fishes_dreams

06:08 pm: Vision of Things to Come
     My green, and sometimes blue, eyes have not always been the most perceptive set of ocular antennae in the world.   For instance, twenty-four-plus years have apparently not been sufficient for my lids to get their shit together.  I’ve been told, in tones both conspiratorial and amused, that I wink uncontrollably during normal conversation.  On the other hand, oftentimes during my adolescence my eyes would simultaneously blink and cross in an uncontrollable and head-jerking twitch.  Part of me would like to chalk this up to a recessive feature of the epilepsy that runs through my family’s genes.  However, I know it to be a nervous tic usually employed in between pitches in Vista National Little League’s right field, where I would envision fly balls that I most assuredly would drop.  My eyes also routinely fall victim to their exotic counterpart: a female’s deep-blue, entrancing gaze.

     Despite these retinal shortcomings, I have always privately rejoiced in the fact that I was not condemned at birth to the brown-eyed banality under which most of the population suffers.  Now that this exaltation has been made public via The Net (starring Sandra Bullock), I might as well add that Van Morrison can go fuck himself underneath the stadium bleachers where he seduced his slut of a nostalgic girlfriend in the lyric days of yesteryear.

     All that being said, my eyes are not so faulty as to miss the fact that my graduate education will commence tomorrow in a coffee shop located in Kitsilano, Vancouver’s ritzy, post-hippie, beach enclave, where I will meet my initial academic advisor, who also happens to be teaching the class I will TA this semester.  (A wannabe Canuck’s caffeine-addled, yet soused aside: my favorite coffee shop I’ve found here offers both cappuccinos and the cheapest four-pint pitchers in town.  It’s named Our Town, after a famous play I’ve never seen, but inexplicably features a giant canvas painting of Gary Cooper’s lonely stand in High Noon, a famous film I have seen.) 

     Tomorrow it gets real.  Tomorrow I need to safely swim to shore from the Sea of Complacency in which I’ve been serenely and sedately swimming for the last eighteen months.  My first Michael Phelpsian stroke out of my stoned torpor occurred in Washington’s Tulalip Indian Reservation, an hour south of the border, where I ditched my resin-encrusted pipe and over four grams of herbal enhancers.  I’m not so blind to see that tomorrow the next 800,000 meters of academic freestyle begin.  And I’m going for gold, motherfuckers.

09:24 pm: A Whacky Idea
If I ever abandon my dreams of obtaining a Ph.D. in political science and drop out of school in order to open up a porno shop, I shall name it the Splurge'n'Spooge. 

12:08 am: The Friars' Club Doesn't Have Shit on Me
My father turns sixty-years-old in three days.  He has always usurped the entire month of August as his "birthday month," and in that proud tradition his surprise party was on the 9th.  His ingrate children, however, were too busy to show up.  Instead, we collaborated on a roast of my ole pappy, which was delivered in front of the entire party.  My sister, Aja, sent me a fabulous outline.  True to form, I waited until the night before the party to write the speech, and then I emailed it to my mother, who read it.  I am told that it was a smash hit.  Judge for yourself.


"A Speech from the Kids"

Among other things, Ralph Reed has always been a moral compass during troublesome times, and an inspiration to those who are lost.  Most of all, his life to date has demonstrated how the power of religious faith can conquer intense homosexual desires.

What's that?  You say that's the other Ralph Reed, the leader of the Christian Coalition?  Oh well, we can still wish this old bastard, whoever he is, a very happy birthday.  At least, all of you can.  We, his children, have better things to do, so we just sent this speech.

We kid, of course, because our dad taught us everything we know... about the effects of alcohol on the human body.  We learned that proper nutrition entails Bailey's in your morning coffee, a tequila sunrise for breakfast, a martini or two at lunch, wine for dinner, and bourbon for dessert.  Dad was also adamant that we get a good education at the earliest possible age.  That's why he taught Aja about gravity when he dropped her as a baby, while fumbling for his beer. 

But it wasn't all work and no play for us growing up with Ralph for a father.  After all, he puts the "fun" in functional alcoholic.  And what's more fun than playing a little croquet in your daughter's high heels?  Or what can beat catching a few rays in your above-ground pool with nothing but a book, a natty ice, and a Speedo purchased in Hillcrest?

Naturally our dad's birthday reminds us of the countless other holidays we spent together.  He always had a knack for making those special days truly unforgettable.  For instance, there was the Christmas eve when he told Sam's then fifteen-year-old girlfriend about his ole' Christmas stiffy.  Just as memorable was the New Year's Day spent in Zion National Park, when he opened up a bottle of bubbly by rocketing the cork right into his daughter's temple.  In all fairness, he could have stopped Aja from running away if he wasn't too busy laughing. 

Cheap shots notwithstanding, our dad really did make the holidays special.  It's always a challenge not to fall on the ground laughing at the Charlie Brown Christmas trees he miraculously fastens from branches ripped out of the pine in our front yard.  Yet, they are always more endearing and magical than any store-bought, traditional tree ever could be.

And that's exactly why we love you so much, dad.  Because you're not traditional in any sense of the word, and our lives are infinitely richer for it.  It's normal to throw your son batting practice before a game, but it's a little off-kilter to give him some chin-music in order to demonstrate that you own the inside part of the plate.  Also, many parents instill a love of sports into their children, but few do it through the world of gambling. 

All joking aside, we can only hope to thank him enough for all that he provided us through the years.  Saying happy birthday is only the beginning of paying him back for the many ways he shaped our lives, such as reading us Jonathan Livingston Seagull as a bedtime story, helping us with our homework despite tears of  frustration,  teaching us about the majesty and  value of the great outdoors,  and bringing home the bacon during our formative years.  That is,  until his wife emasculated him by consistently earning more than him over the last decade.

Dad's sixty years of exuberant life have been a lesson in doing what you have to do, while still having plenty of fun.  He has cultivated his theory of "the balance scale of life," and he is a living example of its success.  Hopefully his mantra leads to sixty more years, because so far, it's been a hell of a lot of fun.

We love you so much, Dad.  Happy Birthday!



photo by Lydia Rhyne

03:13 am: The Worst Tag Team Partner Ever
    "Give 'em the tomahawk, Ronny!  Then let me finish 'em!" cried the eleven-year-old over the squeaking of the rusty trampoline springs.  His hand was stretched out, absolutely begging to be tagged, and his blood-lust was reaching a fever pitch.  His friend was sloppily executing  professional wrestling moves on another classmate, bouncing, bouncing.  But the glory was not to be his that afternoon in the not-so-squared circle.  Little Ronny left his partner hanging and pinned his opponent .
    "One...two...three, ding, ding, ding!"
    The match was over.  They never spoke again.

02:17 am: Of Mice and Nukes
Since Wednesday I've been living alone in Vancouver with no friends or family.  Thankfully, I have a little pal named Zissou to keep me company (no, not my penis).  He is a peach-faced lovebird, and quite a cool, cuddly customer.  But just tonight I found out that I'm not quite as alone as I had previously thought.  A little mouse scurried across my kitchen counter and behind my microwave.  I shouldn't pretend to be shocked, though.  After all, I live in the remodeled basement of a 1910 Victorian home.  Maybe Zissou and the mouse can be friends... or enemies!


On an unrelated note, I need to sound off on the controversy surrounding Russia's enraged reaction to the US and Poland signing a missile defense accord.  Why is no one mentioning the fact that ballistic missile defense doesn't fucking work?!  Russia thinks America will infringe on its historical sphere of influence (which gets less historical with each illegitimate use of force by the Ruskies) by reducing the strategic capability of its nuclear arsenal.  Meanwhile, America is sinking billions of dollars into developing this pipe-dream.  Neither side will admit that the technology has never been proven to work, and couldn't possibly overwhelm Russia's thousands of nuclear weapons.  It won't even be able to shoot down Iran's one or two nukes!  The Americans are more at fault for pursuing this ridiculous and wasteful technology, but the Russians should get a grip and realize it poses no tangible threat to them.  The second Iraq War was so damn successful that I guess we're pushing for a second Cold War.  At least Americans can have a more reasonable fear than that of terrorism: nuclear winter.

01:41 pm: I moved to Canada, and they think I'm slow, eh?
Seeing as how I'm oblivious to the intricate nuances of Canadian culture, the assumption I'm about to make is not grounded in any sort of fact or observation.  Nevertheless, I think Canucks eat a lot of buffalo.  So when I was at the supermarket yesterday, and ground buffalo caught my eye, I figured, when in Rome...(please, go on).  My buffalo marinara sauce proved quite savory, and I hope it marks a degree of assimilation into my new culture.  Either that, or it's the first of many uninformed and unwarranted judgments made by an ugly American.  But really, what are they going to do, ride me out on a rail?  Please!

10:48 pm: I hope
that my journal doesn't get erased.

12:33 am: Wake-walking
Strange sleeping schedule lately.  I guess that's what happens when you work at 6:30am every day.  At least one in every five mornings gallantly offers up a stunning sunrise (replete with neon-pink sky trails left by red-eye flights into San Jose International).  Today's curious sleeping patterns looked like this:

        Go to bed: 1:50am
         Wake up:  5:55am
        Go to bed: 1:45pm
         Wake up:  6:26pm

I feel like a computer programmer for Christ's sake. 

07:30 pm: It's Halloween Again
Sitting on the cusp of my back deck tonight, I watched bats dart across a steeply rising, blackberry covered embankment, feasting on so many gnats and 'skeeters.  God bless you, you vampyric ninjas of the early dusk!  And, for once, you're just oh so festive!  In fact, your crepuscular chow-time is starting to make the all-hallowed spirit shoot straight out my ass.  At least, I hope that's what that is.

Anyways, just don't get stuck in my Bob Ross 'fro, lil' bat dudes.

05:20 pm: Image Problem
Want to know exactly how far the world's opinion of the USA has fallen?  The Washington Post reports:

"The junta also sought to discredit the monks. The New Light of Myanmar, a government-run daily newspaper, reported that during “purification” searches at 18 monasteries, the authorities had found, among other things, pornographic videos, “one Nazi headband and two American headbands.” At the same time, government-run media carried pictures of generals kneeling and bowing before senior monks with cash and food donations — an apparent effort to soften the military’s image."

So in their efforts to slander the peacefully protesting (and brutally slaughtered) monks, the military generals that control Myanmar are telling their citizens that the monks possessed 1 Nazi headband and 2 (two!) American headbands. 

First off, can I borrow anyone's American headband?  I seemed to have lost mine. 

In regards to America's image in the world (shining beacon of liberty and democracy?), not only were we lumped with Nazis, but in order to stir up the maximum amount of Burmese ire, those military fuckheads decided that these Monks were, on the whole, more American than Nazi.