

then go buy a forty of Olde English

and contemplate life by the railroad tracks.

somehow i managed 

to bypass that exit

turning instead to my basketball.

with a loping stride                                                     thump, thump

i made my way to the apt. complex court.

in a very regimented manner,

i played "around the world" with myself.

concentrating on form,                                                thump, thump, thump

and studying the dirt-stained backboard,

i aimed for the imaginary red square.

a little kid, not much older than six

worked the court, back and forth                 thump, thump

shooting at the rim, dodging defenders

in his mind. i would pause when he entered

my side of the court. his face was stern.

                                                                            thump, thump.... thump

concentration ebbed out of his head.

for each shot i missed, i made myself

return to the previous spot until i made it

all the way through the rotation.

from spot #1 (bank shot off the backboard from right side of the rim)

to spot #9 (top of the key).

i felt better after awhile.                              thump, thump

i felt like i was 10 again.

                                     ba-donk.

How Do You Quantify A Good Summer?

Do you measure it by the number of vacations you took? The trips to the beaches and lakes?

Or do you measure it by time spent at the pool?

Or maybe it was the new surf spot you found or stair set to kick flip off of?

Possibly you forged a new friendship or rekindled an old one.

Maybe someone learned to ride their bike or a kid lost his first tooth?

For my boys, it was making their first skateboard video.

For me, it was tan feet. Tan feet always signifies a good summer because it takes a lot to get my pale, white feet tan. I think it has only happened three times since I was 18. This summer was a good summer for me.

How about you?

Mental Elixir

I hadn't been to the beach in years.

Four years to be exact.

There are many reasons for that but after spending a few days there last week, I am reminded that I really do need the beach in my life on a more regular basis.

It's a mental elixir.

Something about the sea breeze in your face and sand under your toes just does something to the body and soul.

Beach, I will see you again sooner than later...

A Wasteful Message

Message from the back of a trash truck.


"Hi. Sorry your are stuck in traffic. But on the bright side, this truck runs on compressed natural gas.



Which means it reduces our carbon footprint.



So as your are sitting here, at least you're surrounded by less emissions than you usually would be."

Pool Boys of Summer

This photo is awesome in so many ways.

But mostly because it is an excellent representation of summer time fun.

Good times.

Wish I could bottle this moment and sip on it whenever I feel down.

Smoke But No Fire

Sometimes the old adage isn't true...

Greg Is A Racecar Driver

I’m excited to continue to contribute to Chevy Culture, a lifestyle and auto site sponsored by Chevrolet. Click through for the full post on Chevy Culture, and come back in the next few weeks and months for more.





Until recently, I’d never driven a high-performance car.

That changed when Chevrolet sent me to the Ron Fellows Performance Driving School at Spring Mountain Resorts. Located about an hour west of Las Vegas, the school offers people like me the chance to learn about car control, shifting and cornering techniques and—ultimately—to experience what it’s like to sit behind the wheel of a sports car and tackle a racetrack.

Now that I’ve done it, now that I’ve harnessed the power of a Corvette, and now that I know how to control it, I look forward to doing it again. And again.

The object of schools like this (Chevy also sponsors the Bondurant Driving School in Phoenix) is to teach you not how to be a racecar driver, but rather how to properly operate a vehicle, be it a Corvette or a Cruze, in high-speed situations.

“We believe the car is the classroom,” says Chief Driving Instructor and Driving School Director Rick Malone. The schools guarantee extensive track time for those who attend them, adopting a philosophy of learning through hands-on experience. It’s a safe, controlled environment available to anyone with a valid driver’s license and the money to cover a $3,000-$4,000 fee (prices vary depending on the level you choose).

It all began with the basics: “Keep your hands at 9 and 3,” said Malone.

Your seating position is also crucial. “Move the seat close enough, so when turning right or left, when your hand gets to the 12 o’clock position, your elbow should have about a 45-degree bend.”

Driving with one hand limits your cornering and swerve potential, said Malone. It also limits your line of sight. Peripheral vision—scanning the horizon for what lies ahead—is elemental in finding proper car control. “Keep your eyes up and looking where you want to go,” he repeated over the course of the day.

It’s like Driver’s Ed all over again, only Malone has 28 years’ experience and the car is a Z06 Corvette with 505 hp that goes from 0-60 in four seconds. It’s a daily commuter car with racecar-like performance. The education I got in such a short amount of time is priceless, and something I can apply in my everyday life.

During an exercise in car control, Malone wet down an asphalt paddock and had me navigate through a figure 8 series of cones. “Remember, always look where you want to go,” he said. If your car gets into a tail slide—be it from rain, snow or loose gravel—you never want to look straight ahead. If you look straight, you’ll go straight, and that usually isn’t a good idea.

Good thing the Corvette employs a feature called active handling. On-board sensors “assist” the driver by adjusting braking, steering and traction, so driving becomes an intuitive experience. After I learned these basics, Malone guided me in a lead car (via a two-way radio) over a track that had sweeping corners, quick S’s and off-camber turns.

On the backstretch, I reached speeds in the triple digits. To say it was exhilarating would be an understatement: This was a life-changing experience. A dream fulfilled.

“You’ll be back,” Malone said with a sly grin. “I can see it in your eyes.” And he’s right. In October, there’s something called Corvettes at Bondurant, where Bondurant offers Corvette owners the thrill of high-performance driving in a controlled environment during a weekend of track time, schooling and hot laps, a simulated racing experience where multiple cars are on the track at once (no passing or contact is allowed). I’ll be driving the new 2014 Corvette Stingray.

A Cautionary Tale on Chocolate City

In the late '80s, I spent a lot of time in DC. Sometimes my friends and I drove into the city, sometimes we rode the rails.

It was a dangerous time. Crack was king and go go was its theme song. But nevertheless, we navigated the bowels of the city from F Street NW to Southeast, from Georgetown to Dupont Circle, but this was all done with an err of caution.

Age was on our side back then. Danger was there for sure, but we were either impervious or felt invincible.

My last few trips to DC have shown me that the city I love has changed.

Drastically.

For better and for worse.

Places that were once "sketchy" have now been gentrified and overrun with entitlement. And this must clearly breed resentment. But that's a tale for another time.

One last thing before I share my story: If you are on the subway, after midnight, alone, and passed-out drunk you increase your chances of being a victim.

***

On Saturday night I went to the Black Cat on 14th Street with my girlfriend because the DJ in the back room was doing an '80s Night. She likes her Erasure, Depeche Mode, Cure, and Tones on Tail. Like is actually an understatement. I confess I love me some '80s tunes too. Yaz? Yessir. The Smiths? Hellz yeah!

14th Street in my day was the domain of pimps and prostitutes. Now it is a haven for twentysomethings to burn off steam after a long week of work. A Metro stop that nobody wanted to get off at is now a stop that everybody gets off at.

The sidewalks? Crowded. The clubs? Lines to get in. The food joints? Busy.

The night waned on.

Hot, sweaty, tired (and broke, the city is expensive!) we left and headed back to catch the train.

While waiting on the platform, a train going in the other direction pulled into the station. There was a commotion. We saw a gaggle of black teens cornering someone. I saw fists flying. I heard voices screaming.

And I reacted.

As the doors opened I ran onto the train. "Chill the fuck out!" I yelled, pushing bodies away. I saw two Latino guys sitting down. A gaggle of black teens throwing punches. One of the teens, a female, is pulling at his ear buds. "I want that fucking phone!" she screamed. "Get the fuck back," I said as I pushed both male and female teens forcefully in the chest. Several of them scattered but two stayed close. One was the girl who wants the phone. The two Latin boys were now on their feet. One of them pulled a knife. The teens, seeing this, scattered to the back of the train.

The door to the train closed. The train lurched forward. Suddenly my good samaritan deed seems like a bad idea. Because now there was no escape. It was me, the victims and the perps all in one car with no one else. Anything could happen. I walked in front of the Latinos. They knew I saved their asses, if only temporarily. I headed towards the crew who were throwing punches. I scanned both sides of the train to see who was sitting on the subway. To see who didn't step up and stop this madness. I got the feeling this whole train is in on this shit. "Don't do anything stupid!" I yelled out to no one in particular.

The door opened at the next stop. I got off and waited to catch the train back to where my girlfriend was waiting on the platform. Several of the punch-throwing group got off at the other end of the train. They eyed me from a distance on the platform. I stared back with a "You want to bring it, bring it," look.

There were no words nor actions on their end.

I caught the next train back and met up with my girlfriend Sonnie, who confessed, "As soon as that door closed on you, I felt sick. I thought I might never see you again."

Ironically, both our cell phones had just about died. Three more minutes or less and we would have been unable to communicate. I had enough juice to text her that I was OK and heading on the next train back.

We hugged.

I started to question my actions. I could have been stabbed, or shot, or beat up. But then I realized if it happened all over again I'd probably do the same thing. In a heartbeat.

What would you do?

The m.o. in the above video is the same, but is not actual footage from my experience. But oh so frightening similar.

Satan's Next Door Neighbor

Illuminate

Crazy Words

In 2011, my apartment was robbed.

And they took my computer.

And with it, almost everything I had written.

I'm not going to lie -- it pretty much destroyed my creative spirit. I had so much on there. I labored on. Continued to "create" by writing assignments here and there. But I had lost so much. I just couldn't entertain the idea of revisiting that world.

Until recently.

Until I read this book. It was a real game changer.

And it hit me: I have tons of material. Let me find it and revisit it. Do something with it.

And that's where I am today. Digging through boxes looking for hard copy print-outs of my work. From the the days before clouds, blogs or external hard drives; from the days before the internet and social media.

I found his gem tonight. Probably one of my favorite poems. Enjoy.

Crazy Words

You bury your nose
in T.S Eliot, Rilke,
and the other Dylan.
Drink latte at the coffee joint
down the street
that used to be a GAP.

Your interest holds
past the classics
and you get turned on
to the common man's poet -
Chuck Bukowski.
The cigarette adds punch to the caffeine.

Suddenly everyone
neglects this beautiful world
'cept the street man
who spits out verse
worthy of press any time for a dime.

Late nights are spent
transcribing tapes of him
to go in a special section of
the 'zine you publish.
Not much left to do
since "alternative" became mainstream.

I mock you when I read.
Get up there loaded;
not original but sincere.
And shout my words to your tired ears.

My chaos
whips you into a frenzy
like mutants at a
GG Allin show:
Strung out and stumbling.

I fight not to lose it.

Maintain control,

Amidst what seems,

Certain and inevitable destruction.

Crazy words drool from
a crazy man.
Going mad in a mad, mad world.

And you say,"That's not poetry."

Do As You Are Told

Jesus Was A No-Show

“Mr. Monaghan,” said Professor Madejczyk from behind the lectern. “Where is your term paper?”

“I don’t have it,” said Bill Monaghan, a freckle faced freshman at Towson University.

“And why, may I ask, do you not have the paper?” queried the pensive professor.

“Jesus was a no-show,” said Monaghan, cupping his face with his hands, obviously distraught.

His classmates snickered much to the ire of the professor.

“Would you care to explain this to me?” he said.

“Well, last night on my way to the library to write the term paper, I was approached by someone from the Campus Christian Ministry. They asked me if I had a few moments to spare to join them in their talk about Christ. I said I was on my way to the library to write a term paper that was due tomorrow and that I had no time to stop.”

“But if you stop, Jesus will come to you. He will help you write your paper,” said the shadowed figure. “So I threw caution to the wind and went to the prayer meeting. I felt great afterwards and everybody kept telling me to go to the library and wait. That Jesus would come. I waited and waited but he never came. I fell asleep waiting and woke up an hour before class,” explained young man.

“So that’s you story Monaghan?” said the professor.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So you lost your term paper because Jesus didn’t show up to write it for you. Is that what you are telling me?”

“I didn’t just lose my term paper,” said a teary-eyed Monaghan.

“I lost my faith.”

Where a Ghost Pepper meets a Garlic Bulb

The ol' disclaimer... I’m excited to announce that I’m now contributing to Chevy Culture, a lifestyle and auto site sponsored by Chevrolet. Click through for the full post on Chevy Culture, and come back in the next few weeks and months for more.

Wanna make a salad? Take this five-town tour of Pacific Coastal Highway to get fresh, organic ingredients to feed your belly - and your soul - all while enjoying the open road and open air in your automobile.

5 Foodie Destinations Worth Braking For

Everyone knows that a day at the beach is fun for the whole family, but a road trip along California’s legendary Pacific Coastal Highway doubles the fun—whetting your appetite as well as your wanderlust.

So grab your sleek, spacious Traverse—with up to 12 cup holders for everyone’s beverages and Smart-Slide second-row seating for easier hops in and out of the car—and whisk your hungry brood to these five foodie destinations.

With the sun at your back and the ocean at your side, tap into your inner gourmand. From foraging for wild mushrooms and tasting artisanal olive oil to sampling garlic ice cream and getting your hands on the elusive ghost pepper, this is one scenic and satisfying drive, no matter if you’re in Southern, Northern or Central California.

(Do yourself a favor and take your mind off directions—OnStar will handle that.)
Are we there yet?

Santa Cruz
Your car’s V6 will power you with quiet precision along the coast to the town of Santa Cruz, located an hour and a half south of San Francisco. This is wild mushroom hunting territory. Chanterelles grow in the damp soil and thick leaf mulch at the foot of trees and by fallen branches; they are not grown commercially. Put your foraged fungi into a plastic bag and then simply cook them up with a little olive oil, garlic and salt and pepper. Make sure you are with an experience hunter or travel with a field guide to properly identify edible mushrooms.

Gilroy
Nicknamed the “Garlic Capital of the World,” the city of Gilroy hosts an annual garlic festival for all those who like it pickled, minced or powdered. This versatile ingredient—a close cousin to the onion and shallot—is a chef favorite as it is a key element found in the dishes of most cultures throughout the world. Whether raw or cooked, it has an unmistakable scent. Just 50 minutes southeast of Santa Cruz, a trip to Gilroy will satiate any passenger’s garlic jones.

San Luis Obispo
Located on the central coast of California about halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo’s Mediterranean-like climate makes it a haven for vintners. But the weather isn’t just ideal for growing grapes for wine—it is also great for growing olives. At Pasolivo Farm in the neighboring town of Paso Robles, visitors can sample some of their oils infused with lime, lemon or tangerine as well take a tour of the farm’s olive press.

Camarillo
Just forty-five minutes north of Los Angeles is Camarillo, a bedroom community with a history that dates back to the Chumash Indians. It is also home to the orange-red pepper known as the “ghost pepper,” once recognized as the hottest pepper in the world by the Guinness Book of World Records. How hot is this pepper? Think 400 times hotter than Tabasco sauce. Ouch! Take a detour and travel to the McGrath Family Farm and pick your own peppers.

Laguna Beach
A seaside resort town about an hour south of Los Angeles, Laguna Beach is known for its pristine beaches, fish-filled lagoons and thriving artistic community. But it’s also home to hydroponic vertical farming. The cutting-edge technique of growing produce up in tiers without the use of soil takes up less space, uses less water, can be grown year-round and keeps the greens safe from pesticide and fertilizer contamination. If it’s green—like kale, lettuce, chard or arugula—it can be found at Alegria Farm. If your hands are full of produce you just couldn’t resist, don’t forget to use your Traverse’s Remote Start key fob to unlock the doors and start your car.

Lists

.

I am a list maker.

I am a maker of lists.

If it is not on the list, it usually doesn't get done

A Beer Drinkin' Truck Driver Talkin' Jive

I used to fancy myself a poet. I digested modern verse like a kid eating candy on Halloween.

And then I wrote. I wrote about what I saw; I wrote about what I felt; I wrote about writing.

I felt inspired at every turn of the corner.

And I made little chapbooks.

It's what we did, my friends and I.

We made zines.

We made chapbooks of poetry.

We made photo books.

We did not wait for approval or payment - we simply made things for the sake of making and for the sake of sharing. This was our Facebook-status-sharing-wall-post circa 1991.

I have a box full of stuff, and some shelved in that certain important section, of things like these from those that inspired me.

I keep hoping that MySpace, Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram or whatever will lead me down that path. I get glimpses of it, but nothing like holding a fresh zine or chapbook book in my hands. Doesn't matter if it was made on the office printer on the sly or Kinkos. Or if it is perfect bound and letter pressed.

Just that it come from the heart, a true slice of creativity from a person's soul, typos and all.

The following is the poem that opens up my chapbook Headaches And Assholes. I had moved from Maryland to Los Angeles and was living in Glendale. I had taken a liking to Pasadena. And decided to spend some time in the local watering holes. And one day struck up a random conversation with some old man. Because that was what life was about back then... striking up random conversations. Does any one remember those days?

110

the mouth under his
big pored-black headed
nose spoke of the first
freeway in california.

about corporate buy-
outs and oil and gas
and cars and "let's do
this and let's do that" and fuck;

he said fuck a lot
and put his head in
his large hand, a hand
that had driven plenty of big rigs

and cupped manny
a beers. i shook my head
and just grinned
eventually having

my stare turn into
some blank gaze fading
out over his hair;
grecian formula yellowed.

a beer truck drivin'
beer drinkin' truck driver
talkin' jive in
pasadena. and i was all ears.

Palm Trees

Taken during a recent trip to Las Vegas, where a thousand people wake up to broken dreams penniless...

Electricity

Get Outside. Discover New Roads.

I’m excited to announce that I’m now contributing to Chevy Culture, a lifestyle and auto site sponsored by Chevrolet. Click through for the full post on Chevy Culture, and come back in the next few weeks and
months for more.

I am writing about action-packed rest stops and natural wonders over at Chevy Culture.

From skateboarding at Louisville's massive outdoor, public skatepark to pondering the existence the human race while gazing into Arizona's meteor crater, I offer up some things to see and do as you drive around this great big country of ours; get outside and discover new roads.

Growing Up In Pages

What do you get for your son when he turns thirteen?

I got him some new bearings and wheels for his skateboard.

But I wanted something, something that would let him know that he has entered a new phase in life. He has slowly been shedding the markings of boyhood the last few years and now can officially claim the right to his path to manhood.

Becoming a man doesn't happen with the flip of a switch. It is a journey and a process without a doubt. For some it takes a lifetime. And for some people, they never become one; they just aimlessly wonder the planet in some twisted man-boy universe.

So I dug through my boxes of books, books that have no room to live in my meager one bedroom apartment, and tried to find him a tome that could only be passed down from father to son.

He recently told me that he didn't like to read. I told him I didn't like to read at his age either. The problem with reading, I informed him, is that it helps to like what you are reading. Until I discovered what I like to read, it was a chore. But once I sink my teeth into something enjoyable, I devour each page racing to see where the story takes me and how it will end.

I found a timeless classic bury in one of the boxes...

I gave my dog eared copy of The Catcher In The Rye.

Curious to see what he makes of it.

What's In A Name?

Although I am not a practicing Catholic, I still find that Catholicism impacts my life in various ways.

But I went to parochial school for twelve straight years (yes I can tie a Windsor knot in my sleep) and so it is expected that saints and sinners still permeate my existence.

This whole papal conclave that is all over the media made me want to address how my blog got its name.

Over the years I have been fascinated by many things spiritual and holy but it always goes back to one saint from my youth that has been a constant in my life: Saint Jude.

Saint Jude was the name of the elementary school I went to as a kid. He is one of the original twelve apostles. And he is also known as the patron saint of hopeless cases. People pray to St. Jude in times of trouble when they are facing seemingly impossible odds.

I have felt, since a young age, that I have always faced seemingly impossible odds. I was convinced I was going to die young by some terminal disease (thanks Brian's Song!). I had slit my wrist in elementary school when I accidentally ran through a glass storm door. Freshman year in high school one of the juvies in my homeroom deemed me cool because he thought the scars on my wrist were from a botched suicide attempt. At fifteen, I fell at a park on a broken beer bottle, stabbing me deeply in the belly (which left a scar that looks eerily Christ-like on my abdomen).

Later in life, in 2004, there was that near-death experience during a Sudafed-induced heart attack. Which, by the way, gave this blog its URL and my band its name.

So as you can see, I've always had a soft spot for Saint Jude because of some of the, what seemed at times, insurmountable odds I have personally overcome.

I leave you with this line from the Prayer to Saint Jude: Jude, saint of the impossible, let me never lose hope in the face of overwhelming odds, even when circumstances look like they will never turn out for the best.

Old School Skate Session

You should see what they can do now.

Still Trying

My boys are still trying to make the elusive viral video...

Perspective

You need to watch this video. Especially until the end where they put it into perspective.

Global warming anyone?

#chevyculture

I’m excited to announce that I’m now contributing to Chevy Culture, a lifestyle and auto site sponsored by Chevrolet. Click through for my full posts on Chevy Culture, and come back in the next few weeks and months for more.

An excerpt from Open Roads to Found Fathers:

WHERE: Mt. Vernon, Virginia via Washington, DC
WHY: Home to George Washington, the first President of the United States
HOW: Navigate your way through our nation’s capital, Washington, D.C., a city rife with history and rich with museums and cultural landmarks (including the Washington Monument, the world’s tallest obelisk). Yes, the city’s grid—designed by Frenchman Pierre Charles L’Enfant—can be confusing. Here’s a tip: Most of the diagonal streets are named after states, east-to-west streets are named with letters and north-to-south streets are numbers. Cross the 14th Street Bridge into Alexandria, Virginia, and go 8 miles south to Mt. Vernon.

SIGNIFICANCE: Our first president’s retirement home was also a plantation where he grew more than 60 crops including tobacco, flax and hemp.

An excerpt from Recharging for the New Year:

OJAI, CALIFORNIA
Nestled north of Los Angeles and south of Santa Barbara, and easily accessible from the Pacific Coastal Highway, Ojai has long been a spiritual retreat center. Known for its pink sunsets, Ojai is also known for being one of the early adopters of organic farming—a trip to the Ojai Certified Farmers’ Market is a must. If your body needs healing try a myofascial release (a technique of soft-tissue massage therapy) or a mud bath.

Myofascial release
A unique form of soft tissue therapy focuses on trigger points where the practitioner can gently apply indirect or direct pressure to deep tissue, similar to “rolfing,” where knuckles and elbows are used to apply pressure.

Mud bath
Hydrate your skin, relax your muscles and allow your mind to decompress with a mud bath. Mud baths and wraps are good for joint pain as it can ease inflammation. They also act as a purification therapy as the body will sweat out toxins during the treatment.


For more stories, please head over to the Chevy Culture website.

Get Yer Cook On

I'm dishing out kitchen tips over at Dadcentric.

Pop in and check out how to open a can (without a can opener), how to pickle and other time-saving tips for all those budding foodies.

And remember: Dads can cook too.

Telling Fish Stories

As promised.

And excerpt from my old journal slash manuscript.

May 19, 1993:

Ah! Starting to feel human again. Went for a gentle ride after work up this road by my house which eventually leads to a dirt road. At the top was a group of beehives. Four to be exact. "Raising honeybees," I thought. "Could be interesting."


Flushed out some quail shortly thereafter while pedaling up the dirt. I took (snap) shots of them with my mind. Mental pictures. Strange bird what with that little clever-like thing on its crown. On the way back down, I stopped at this tiny pond which was full of tadpoles. I haven't looked at tadpoles in a long, long time. Probably since the seventh of eight grade.

Sperm in the womb, swimming around until the day they grow arms and legs and move on out. It used to scare me. Their croaking that is.

I went to this KOA campground with Julio and Chuy Jiminez when I was in sixth grade. At night the bullfrogs croaked so loud it was deafening. We would walk over to the mini-dock that jutted out into the "lake" which was rumored to house one of the biggest lake bass this side of the Mississippi.

Yeah sure.

We found some fishing line with a hook still attached to it the next day by the dock. We put a hotdog on it for bait. Then gently lowered it into the water about three inches below the surface so we could still witness who was biting on it. And then when they did-Wham!-we'd pull up the line and have a little sunfish on it. The first time we were really excited about it. Mostly for the simple act of catching a fish but also because we were proud of our problem-solving skills. So we ran to the bait shack and looked on the wall of all the photos of fish the campers had caught over the years to see how ours measured up. There were all kinds of bass hanging up there but not one with a sunfish. Some were caught by Grandpas and others by Teddy or Nick or Tommy, even a few by Kim and Kelly. Right next to the pictures was a ruler where you could measure your catch. Ours didn't even make it within two inches of the "keeper" line. We were bummed but went back to try again.

And that's when we saw him. The monster bass. It was only a few seconds before the sighting that we realize the bigger the bait, the bigger the catch. So we threw rather large chunks of hotdog into the lake. Hotdogs, if you don't already know this, float. They make an excellent bobber but that's not the point here. It was Him. And he didn't even have to come all the way up to the surface to get the hotdog. He just sat a few inches below the surface of the water and opened his mouth. Like a vacuum the hotdog was sucked into his large mouth and was gone. We couldn't make out his whole body but he looked to like 16 inches long and about ten pounds. We were kids remember?

So, brainstorming again, we found a piece of styrofoam that was larger than any of the chunks of hotdog we had and threw it in the general direction of Him. He sucked it down without any hesitation. Then twisted, turned, let out a good splash and was gone. Fuck! We were astounded. Then suddenly, a bubble came up from where we had seen Him. No sooner did we see the bubble did we see the white of the piece of styrofoam come floating up to the surface. We never saw him again.

It was one of the many great days of discovery during youth. And seeing those tadpoles today made me realize what this world is all about: Growing up, learning about yourself, learning about your environment, and then adapting to it.

Infirmary

Welcome to January folks.

January always seems like a good time for everybody you know to get sick as shit.

I am going to lobby to change the name of the month to Infirmary.

When I come up for air, I'll have some good stories to tell.

Until then, please enjoy these classic poop stories about pooping in public.

Because sometimes life is shit.

You just gotta learn how to wipe...

Change in the Weather

You gotta love the unpredictability of the weather in North Carolina.

You don't like it, just wait a day.

Resolve the Unresolved

Do you have a New Year's Resolution?

I don't have one, because every time I make one, I never adhere to it.

So my resolution is to resolve all those from years past that have gone unresolved.

Some of these would include to exercise more (specifically break out my dusty 24-inch BMX bike), to actually complete some of the creative ideas I have had floating around for years (er, decades) and, most of all, write more.

Tree.

Big tree.

Very big tree.

Here's to planting new roots in the New Year.

2013 is comin' at ya...