HIM: Can I help you with anything today sir?

ME: Yea, actually I’m looking to replace my running shoes. I’ve got several hundred miles on my current pair and they’re beyond shot by now.

HIM: OK, so what are you looking for?

ME: Well, I’m not sure exactly. I do mostly road work or treadmill, 25-30 miles per week right now, no trails. I know that I tend to prefer a shoe with greater side-to-side stability, and I have a fairly wide foot. Any suggestions out of all these models?

HIM: Running shoes?

ME: [pauses to look at store sign] No, these hot-ass steel toed work shoes over there. At least that’s what I’ve been running in for a few years. Is that a bad thing?…YES RUNNING SHOES. Is there much difference between these? I’m not sure how to select the right pair.

HIM: Just find what you think looks good. This one’s popular, because it’s gray. These are popular, I own these…

ME: Thanks. This has been more helpful than you can imagine.

Classic teenage rebellion. Well to be fair…not really. No smoking. No drinking. No combative, destructive behavior or partying. And more suburban. More…nerdy? Dammit was I deep into punk music, though.

I heard them say that the meek shall reign on earth / Phantasmal myriads of sane bucolic birth. / I’ve seen the rapture in a starving baby’s eyes, / Inchoate beatitude, the Lord of the Flies.

It was the winter of 1996 and I was in my high school’s television studio. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were cleaning up from doing a set of live broadcasts for an open house. As we wound microphone cables, a junior anchorman switched on the studio CD player. Stranger Than Fiction came roaring out, so fierce and fresh to my alternative, grunge-trained senses. This was entirely different from what I was listening to, and I was intoxicated. I scoured the used CD bins at my favorite sanctuary until I found a copy, less than a week later.

Over the next few months, I devoured their entire back catalog. Relentless drums set in double-time filled my bedroom at night. Gone were the doleful mumblings of Cobain and the shrill, nasal meows of Corgan. Instead, crisp harmonies singing pointed, condemning lyrics consumed my attention. They demanded it. It appealed so fittingly to my cynical sense of humor. I was, after all, a snarky sophomore in a well-to-do suburban high school. I had a lot to be self-righteous about. Or so I thought.

I don’t know if the billions will survive / but I’ll believe in god when one and one are five. / My moniker is man and I’m rotten to the core / I’ll tear down the building just to pass through the door.

Bad Religion was one of the few bands that my group of friends enjoyed collectively. Rare EPs were sought after and Jason even had LP covers framed on his bedroom wall. Tyler and I would listen to Against the Grain on repeat during commutes downtown to crew practice. Regatta trips were made more tolerable with a set of headphones and the comforting-yet-castigating lyrics of Greg Graffin. Girlfriends hated it, but we didn’t care. We loved the intellectual investment. I think we also loved that you wouldn’t hear them on the radio. They were The Beach Boys played by The Germs. They were the love-child of Elvis Costello and The Ramones.

11 years after I discovered Bad Religion I can easily see how they helped shape my taste in music and why they’ve stuck with me for so long. I was raised on a combination of Michael Jackson and The Doors, Phil Collins and The Byrds. Indulgent pop artists alongside socially consciousness bands. And while the more foundational groups like The Clash and Black Flag never found permanent home in my collection, it wasn’t because I was at a loss for appreciation. It merely seemed to be angst without direction, without purpose. And while the Ramones might smash guitars with anarchic abandon, I preferred the acerbic, biting lyrics of Brett Gurewitz to show my lack of faith in the establishment. I was rebelling, I just didn’t want to destroy.

The ghost of their lyrical ideologies still haunts me. I still feel the internal jump to cut down someone’s assumed belief, to shake them into questioning and not blindly accepting. Above all, I think the band taught me the power of choice, not the misanthropic anti-theist rhetoric that one might imagine. They explored ideas of materialism and free-will, determinism and evolutionary biology, entropy and reciprocal-altruism. They quoted works of B.F. Skinner, Diogenes and Ludwig Boltzmann. And while I did not agree with their condemnation of organized systems of faith (as a practicing Roman Catholic), I understood that they used the construct of religion as a metaphor for politics. Listening to their music got me to understand why politics demands passionate interest. Their music got me to cast aside apathy and to simply care.

A few years back, my friend Tyler asked me if I thought I’d be listening to Bad Religion when I was a parent, or if it was just a phase that we had passed through. Simple. Developmental. Expected. And while my appetite for this simple song structure has waned, I’m still reminded of a quote from Tommy Ramone, “…I knew that what was needed was some pure, stripped down, no bullshit rock ‘n’ roll.” And judging by what’s on the radio right now, I couldn’t agree more.

I’m a 21st century digital boy. / I don’t know how to live but I’ve got a lot of toys. / My daddy is a lazy middle class intellectual, my mommy’s on Valium, she’s so ineffectual. / Ain’t life a mystery?

In college my junior year, a group of nine of our friends lived in a giant three-story house. As all collegiate relationships go, you inevitably inherit some pretty skanky furniture. This couch in particular was not only god-awfully hideous, it was an L-shaped couch with a pull-out bed that was made of (what I can assume to be) solid lead. Several hours of twisting, turning, heaving and respectable ho-ing finally got the damned thing (nicknamed thusly, “The B*tch”) up into the living room. We made a promise then and there that come move-out day we were chopping it up with an axe and throwing it out a window.

1. Lentils - Methinks I’ve discovered the magic food. I’ve never bought lentils before, because frankly, I don’t think I realized what they were. But I made a batch of dal on Monday and have been enjoying this wonderful, fiberous and protein-packed dish every day since. No fat and a phenomenal source of nutrients. Whoo! Next week is lentil soup.
2. ThingsMyBoyfriendSays.com - I had thought about doing something equally as anonymous for office environments but I never cared enough. The simplicity and wit of the site makes it a gem.
3. Macro photoset of bugs/insects - This guy’s photos are unreal. Seeing as I can’t get an 80lb. dog to stand still long enough to get an unblurred shot makes me appreciate this all the more. How did he get them to sit so pretty? Treats?
4. A tuned-up treadmill - It sounds lame, but I’m the most excited about this FTILFF this week. Considering I spend more than 5 hours each week on it, I should have cared enough in the past. But this week, I finally took the time to tighten the belt so that it no longer slips with every step I take. My knees (and sense of balance) couldn’t be happier.
5. Boston University’s redesign - Holy hell. Not often in higher education do you see such a level of sophistication (in both code and design). I scoured around yesterday to find out if it was done in-house or by an outside firm…no luck. Truly beautiful execution. Not without flaw, but still top-notch.

Unfortunately, move-out day came and “The B*tch” made it out of the house in one piece. A busted stereo, a computer monitor, speakers and other unwanted goods weren’t so lucky.

I’m so totally doing that with our bedroom suite if The Wife™ and I ever move again.

Well, winter finally arrived here in tropical Louisville, Kentucky. An unseasonably warm “winter” gave way to normalcy in the form of a staggering 1/2 inch of snow overnight. And while in previous winters I might not have batted a sleepy eye at such a pittance, this year Jonas, Imperial Lord of Destruction, is with us. And yes, he was so totally stoked to see snow he head almost ‘sploded.

As the clock radio clicked over to 5:55 a.m. and I heard the morning weather report, I knew I was in for it. School closings (I know, but try to contain your laughter, my northern friends) and delays were counted off, and as I got ready for work I had to mentally prepare myself for how Jonas was going to react. And I had just about convinced myself that he wouldn’t even notice it when I reached the bottom of the stairs, rounded the corner only to find him ready for takeoff in his cage, shaking with excitement.

I tried to keep him away from the back door for as long as possible, praying that he wouldn’t ring the bell to go outside. Sadly, nature took over and he needed to use it. After ringing the bell an obnoxious 43 more times he plunked his ass down on the rug in front of the back door. I went over to him and tried explaining that he was going to find new things outside and to please, please, please not get too muddy and wet because I just couldn’t handle that before coffee. As I was talking to him, he leaned around me so that he could see out the glass door, and his sight hit the snow-covered deck. His eyes got as large as King Dongs. He looked at the snow, looked at me, looked at the snow, and then stared at me like, “This? You didn’t tell me that this could happen? WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING FROM ME, HUMAN?” So…I let him play.

Four paws out he already had his face wide open in a futile attempt to swallow the entire deck in one gulp. Side to side, back and forth, licking, snorting, swallowing and chewing (you know, because snow is so, chewy?). He was beside himself and he was hopping. And when I say “hopping” I’m not lying. He was physically bouncing up and down, which of course made the snow fly about even more, which of course delighted him to no end.

After convincing him to give it up and go to the bathroom, I eventually got him inside. Still shaking with happiness, he could hardly walk a straight line. Immediately a fury of toy-chasing commenced and all I could do was stay out of his warpath. He was an absolute maelstrom of glee, and I on the other hand still hadn’t had any coffee.

Suddenly, in the middle of a game of Kick That Tennis Ball!, he stopped and looked at me as if to say, “OH SH*T. I totally forgot about that outside stuff…I hope it’s still there!” He then proceeded to run full-speed towards the door. A bit too enthusiastically, too, as he misjudged the distance and slammed his face into the doorknob. It didn’t stun him one bit.

I begrudgingly let him out once more, this time to watch an even more animated second round of bulldozing and hopping. He eventually figured out how to roll up snowballs with his snout, only to pick them up and smash them with his teeth. At one point, he was so content that he looked up to the deck railing and noticed that there was MORE SNOW! up there, more food for him to devour. And as he pawed-up to ravage this untouched blanket of white, he threw his head back, stuck his tongue out, and smiled at me as if to say, “thank you.”

Then, as I dried off his paws, he bit the sh*t out of my hand. Four times, actually. His Majesty had indeed inflicted his brand of bone-crushing awesomeness onto yet another product of Mother Nature.

I can’t wait until it hails on him.

This entire thing is likely going to come out as complete nonsense as it is not even 8:00 a.m. on a Monday morning. But if I don’t write this down now, I’ll likely forget when I get up to go to the bathroom. That new bathroom sanitizer scent has magical powers, I tell you.

Everyone, regardless of individual differences, struggles with self-perception. At least I would wager to make that bet. In a postmodern world where we have the luxury of contemplating such things as our self image and who we would would “like to become,” I think these are relevant topics of discussion. I just never bother with them because they broadcast an immediate signal of fake intellectualism and haughtiness, neither of which I’m striving for here. Much of my sadness recently has been centered around these conflicts of self. And while I try not to write about topics such as these anymore, I now wonder if this internal dissension is shared on a more communal level.

I’ve determined that (for me) complications of self-image can fall into three categories: who we see ourself as ideally (who we want to be), who we actually are (true self), and who we are trying not to be (who we are afraid of becoming). The interaction, the discrepancies between them and the grey areas in between are where this battle lies.

As a post-boomer-era adult, I know that I struggle with the same issues as others. Raised in a middle-class home, a child a relative privilege, I grew up with little character-building strife only to become an adult who yearns to know who I am, what my true self is. With no real defining tests early in life, it is no wonder I am 26 years old with relatively no concept of who I am…just who I want to be and who I’m afraid I am…unfortunate shadows and projections of my actual self. I ache for the unification of all three planes of existence.

What I am unsure of is how to unite these. Do the mergers of who I want to become and who I’m afraid of being combine to create the person of who I actually am? Or does this middle state already exist? And are we meant to go through our life trying to pin down with our little thumbs a state of being that isn’t even meant to be actualized? This is getting to wishy-washy. Perhaps examples will help.

Let’s say that I ultimately want to be a person who does not complain, no matter what life hands him. I want to be someone who is moderate in all things, responsible and follows love above all else. However, I am afraid that I am someone who buckles under hardship, someone who is weak and would choose comfort over anything.

With the first and third “planes” established, where does that leave the second, the middle stage of “who I actually am?” Is it by default an average of the first and third, meaning that I am in reality not quite as bad OR good as I fear/want? Or is the reality of it that I just flipflop between the first and third extreme on a situational basis? Does #2 only exist because #1 and #3 do? Or are 1 and 3 simple by-products of the second stage because all that truly matters is who we actually are based on our actions?

I am at a loss. I feel like the discussion of this is all for naught, a mere indulgence in a western luxury of even having time to think of such navel-gazing things. I simply don’t want to live my life regretting who I think I am and feeling guilty for not being the person that I want to be.

This topic is escaping me now. Maybe I need to abandon it and revisit it later…

I’m not sure what our parents did when we were younger, but more than half of my friends from high school are now going bald. Was it from smoking grass? Free love? Nixonian politics? Whatever it was, we now have a freaky epidemic, from what I can humbly detect, where under-30 males are now thinning like crowds at a J-Lo movie.

1. The funniest thing you’ll see all day - No other explanation needed, just click. I promise it’s worth it.
2. Beauty & The Geek - Can I say that? Is that OK? No, I knew it wasn’t. Nonetheless, I’ve actually become invested in the DVR’d episodes that The Wife™ watches. Granted, I have to do other things around the house at the same time to counteract violent tendencies when some of them speak, but oh well. Go Nate!
3. The new air freshener in the office bathroom - I’m not sure if this is a comment on how sad my life is, or a self-pat on the back for noticing the small things each day. Either way, the fact that they changed the auto-dispensing deodorant in our otherwise deplorable ’70s era truckstop bathroom is a welcomed thing. Goodbye “Swampass & Lilacs,” hello “Barely Detectable Daisy!”
4. From Trophy Wife to Toxic Wife - A sad commentary on modern (albeit British in this case) culture. I find the male point of view atypical and nonconforming to the stereotype that I would have expected. A quick, sobering read. Thank God I found someone who is *so* not like this.
5. Sin City - Yes I’m going through a movie phase. It only took 26 years to manifest, thank you Netflix. I watched this Frank Miller adaptation this week and was blown away. If you were to bring a noir-style comic book to screen, I can’t imagine any other way to do it. Cinematically it is one of the more beautiful executions I’ve ever seen. The hyper-sexualization of characters and caricatured violence are excusable because of source material, and the stellar cast makes it all the more forgivable. Mickey Rourke is a total badass.

My own hair started down the Boulevard of Gray when I was nine and eventually came to an intersection with Receeding Hairline Road at about 23. How street analogies relate to hairlines, I haven’t figured out yet. One thing is clear though: Listen up hair! No more going backwards, got it? Stay put until otherwise told. I don’t care what the other guys are doing. But feel free to turn grey all you want. I don’t care about that.

No, there’s no cool story here. I don’t even know if “Eclipse Bay” is a real place (if it is, and you live there, I’m sorry…not necessarily that I’ve offended you but that you live in a place that sounds like a cliche for the entire decade of the ’80s). What this is, however, is rant about the most exciting thing I can think of: my local library.

My reading habits are sporadic and transitionally linked in no way to tangible events in real life. For months I’ll plow through books only one day to stop and no have the desire to pick up another for many more. Mostly I read non-fiction. I tend to go for pieces of social-commentary, psychological or philosophically-based books. Since graduating from college I think I’ve read less than a dozen selections of fiction. I guess it’s because there’s so much crap out there I don’t know where to start. And my local library isn’t helping.

The Wife™ is a library junkie. She pillages our local branch several times each month and has no problems waltzing in and snatching up a dozen or so books before she checks out. What. The. Hell!? I can’t even find ONE book over 12 pages that doesn’t register on the Suck-O-Meter.

I’ve tried the “look online before you go” route to perhaps ease my selection process. This is no help, because since we moved, our new branch has perhaps 50 entire books that do not contain mentions of such topics as “guns,” “uses for pig lard” or ” big ol’ monster truck parts.” Did I mention we live in Kentucky? It’s “where education pays.” So not kidding…

So with such a limited selection, I am forced to fall back on the old stack-surfing method. I methodically peruse each aisle, skimming titles in search of something, anything that won’t offend my Northern sensibilities. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Each and every single shelf is filled with countless books on one of the following topics:

• Murder, which might also consist of cover-ups, revenge, old murder cases, DNA as evidence, foiled murder plots, murders that have inspired Lifetime Movies and/or accidental murders. These typically have blood-red, shiny embossed letters on the cover and are what you hear talking heads refer to as a “must-read psychological thriller!”
• International espionagey/non-intriguing intrigue, which also include things about the CIA, FBI, NSA (and other various governmental agencies), planes, bombs, mistaken identities, trench coats, “computer hackers” and likely DNA. Give me a bag of Doritos and three hours of a TNT Law & Order marathon and I could write one myself.
• Romance, which also includes the topics of lust, lost love, betrayed love, destined love, beach houses and likely DNA. Trust me on that. These books come in sets of 225 at a time, each with names like Esteban, Braden and Victoria as the protagonists. If you see a horse, sunset or man with no shirt on the cover, you’ve found the 80% of the library collection containing “romance.” Hide these from your wives.
• Old crap, no, not “classics.” These are the books that your eyes pass over because they have no fancy dust jacket. The can range in topics, but usually have titles that elicit nothing but complete and total indifference to them, such as Any Old Iron or The Brethren. I consider these shelf filler, as no one has actually ever checked them out. Likely their pages are glued together.

Ultimately this leaves me to dig through an eerily populated Crockpot Recipes section or else the Folk Art collection. Apparently, “crap that might be interesting to read” section doesn’t exist at this branch. I should have been tipped off by the lack of the Dewey Decimal system. Our branch labels their aisles “books right here,” “big ‘uns books,” “books to jack your truck up with,” “books with purty covers,” and “books that ain’t required to graduate middle skool.” Again, I live in Kentucky.

So back to the library I’ll go tonight, to stare blankly at the 50 or so books available, hoping that perhaps one will shoot out of the stack and hit me in square in the nose, letting me know that it is indeed going to be a worthwhile read. Otherwise, I’ll continue my trend of blinking confusedly at the librarian as I leave empty handed only to return home to read Crockpot recipe books. At least these don’t talk about DNA, from what I can tell.

“Dear, did you put the dog back into his cage when you got home? Because I keep hearing noises downstairs.”

“Of course I did! That’s ridiculous! Why—OK now you’re making me doubt myself…” (leaves to check)

“Oh…um, OK. So I guess not, he’s just walking around in the dark.”

“Crap, what has he ruined?”

“Actually, nothing. He picked up the remote and pranced around the room with it, but that seems to be it.”

“What the hell? He’s more destructive when I’m LOOKING DIRECTLY AT HIM.”

Ahh, one year old today, issue numero five deuce. Let’s take a look back and see what I wrote in the very…fi…wait, what!? A year ago we were on FTILFF #7? How the hell did that happen? Richard did you screw up with the abacus again? You reject! Number 52 is supposed to happen ONE YEAR after it began. Get it? #52=one post per week for 52 weeks. Wait, it was Meridith? Don’t pass that bla…hold on, who’s Meridith?

Gah, I can’t get good help around here. Anyway, here’s the Super-Pretendo One Year Anniversary of FTILFF. Really it’s just another week’s edition, but let’s close our eyes and believe, ok? Clap your hands if you feel the need:

1. The Apple iPhone - Calling all fanboys! That’s me, reporting for duty, sir. I dig it. It was announced this week. I love the interface and the features, but most of all I love the fact that Steve Jobs made the telcom bozos work for him, not the other way around. We get the shaft in this country on phone technology and it’s about time we see some Jetson’s sh*t ‘round here.
2. The Joy of Cooking - It’s the one book you know anyone who’s mildly serious about cooking has. I got the 75th Anniversary edition (which is one of the better pressings) but hadn’t used it for more than researching dough behavior and yeast. I finally broke out a muffin recipe and a calzone dough recipe this past week and ooooohweeee were they tasty. Combined with the fact that I got to used my new pizza stone and GIANT MUFFIN TINS! (must be screamed when read), it was a great week in our house, food-wise.
3. Cleaning up my workspaces - I spent time this week sprucing up my work and home computers, sending files to die by deletion and dusting off cluttered desktops. Since most of my life is lived on a computer, I need to feel refreshed by my workspace. And a tidy computer is a productive computer, no?
4. The Scion Fuse concept - I came across this while reading an article this week and it took me off guard. I’m still not sure how I feel about the back, but this design screams awesomeness to me overall. Bold an agressive, with a nod to the tech culture somehow. It works. Perhaps this will be my mid-mid-life crisis car? No? Ok.
5. V for Vendetta - I finally got around to seeing this film this week. And while it will likely turn into a full movie review here soon, it definitely was a highlight of the week. Poignant and intellectually stimulating, and chock-full of great references (TS Elliot, Goethe’s Faust, etc). I should probably watch it again in order to digest it further, and even read the original Alan Moore graphic novels.

Richard, you’re on probation for this whole counting fiasco. Who the hell did you work for before me, by the way, Enron?

Oh, seriously? That was a blind guess. A joke actually. Sorry? And wait, who’s Meridith?!

This past weekend two of my favorite people came to stay with us. Seth & his wife Laura currently live in Indianapolis where they both work entirely too hard for a city nicknamed “Naptown.” I certainly know what I would do if I lived there.

Anyway, they both had some time off and graciously stayed two nights with us. The Wife™ and I spent the entire week leading up to this whispering things into Jonas’ floppy ears, but he wouldn’t listen. He would just cock his head and look at us as if to say, “look, human-thing, I have far more important things to do in my secret underground lair, so be gone now with your blabbering.” However, Jonas’ head almost ‘sploded when his bestest friend in the whole wide world came prancing through the door Friday night. Take that to your underground lair, pal.

Apollo is Seth and Laura’s dog, another rescued soul like Jonas, but one so delicate and diva-like it makes you wonder if she wasn’t born on a satin pillow with a mimosa in her hand paw. Part black lab, part Italian greyhound, Apollo (named after Seth’s favorite “Showtime at the Apollo”) is possibly the sweetest and most gentle dog on the planet. If it weren’t for the fact that she ignores the “urination outside” rule, I would have likely stolen her, put her in the closet and shoved Jonas into their car as they pulled out of the driveway on Sunday. Surely they wouldn’t have noticed the 30-pound loud-mouthed difference.

And while the weather was craptacular, necessitating that all 8 paws be dried on an average of every 5.6 seconds, Thing 1 and Thing 2 didn’t really seem to care. I’m embarrassed to admit that besides playing ten hours of board games, we pretty much just sat around and watched the dogs romp, wrestle and fight play. ‘Cuz thats just whut we does ‘round here in Kentucky.

They played, for hours on end, until Apollo would get grumpy and need to take one of those fictitiously-famous Naptown naps. Jonas spent their time apart woofing his head off until she was done. This is yet another instance in which dog-logic does not translate to people-logic. I’m 100% confident that if The Wife™ wanted to take a nap and I stood at the bedroom door screaming, “HEY! ARE YOU DONE WITH THE SLEEPING YET?!” that she would throw heavy objects at my head.

Sadly, Seth & Laura had to leave, and thusly so did Jonas’ only salvation from us human-things. In a last-ditch attempt to stop his best friend from, like, totally walking out that door and ripping his heart out or whatever, he grabbed her leash and sat down, saying, “Park it, sister. You’re going nowhere.” I imagine this in my own head as the canine equivalent of the lawn/radio scene in “Say Anything.” Just without the Peter Gabriel song. Or opposable thumbs.

Since Sunday afternoon, Jonas has moped around the house. No energy, no will to inflict terror or bone-crushing awesomeness onto inanimate objects. He sits and he stares. He checks the basement door to see if they’re still there, perhaps hiding and taking a reaaaaaaally long nap so that they can play for what he could only hope would be a week straight. His best friend is gone away, and he’s found that a part of him is now missing as a result.

Funny thing is, the same can happen to us human-things. I’m watching that door too, buddy.

I’m going to run a marathon before I die. It’s been decided. I’ve placed it on my unofficial “List of Things To Do Before I Die.” And I say this is the “unofficial” list because I think “official” listings of things to do before one dies are slightly pathetic and actually quite cliched. So unofficially, I plan to do this. It’s official.

This is the point that I should mention that I hate running, and also that I cannot convey with enough passion or emphasis just how much I hate running. So between you and I, let it be simply known that me and running are never going to coexist as well as, perhaps “music and I” or even “any non-chafing or sweaty thing and I.” Yet I still plan to run a marathon. Even if it is the cause of my death, thus terminating any item below it on the aforementioned, unofficial list.

The reason that I want to run a marathon is that I think it’s probably the worst thing I could do to myself, of my own free will. I’m a enthusiastic believer in habituation. Ergo, I want to be able to do something that I loathe more than anything else on this Earth, enough times, over and painfully over, until I can complete a final task so unimaginable to me prior to the process of habituation, that it becomes seemingly trivial. Still with me? No? Great!

I am a weak, terrible person. I annoy myself to no end and wish I could purge all the terrible flaws and foibles taking residence inside my personality. The only way that I was able to conceive of doing this, years ago, was through habituation. My “Philosophy and Ethics 101” course in undergrad actually taught me something. Thanks Dr. Polt! And while I could list rather extensively the things that annoy me about me, I won’t. Because that would be annoying. Instead, I’ve tried over the past 10 years or so to place myself in situations that force a face-to-face reckoning with those weaknesses that I abhor most about myself. I think it actually works.

I don’t want to complain. I don’t want to be a sniveling, action-less and infantile grouse. So I play the opposite game. Fearful of a hard day’s labor? Deliver steel and drywall for 13 hours a day for two summers and learn what it’s actually like. Afraid that you’re physically indolent? Force yourself into a grueling and rigorous exercise routine for 5 years. Perhaps you even dislike the taste of most “healthy” foods. Eat ‘em until you realize that sometimes taste isn’t the most important factor in choosing your diet.

In a way so devoid of self-righteousness and callous condescension, I think this is healthy for me. I’m hard on myself because I deserve it. I need it. The only glitch is that I need to learn to not extend those unrealistic expectations to encompass others. The height of the bar that I set for my own self cannot automatically be transfered to anyone else, as it is unfair, rude and will ultimately be the cause of many arguments.

So while my unofficial list of “things to do before I die” does not contain fun things like “dance through puddles in Trafalgar Square,” or “take a gondola ride in Italy,” it doesn’t mean that I’m a total square. My aspirations to run a marathon or build my own house by hand are those which I hope will only make me a better person, more able to enjoy all the truly fun things in life along the way. Otherwise I’ll just be the same annoying dolt who’s been to a few neat places. And that would both unofficially and officially suck.

Guess I better lace up my running shoes…

When I was in middle school, my life revolved around the Super Nintendo for a short amount of time. My parents, being intelligent and responsible, hooked the system up on their bedroom TV, so that they could monitor my usage. I didn’t even realize it at the time. Super sneaky ninja parents!

1. Tree goats - Yes, you read that right. Goats. In trees. I thought it was a joke at first but Google says it’s not. I can’t think of anything funnier, except of course if they were wearing pants. That might actually too much to handle, though.
2. Shuffleface - Even the name is hilarious. From the firm mono-1 comes this new year toy. Mix and match employees features to create some really funny images. Beautiful photography/Photoshop work.
3. Monsterpod - This monopod looks super high-tech. I love the fact that it’ll stick to virtually any surface. And while I would be mere seconds away from ordering one, I fear my D70 is a bit husky for it. But if I had a point-n-shoot, you can bet your ass I’d have one of these!
4. Getting your ass handed to you by the treadmill - OK, so I know it sounds like something I shouldn’t love, and ask me about it again around 4:30pm EST and I might change my tune. But the new year has brought a refreshed dedication to being healthy, which included adding an extra mile to my daily run, and slowly increasing the incline to 80% over the 4 miles. Needless to say, my body is in misery right now trying to adapt. But dammit it feels good to be sore.
5. Return of the Yuppie - A sad read, but mildly enlightening nonetheless. It’s true that the yuppies of the ’80s would blush at the gargantuan scale to which Western culture has embraced much of what was once ridiculed. We all consume far too much needless crap. Guilty as charged.

Unfortunately, I had also learned to express frustration in the form of a few mild expletives around this same time. And once, when I saw the videocamera in my parents room, I was convinced that they were spying on me. Ninja style. I was so paranoid that they had caught me cussing that I watched the entire tape to make sure. Turns out my dad was merely taping blank space over old tapes to reuse them.

It’s true, everyone else seems to publish their new year’s lists come the turn of the calendar. I’ve done it for a few years now, but for 2007 I’ll take the same dual-list approach that I did last year. It’s lame, I know. But beyond helping me quantify 365 days, it’s also about the only thing I can come up with to write about on this first day back to work after 10 days off. So here goes nothing.

2006: Some things that I managed to do during those 8,760 hours

1. Got a dog. Had no idea what the hell I was in for, but this gets checked off the list. (with bloodied fingers, might I add)
2. Bought a(nother) house. We upgraded in May. We weren’t necessarily planning on doing it so soon, but we jumped when the market started showing signs. Glad we did. Now we can store junk in more places for even longer!
3. Made 15 gallons of homebrew. One cider that’s still aging, one passable beer and one batch of winter ale that I’m actually quite proud of. Good job, self.
4. Redesigned this site and also launched another. Though both could likely stand for retweaking already, I’m still happy with it. Being your own client sucks the hardest.
5. Rode the bus to work. I’ve enjoyed public transportation in other countries for years, but never had a need to do so here in the land of no-mass-transit-systems. And though moving to a new office has put the squash on be being able to do so currently, for three months over the summer I was saving 300+ miles per week on my car. It felt great.

And while 2005 was a year of big changes, 2006 was a year of digging in and pushing forward. And as for 2007…

2007: Some things I hope to do in the next 8,712 hours

1. Do more freelance work
2. Get another dog (to distract the first one while I run out the door, duh.)
3. Buy a porch swing and sit on it while having a homebrew
4. Invite/host all of my friends to stay for a(t least one) weekend. This is one I don’t plan on telling The Wife about.
5. Start weight lifting. Running is no longer cutting it (pun intended).
6. Change earrings. I’ve kept the same trusty pair since 2001. I need a change.
7. Enter a homebrew into the state fair, just for the ribbon saying I participated in the Kentucky State Fair.
8. Wear said ribbon in public without laughing
9. Finish #4, #5, #7 and #8 from last year
10. Run a marathon. Ok, well that’s the longshot one for this year. I’ve resolved to do this before I die (or perhaps this is how I WILL die). Maybe 2007 will be the year for it? (the running, not the dying).

Now off to get crackin’ on these…