I'm taking a moment to give shout outs to two friends of mine. Annika (shown cranking hard in this photo) is a fantastic rock climber, (like,... NASTY!) and I miss climbing with her. And Dave (the guy who took this photo) has become quite an accomplished photographer. Some of his shots will freak you out. A couple of the pictures on his website actually effect me viscerally. Check out his stuff at http://www.davevuono.com/

"Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire,

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To know that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice."

~Robert Frost

I recently found a great quotation that reads, "Like a stone in a stream, life smoothes our edges, until we barely make a ripple anymore." Well screw that! I don’t want to have my edges smoothed. In fact, I don’t want to simply make a ripple. I’d rather create a wake. Well, maybe a ripple is more peaceful and less offensive. A wake suggests motor-power, which in turn suggests recreational use of gasoline, which I’m disgusted by, so I suppose a ripple will do just fine, so long as it’s decisively unique. It’s bizarre that our parents contribute a couple of sex cells, and then we spend three quarters of a year growing, developing and simmering in the ovens of our mothers’ wombs, and are expelled with full license to become a mature member of the species. An individual, with unique and private thoughts. A being that will lead a life almost entirely of our own design. Able to make our own ripples, choose our own idols, nurture our own relationships, and develop our own credos.

If I could seriously have just three wishes, what would they be? I’ve found my ugly little ornate golden lamp on a beach somewhere, and I’m about to rub the damned thing in anticipation of some all-powerful genie’s appearance. I should take a few minutes to think about it. What am I going to wish for? Plan it now, before said genie pops out and intimidates the crap out of me, and makes me wish for something stupid, like season tickets to the Red Sox. Okay, my three wishes are; 1.) To never contract any disease or suffer from ill-health; To simply croak from a heart attack on my 100th birthday. 2.) For human population growth to stop entirely. What we are doing to this planet is vile. 3.) For my family and loved ones to be happy. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’d want to ask Mr. or Mrs. Genie to change their lives around in any real way. I would just want them to feel wholly happy in whatever it is they were doing. I’m not sure this last wish would be allowed. That’s sort of like asking for multiple wishes on behalf of other people, but if the genie can control the rate of population growth , happiness for a handful shouldn’t be a problem. Unless maybe I get an apprentice genie who hasn’t yet graduated to universal power status. Like a young rabbit-genie with a sadistic grin and a notepad.

I often wonder what it would be like to spend a day or two in the mind of a different person. Is my intellectual experience atypical, or does everyone harbor a "thought machine" that is mostly ignored? I only wish that my brain were more of a "thought machine" and less of a "distraction machine," or internal noise-maker. Meaning, I wish that I could give my brain an assignment for a month or two at a time. Something like, "Okay gray matter, for the next 60 days you are only allowed to stammer on about metaphysics, or biochemistry, or the workings of alpine ecology. Work hard, stay focused, and file away any significant findings or ideas for future study." But instead, I’m equipped with a brain that stumbles its way around and through thoughts like; I wonder if used book stores smell that way because of a mold or fungal spore, or is it just dust? How many micro-organisms would you guess are living in the soil of that potted plant? Will the wine industry really cause the demise of cork trees in Portugal? Double-You-Tee-Eff-Question mark-Exclamation point.

Sometimes it’s hard to tap into your core. I find it difficult to tap into mine. It’s almost as though I’ve got such an impenetrable outward persona that even I can’t break through it. At times, it seems that the best way to think about who I really am, and to find out what I’m really feeling is to allow alcohol to break down the barrier. Take away any inhibitions. But the trouble with that is that you only get a brief period of time wherein you can reflect and explore with clarity, and then you’re either too drunk to be interested in focused thought or too tired to do anything. Or both.

Measure a man by his whole life, beginning to end. Not just by a few moments. We all make mistakes, right? Accept this of one another. Expect this of one another. I wish I had some great example to insert here. Some story of a really respectable humanitarian who had really screwed up, and moved beyond it to make some wonderful impact. But I can’t think of one. I’m sure there are many. At least, I hope there are many. Somehow, I feel like we should be able to point to some past American President for this label, but my knowledge of American history is limited, and I’m drawing a blank.

We should simply tell everybody how we feel about them. Seriously. Everyone should just be upfront. "Hey, I think that’s great that you’re so understanding, and you’re great with kids," or, "you should try to be less hateful and ignorant." It would keep us all honest, and we’d be better at accepting criticism. And we would all help one another become better people. Remember, honesty is the best policy.

I’m a Jack-Russell Terrier, with a bad case of Napoleon Syndrome. Being a boxer in college did this to me. Okay, it was already there, but boxing strengthened the syndrome’s grip over me. I learned that I could pound the guts out of guys that were a lot bigger than me, and my confidence soared. Not a good thing. I'm prone to running my mouth at people that could probably whip my behind. Basic bulldog psychology; avoid conflict with a display of superior fire-power. Maybe I’m a better actor than fighter. Maybe not.

Sometimes I’m totally filled with sorrow. It’s a weird condition. Not sad, exactly, just filled with sorrow – right up to my Adam’s apple. I don’t cry about it; just soak it up like a fine single malt whiskey. Inhale it, sip it in, and relish the taste. Arbitrary sorrow. No particular reason, just a dark feeling that you can taste. I don’t dislike it. I just soak it up.

I don’t know where I’m coming to. I don’t need to. Hopefully I can just ride the wake of my forward motion and keep an eye on what’s being left behind. It’s all to be noticed in a brief moment. We just wait back here, and daydream, and keep our eyes open for opportunity. Like an opened bedroom door with pipe smoke trailing out toward the mirror on the wall in the hallway. Look at yourself there, brush back your hair, tuck in your shirt, (the mirror is full-length) and bite the stem of your pipe between your teeth. Leave it up to fate. Or at least pretend to be that cool and carefree.

I have to let this go. Time to let it go. I need to express myself. Feel crazy for a while, and just write like a fiend. Hurt and confusion, and even security, and knowing conviction are beautiful. Extremes are at least beautiful, if not always enjoyable. Put it into writing. Be emotionally wreckless. Act as though nobody can see me. Even if people are standing around staring and scrutinizing.

I’m commander and chief of my one man army. Weaker than a one woman army. Testosterone makes men weak. Being able to beat someone in boxing or arm wrestling doesn’t make you strong, in a whole sense of the word. Men are afraid of women, so we’ve used our larger stature to repress them for centuries, because we are intimidated by the thought of meeting them on a level playing field, where we’d place second. Anyone disagree?

Life is too short. Gramp and Jeff have amply proven that to me. We’re all going to die tomorrow. That’s how short life is. This is your warning. All we really do is eat, s*#t, and die. So why is it that I have such a driving desire to leave an indelible mark on my surroundings? I want to create something. Paint or write something that will be revered for centuries – but why? It’s a pretty safe bet that Isaac Newton, Salvador Dali, and Charles Darwin no longer give a s*#t about what any of us think of their work.

Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut. I say things to shock, or anger, or confuse, and it’s liberating. Pushing a person’s comfort envelope. It makes me smile. I don’t need to explain it. My golden rule is that you should never hurt other people. Have fun. Laugh. Play. Even tease another person, as long as they know it’s all in fun. People are too god-damned sensitive. Relax a little folks!!! Political Correctness is the new intolerance. Think about it.