We ain't got no blueberries.

You know what the problem is, the reason for my site’s appearance looking like a front for the mob (like the candy store in my hometown that had all this old, shitty candy because the real business was being transacted in the back room)? It’s Facebook et al. pulling me away. Same reason I don’t do Digg or Twitter, or post enough pictures. Some stuff ends op over here, other stuff over there. I only have so much time in the day to come up with this shit, and I feel like my fantastic wit should always end up back on my website. So I’ve been thinking lately that I should redo my website with a setup that pulls in stuff from all over the internets — stuff I’m reading, writing, looking at. And stuff about lights, planes, bikes, dogs, the sun. Whatever. So, yeah. That’s what’s up.

Any ideas?

Still alive.

Brenda saw her third production season at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival to fruition; all shows are up and running, her crew gets tighter every year and she seems to like it more all the time.

Riding my bike again; still outta shape.

The four eggs nesting in our hanging plant out front have hatched; got a couple of crappy pictures, lack motivation to get them off the camera.

Hooper weighs 58 pounds, a 16% increase from past vet visits; still considered normal, but he could stand to lose a few lubs, just like his owner.

The goddamned TV is busted, on the final week of the Tour; parts on order, will arrive after the Tour.

In one week it will be twenty years since Brenda & I figured out we’d found our soul mates; we are going to the Grand Canyon in September to celebrate with my sister and bro-in-law.

I have never spent a greater percentage of my professional time being paid to work with lighting simulation tools development; work-wise, despite having a lot on the plate, it’s almost all steak.

Life is good.

Six years ago this past week, my dad died. I think I’m finally coming to terms with it all, coming to terms with the fact that he was no father to me, that he literally left my sister & me to fend for ourselves almost twenty years prior to his death, when my sister & I were merely teenagers. Ahh, but that was just the legal part (if it’s even true, but who cares, because to delve deeper would involve characters in my life that I hate and care not to associate with ever again).

In retrospect, “dad” left me and my sister behind, many years before that. Recent revelations make a lot of shit make sense and at the same time leave me as confused as ever. But one thing is for sure, I should never have even tried to pretend I had a biological father growing up. I just wish I hadn’t wasted all that energy pretending I did.

I’m working on closure, or whatever you want to call it. Kinda hard, because the one thing I really want to do is confront that asshole, about a lot of things, but he’s just a collection of ashes in my so-called stepmother’s house, a property I will never set foot on again, and a property I was never comfortable setting foot on in the first place.

I’m in a weird place. Of course I’m not glad he’s dead, or that he went through such a horrible experience as cancer. I just wish I could have realized years ago that he was not worth dealing with, not worth divorcing myself from the rest of his family, not wasting all the energy. It would have made the lead-up to, and the aftermath of, his death so much easier.

But how strange it is, to have all these “ah ha” moments, years after the fact; they have been flowing for months, ever since my sister & I finally requested a copy of dad’s will — an attempt at closure which, for the last few months, it has opened more wounds, but I believe ultimately will close the books on this for good. A friend rhetorically asked me recently, “was he really such a horrible man?”. The answer is yes, and it’s because he managed to present a front of kindness that makes people question my judgment on him, while all the time he was alive he was being a cheater and a liar and a shirker of responsibility to humans he brought into the world. He was good, to many people — when he could manage, and when it suited him. But he was rarely much to me and I say you bring a person into this world, you suck it up and be good to that person, you be a father to that person. You raise him, as best you can (even being a guy who left the house when your son is all of five years old, because you wanted to take up with a secretary you were having sex with while you were married to the aforementioned son’s mother (and let’s not even get into all the other women that followed, for years, women the son knows about and can prove, in case certain people are reading)).

And that means being involved in his life, caring about what he’s interested in, even if it’s not what you’re interested in. Being a force in the kid’s life. Being a fan, an advocate, when you can (full time is the ideal, but more than 2% is required, I feel).

Not pretending to be the kid’s father.

Not expecting to get a pass, when the kid is an adult.

Certainly not making the kid never want to have kids of his own — which is precisely what my dad did.

You can go back and read my posts from six years ago, when I struggled with the feelings of loss and anger simultaneously. It’s not evident in many of the posts, I was busy playing the sad son. But under the surface, starting from the day of his memorial service, a lot of shit came roaring back. And it’s been messing with me ever since.

I’d like to say this post is some sort of liberation decree, that starting today I walk forward without the memories of all that was wrong with my childhood (and adolescence, and hell, even adulthood), but alas I cannot guarantee that. Shit, I wouldn’t be writing this if that were true. But I am resolving today to start exhaling. And breath by breath, the shit inside me that is the product of four decades of bullshit and denial, will be expunged from my mental database. If I can’t do that, I’ll go crazy.

James was a little boy. Nine years old. We say “old”, as in “nine years old”, but nine years on earth is not a long time and does not make you old. Certainly not old enough to die.

One of my former co-workers had a son. His name was James. I think you can tell what happened.

Doing some research the best I can tell is that James had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, but the exact diagnosis is irrelevant at this point. Suffice to say, it was cancer. The Big Casino, as Uncle Junior called it on “The Sopranos”. Indeed. One never knows how Lady Luck is gonna deal the cards, and James got a shitty hand — years ago. And that’s the thing; all the time I worked with James’ mother, James was in remission. But somewhere in the last year while I was at my new job, the little idiotic cells were back at work and somehow gained a foothold once again in little James’ body. And a few days ago, they won. Stupid fucking cancer, the damned cells kill their own host. It makes no sense.

It makes no sense to read an obituary with the starting date in the year 2000, when it’s friggin’ 2010.

I attended James’ memorial service today, and it’s burned into my brain forever. There were speeches, many excellent speeches. James’ parents, grandparents, one of his teachers and four of his best friends all poured their hearts out in front of a huge assembly of sniffling, weeping, messes.

There was a slideshow, images of James. We watched and wept. Many images cycled through, images of an infant, a little boy. The locations changed, the clothing, the features, the scenarios. But after all the images were done, as the show faded to black, I was struck by how I had watched all these photos and never saw a photo of James as anything other than a kid, a boy. When my Grandmother passed away months ago, I watched a similar slideshow and I recall enjoying photos of an infant, a kid, a woman, a bride, a mother, a grandmother, a retiree. Where was James the teenager? For that matter, where was James the Prom King, James the husband, James the father, James the old guy? James mowing the lawn? James drinking a beer?

Alas, these photos cannot be taken.

It makes no sense.

So, I finally saw this movie I’ve been meaning to see for a while, “Art & Copy”. It’s a sad, disgusting (read: excellent) documentary about the collection of whores and egomaniacs working in the advertising business, and, by extension, about everything that is wrong with our society.

“By the way, if anyone here is in marketing or advertising…kill yourselves…” —Bill Hicks

It was difficult to watch - painful, even; for a variety of reasons. Because my father’s best friend (Jim Durfee) is in the film; because my father, my mother-in-law, and college friend all work(ed) in that horrible business. Because I knew from an early age that my father’s profession had absolutely no nobility — getting paid large sums of money to figure out how to make people buy shit they don’t need. It’s disgusting.

And yet, this film glorifies these people — well, actually, the interviewees do a great job glorifying themselves, for ninety minutes, about all the Good Work they do — and the sick, sad infrastructure that is in place to support this behemoth. There are snippets of factoids presented throughout the flick, about how much money is spent on advertising annually in this country (billions and billions), and how many communications satellite launches annually are for commercial communications (most), but the overriding message — delivered by some of the biggest names/egos in the business — is even worse than Gordon Gekko’s “Greed is Good”, it’s “I can Manufacture Greed for you, for a Price (and an Expense Account)”.

$750K for thirty seconds to try and sell your shit on “American Idol” is all you need to know about what is wrong with this picture. Waste-wise, this kind of money on selling shoes and deodorant is second only to the kind of money we spend on weapons of mass destruction.

“What if we used all this money we spend on guns that shoot things that can fly down a chimney, on guns that can shoot food into the mouths of starving people in Africa?” — Bill Hicks (again)

Every American should see this film, but sadly I think the real takeaway will be lost on most. To me, “inspiring advertising”, which apparently is the kind all these assholes were congratulating themselves for “creating” (one even used the term “midwife”, swear to god) throughout the flick, is the most disgusting of all.

Brenda’s been telling me about this tree, this tree they pass on their walks, she and Hooper. Apparently there’s a knothole at the base of this tree, where Hooper keeps one of his prized possessions — a tennis ball.

I was told where the tree was, and all I had to do was unclip his leash when we got close and say “go get your ball”, and off he ran. He bounded across the tall grass and hooked around the tree I suspected. I found myself running so I could catch up and see where he was hiding this ball, but, too late. He trotted out from behind the tree with a celebratory strut and a faded tennis ball jauntily held in the lower left corner of his jaw.

As it turns out, the hidey hole tree is conveniently located next to the Boulder mountain bike short track race course across the street from our house. This provides an excellent location for a Sunday evening walk.

Walking along, I threw the ball and Hooper would sprint down the track and fetch, like usual. But the variety of up- and downhill sections, the berms, the ruts, added a lot of fun to the proceedings. We made our way to the middle of the course, where there’s a high vantage point and from which there were steep dropoffs in every direction. I coordinated my throws so as not to send Hooper into a collision course with any of the mountain bikers who were also enjoying the evening on the course.

After a while, Hooper & I were really hitting a groove. He was familiar with all the varied ramps and dips, and my throws were timed just right so that Hooper’d reach the bottom of a particular hill just as the ball did, usually timing it just right so he could catch the ball on a bounce with a nice leap.

And then, the capper. Hoop caught air. Hooper caught air off a jump, so help me god. Hooper is better at BMX than I ever was. I threw the ball from the top of the hill, toward this steep jump; Hoop tore off down the hill after it, bolted up the slope, and leapt for the ball as it arced over. The jump was so steep and Hooper was going so fast that he literally caught air, as he flew up and over the jump and disappeared behind the mound. Moments later, he charged back over the hill, ball in mouth, ears flapping, and I just beamed with pride.

After an hour of this, it was time to go home. Hooper & I walked back to the tree, the special tree, and I guess we hadn’t exercised enough because I had to go put the ball away in the hidey hole. According to Brenda, when he’s really tired, he puts it away himself.

Hoop hasn’t moved much since dinner.

It’s tough to put into words how special this dog is.

Riding home from work tonight, I was struck by the nice dusk light and wondered aloud to my carpool buddy what it might be like to walk up the Shanahan Ridge Trail toward Fern Canyon. She was all about it. She said she often goes trail running around there with another friend. Suddenly it all made sense. I need to combine my evening walks with Hooper and some actual exercise.

I don’t exercise, even though I should. Hell, these days I want to exercise. I’ve decided it’s time to exercise regularly, partly because I want to, but partly because I need to. I turned 42 last week, and I officially have a “spare tire”. Shirts of the “large” variety now hug my belly a little too closely. Extra large provides the tent-like drape I used to prefer but now rely upon, to hide forty-something girth.

So, it’s time to get moving, on some sort of regular schedule and reasonable intensity.

To me, exercise means bike riding, but winter around here is still being a sporadic bitch, and the bike is simply too efficient to make a good exercise buddy during the week — too long a ride is needed for any reasonable training effect. I have been thinking running might bridge the gap to summertime, but I got into road cycling precisely because my knees were giving me trouble all the way back in sophomore year of high school, when I ran the mile in track. And, of course, the first order of business when arriving home from a long day at the office is to walk the dog. How to fit in a workout and walk the dog?

So, the answer was obvious. Head to South Boulder, and walk up the Shanahan Ridge Trail toward Fern Canyon, one of my first hikes in Boulder, and still one of my favorites. I could simply use the incline to make a workout of things, walk as fast as I can, and get the heart rate up while not actually running. Hoop could come along for the stroll.

And so we did.

I had no real plan, but arriving at the trailhead at 6:30 I just wanted to get in a decent walk before the sun went down. We started off at 6:36, at a good clip. Hooper was down with this idea from the first step, but it also took him no time at all to nose out a stray tennis ball, so we had a game of fetch going as well. I decided I’d walk as fast as I could until 7PM; I had hoped I’d at least get to that big rock known as The Slab by then. Hooper seemed to be having a good time. I was huffing.

At 7PM, we arrived at The Slab, and Hooper wanted to know why exactly we were turning around. But around we went, and headed back to the trailhead. I want to do this on a regular basis, and so that is precisely why I did not overdo it tonight.

Hooper kept flipping the tennis ball in front of my feet, imploring me to toss it downrange, all the way down the hill. We had a blast.

Working on a familiar trail, I have a very obvious yardstick with which to measure any progress, should I end up doing this on a regular basis. And at the same time we incorporate Hooper’s evening constitutional. The uphill grind gets the heart rate up there, without the impact of running. Sure the downhill is hard on the knees, but I can always bring the trekking poles to take the edge off. I think this can work, and get me in shape so that by summer I can take the bike out on the weekend and actually climb some mountains, or at least post a respectable FKT (fastest known time) up to the summit of Bear Peak, one of my favorite places to be in Boulder.

Hoop is snuggled up next to me on the couch; I laid out a blanket and he hopped on up and has been crashed out for a while. So, he’s getting a workout too. Win-win.

Hold it, just hold on a fucking second. The last several Olympics, summer and winter, have carried a certain sporting elitist criticism on various new sports added to the games. Sports like snowboarding and BMX have been derided by various idiots as not being true sports, presumably because the sports’ elite athletes utter words like “stoked” — or the more vehement “totally stoked” — to explain the inner workings of the sport. Frontside. Backside. Fakie. McTwist. Apparently these are unacceptable bastardizations of the English language, but somehow Slachow is perfectly acceptable conversation if you are listening to Scott Hamilton.

Well, this shit all annoyed me but I pawned it off as old school stupidity and narrow mindedness — until tonight, when an event called “Skeleton” was advertised; I tuned in.

Skeleton, Salchow, what’s the difference? The difference is that the latter is an old move that figure skaters do, something about inside edges and outside edges, and landing, and ice, and skates, and I’m bored already. The former, well, the former is not some Halloween prank or costume but rather a freakshow stunt that seems like it made its debut on the MTV show “Jackass” and not a “sport” worthy of any attention on national television or awarding of precious metal medals for the “best” performers of same idiotic activity. But there it is, skeleton, men’s and women’s events, on the TV, with people talking about it like it’s an actual sport. Medals awarded. Let’s compare and contrast “Skeleton” to another winter Olympic sport that proponents should question whether theirs is any more or less a sport than snowboarding or BMX, shall we?

Luge: insane thrillseekers pull through a standing start, then lay on their backs, and proceed to head, feet first, on rails at speeds of 70 MPH and steer — dubiously, I might add — with their legs while they careen down an ice chute toward certain death; winner is the one who gets down the chute fastest while remaining alive. People yell “whoo!”, and ring bells, in encouragement.

Skeleton: insane, moronic, retarded thrillseekers get a RUNNING start, then lay on their STOMACHS on a plastic tub attached to steel rails and proceed to careen, HEAD FIRST, on the same ice chute with little to no directional control, toward certain death; winner is the one who gets down the chute fastest while remaining alive and with their skulls still attached to their spinal columns. People yell “whoo!” and ring bells in encouragement, but the “whoo’s” and the bell ringing has this tentative feel to it, like they are being emitted by people who are feeling like they are about to witness a horrific, decapitating crash at any moment.

This skeleton shit, this is a goddamned freakshow, is what this is. And yet, the commentators talk about this insanity as if it’s a perfectly legitimate “sport”. My questions for these puppets are: Is Johnny Knoxville on the US team, maybe in a coaching capacity, and do they foresee a companion event where instead of using carbon fiber slabs to careen to certain death, they will do a variation of skeleton where they use shopping carts instead? I think it would be awesome to see those uniforms: maybe a red, white and blue leopard print thong or something — with scrotum padding of course.

What do you think?

Wow. So, once again, Brenda & I spent part of a February weekend checking out various films at the Boulder International Film Festival, and once again, we were not disappointed. This year, we had a nice manageable program: a movie a day, Friday through Sunday. Two were at the Boulder Public Library and one was at the fabulous Boulder Theater. The surprise of the weekend was that the library has a great theater; we hadn’t seen any screenings over there to date, and I was expecting folding chairs and a temporary screen. But it turns out that the Boulder Public Library has a really nice theater, on top of everything else it has going for it. And on Friday evening, at the Boulder Library’s theater, we saw “Split Estate”, a decent documentary about the shit going on in northwest Colorado and other southwestern states with the oil companies ruining lives and land right here in America. Check your listings on Discovery Channel or Green Planet or whatever, because it’s airing on there now. Pretty good.

On Saturday, we saw “Ajami” at the Boulder Theater, and the wonderful venue was a stark contrast to the brutal setting and eventuality of the film’s subject matter and gutting plot. The final shot of that film is burned into my brain forever, Gallipoli-style.

Today, it was time for “The Misfortunates”, and this film, this film was the highlight of the festival for me.

It seems like every year since Brenda & I have been going to this festival, we have seen at least one film that has resonated with at least one of us, a film that renews your appreciation for why people make films in the first place. Films that strike a chord, films that make you laugh, and cry — with actual tears, and make you want to do the following: be a better person, call some people on their shit, take better pictures, and write more.

“The Misfortunates” was the film for me, this year, that did it all. A coming of age flick of sorts, set in Belgium; the protagonist, this poor kid, is screwed from the beginning by his situation: crazy family, surrounded by alcoholics and no supervision, no money, crazy uncles, general class angst. And yet this fuels both a fucked up childhood, and, well a fucked up adulthood, but an adulthood that ultimately makes the best of things. This is the best movie I have seen in a long time.

In past years, we have seen “C.R.A.Z.Y.”, “Sunshine Cleaning”, “Anvil; the True Story of Anvil”, and “Diameter of the Bomb”; for the most part, these ended up in mainstream theatres or on cable, but it was fun to see these years ahead of the rest.

I’d say this year was the best of all the years Brenda & I have been attending the festival, but every single year we seem to see at least one memorable film, one that sticks with us forever. I can tell you, “The Misfortunates” is one of those films that will not only stick with me, it will inspire me — forever.

Flying home I pulled up some Colin Hay on the iPhone. What am I, an idiot? I was just asking for trouble. I stared at Kansas through weepy eyes; the upshot is that I ended up finding Lena’s song.

Listen to it here. Lyrics below:

WAITING FOR MY REAL LIFE TO BEGIN

Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
I’ll stand on the bow, feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down down down, on me

And you say, be still my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in
But don’t you understand
I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin

When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened
But in my dreams, I slew the dragon
And down this beaten path, and up this cobbled lane
I’m walking in my old footsteps, once again
And you say, just be here now
Forget about the past, your mask is wearing thin
Let me throw one more dice
I know that I can win
I’m waiting for my real life to begin

Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I’ll check my machine, there’s sure to be that call
It’s gonna happen soon, soon, soon
It’s just that times are lean

And you say, be still my love
Open up your heart, let the light shine in
Don’t you understand
I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin