[synaptic disunion II]

toadman's guitar trinity...

2007-08-13T19:55:00.000-07:00

I love music, as you all know. Among the many many notable guitarists in the world, I've recently decided that there is a guitar trinity...at least my own personal guitar trinity. Each person must find their own path to guitar enlightenment, I believe.

Below, are YouTube clips of the three guitarists that are central in my own personal pantheon of guitar rock and roll.

Steve Howe

David Gilmour

Steve Hackett

You may notice that I don't go in for "shredders," but more for emotive and artsy players. I like guitarists that can make you feel, rather than scream. But hey, that's just me.

closing titles...

2007-08-13T11:39:00.000-07:00

The ballet of papers, pens, people and property is ending. Tomorrow. The endless numbers of people involved are finally getting what they want out of us. First parties, second parties, third parties who are neutral...all parties, are getting their little slice of our American Pie. I hope they enjoy it...I hope this American Dream is all it's been promised to be also.

It's funny. I've always heard, or at least understood, that ownership is the hallmark of the American Dream. But it only seems like long term rental, so far as I can tell. Our house has sat on this spot since 1939. It has been owned by no less than three families/individuals since that time. We will be the fourth owners of this house. Do they still own the place? They own the memories they made in this place, to be sure. Their memories haunt the walls too, I can feel them. But the answer is no. They do not own this place. Nobody really owns it, we only borrow it from the future, for a time.

And so, we enter into a terrifying new world for us. A world of home ownership. Will it be a money pit? I don't know. We'll just live from day to day, and see what happens as life moves on around us, on our little piece of rented ground.

don't panic...

2007-08-09T06:22:00.001-07:00

The CD player in my car is broken. I have one of those portable ones that connects to the tape player and the cigarette lighter...you know the kind? It's a hacked together system. Something I'm sort of known for. However, due to simple laziness, the contents of a forgotten soda in a cup holder (a major selling point for many cars, I'm told) adjacent to where I keep the player eventually left the security of it's paper cup container and shorted out the unit, and I'm left music-less, for the time being, on my drives to work. Do they still play music on the radio? [listening] Ah...ok, so I see the answer is "no."

I've become convinced, that one of my biggest inspirations for writing is music (children and love and landscapes notwithstanding). I've become dependant upon the images I magically receive when listening to the music I enjoy. National Public Radio hasn't been nearly as inspiring as my music. Perhaps I should drink more coffee, or would that be considered a "performance enhancing drug" and leave me unable to knock one out of the park? I don't know. I just feel, sometimes, like I've been buried under 1500 feet of rock due to questionable mining practices, and I'm suffocating while waiting for people to find me.

Maybe I'll run for President. I've done it before, but nothing really came of it. I don't think people were ready to have a commoner as president. I think most people know more about what's happening to skinny blonds than what's up with my views on socialized medicine and the Iraqi conflict. It's not my fault though, I have people who can tell them, you know? As for me, I'll just run my campaign from the coffee shop down the hill. I'm sure the Kafka coffee house can handle the pressure...I know I can't.

Good morning everyone...how are you all holding up this week?

juxtaposition...

2007-08-07T06:45:00.000-07:00

Every day I am bombarded by news, work, stress, and noise. Most of everyone I know is bombarded by the same. The same death on the news, the Iraqi conflict, falling bridges, mortgage crisiseses (is that mispelled?), shootings, jumpings, missings, dyings...the crush of information is almost overwhelming. But most days, all I can think of is this:

Now, I am the sun, I am the first day of summer
Never give in to the dark deep, fast becoming
Now, I am the moon, I am the end of the tunnel
Never believe in the dark ages, let's move a mountain...!!

Call me ageless, call me ghost, the diamond duke behind the shades
The sunflower beneath the skyline swaying in the land of snakes
Hey, I used to be a king, now I'm just a king of laughter

Lyrics - The Flower Kings - I Am The Sun (part I)

letting it go...

2007-08-02T09:41:00.000-07:00

In November of 2005, I moved from my old blog, to this version of my blog. I made changes. I grew. I wrote differently.

The old blog, also named [ synaptic disunion ] and started in 2002, had become an encumbrance to me. It was full of political tripe, angry talk about nothing in particular, and had, in short, become something I wasn't proud of anymore. Therefore, I made a break from it, and moved here. However, I left the old one up. There was a link to it, on the bottom right of this one.

After much thought, I've decided that I just need to let it go. It was bad. It, in fact, sucked. I looked over it today, before I destroyed it, and I'm happy I deleted it all. No longer will the internet have to endure the old rantings of an angry early thirty-something. I've changed a lot since 2002, mentally, I think.

I kept some of the rare "good" posts from that era, and may be reviving them someday soon. But for now, it's gone, and I feel lighter.

You shout in your sleep.
Perhaps the price is just too stepp.
Is your conscience at rest if once put to the test?
You awake with a start to just the beating of your heart.
Just one man beneath the sky,
Just two ears, just two eyes.
You set sail across the sea of longpast thoughts and memories.
Childhood's end,
Your fantasies merge with harsh realities.
And then as the sail is hoist,
You find your eyes are growing moist.
All the fears never voiced say you have to make your final choice.
Who are you and who am I to say we know the reason why?
Some are born;
Some men die beneath one infinite sky.
There'll be war, there'll be peace.
But everything one day will cease.
All the iron turned to rust;
All the proud men turned to dust.
And so all things, time will mend.
So this song will end.

powered by ODEO

Artist - Album - Song
Pink Floyd - Obscured by Clouds - Childhood's End

kickin' back on a sunday afternoon...

2007-07-31T14:39:00.001-07:00

Pictures0132
Originally uploaded by toadmaster

Sunday is our day to kick back, and relax, in this Inland Empire of ours. This past Sunday we headed up in the afternoon to pick Huckleberries on Mount Spokane.

We like our little mountain. It's not huge, it's not snow-capped, it's not overbearing or over-dangerous. But it's a holy mountain to us nonetheless. From it's humble 5889 ft peak, we can see the world around us. We can see Steptoe Butte, nearly 100 miles to the south rising out of the rolling hills of the Palouse. We can see the mountains and lakes of North Idaho. We can see Lake Coeur D'Alene, and it's larger and older giant carved brother to the north, Lake Pend Oreille. We can also see all the children of these two lakes. Spirit, Twin, and others. We are truly surrounded by wonderful beauty here.

For all it's problems like the racism and the occasional backward thinking of some of it's residents, this really is one of the nicest spots on the planet.

Click the picture for the full set of Flickr pictures from this weekend.

summer jammin' 2007

2007-07-26T12:25:00.000-07:00

Ok...I'm really having too much fun now. I need to stop, but I'm not sure I will just yet.

I'll probably add more pictures to this set toward the end of summer.

...untitled - redux

2007-07-26T10:12:00.000-07:00

Trying something that might be interesting...

I was a film major for a time in college. I really enjoyed making films, and studying them. What I've posted here isn't a film, per se...and it's kind of weird, but it was fun to do. It's a bit slow and lengthy, but I hope you enjoy it on some level, all the same.

...untitled.

2007-07-24T14:01:00.000-07:00

...and over an hour, it slows down, creeping up on imperceptible. silent, quiet, dark and cool. hovering over everything, it sedates, transforms vision, leaves a dying ember in the northwest that fires what's left with all it's energy.

...and over an hour, it's gone. its gray remains lying like splintered time all over the colorless lawn. fanciful fantasies falling from below, creeping up from underneath; the cool earth, released. the smell thickens, almost audible now, it drifts in and out of windows opened, distant talking reminisces and passes on news.

...and over an hour, silence creeps in, breathing deepens, and minds quiet.

Sìgur Ròs - ( ) - Àlafoss

sunday groovin'...Couer D'Alene, Idaho, A.D. 2007...

2007-07-23T10:16:00.000-07:00

Glistening water, the sound of motor boats and jet skies, the splashing laughter of swimmers...these are the defining sounds, the way I experience Lake Couer D' Alene, in Couer D' Alene, ID. Our own little slice of California, right here in the Inland Northwest. It's beach and boardwalk, sea plane and parasail, cliff and breeze.

We arrived, after a lazy morning, at around 2ish, in front of the house of a man called Stickman. His breezeway was littered with all manner of wonderfully smoothed sticks. Stickman takes the artwork that nature has wrought, and finishes it off with his own touches, and freely gives many of them away to any who ask. We asked, and we took four. I took one that was shoulder height, thick and smooth, and had a dark knobby knot protruding outward from the smooth white hardwood center. Stickman called it the "heart" of the walking stick, for me, it's the wart. The imperfection. But often times, in imperfection, the most beauty can be found. It is so with this piece. My wife chose a smaller stick, smooth, light weight but strong, with jewel-like stones inset. Our boys both chose small kid-sized sticks as well.

After we thanked Stickman, and departed, we walked around the East side of Tubbs Hill. It was hot, and the going was sometimes tough for our three-wheeled jogging stroller, but we purchased it many years ago for just this sort of thing, and it held up nicely. Cliffs to our left, and the sun glaring off the water, it was a brilliant sight to see. People recreating in almost every nook and cranny of the rocky shore below let us know that this town is, for want of a better term, a vacation town.

We finally made it to a place called "the Point." An isthmus of land jutting out from Tubbs Hill into the lake. We chose a westward facing beach front. Settling in the shade, my wife and our three month old, were able to put their feet in the water, and survey the much talked about Hagadone Resort and City Beach of downtown Couer D'Alene opposite us. The constant barrage of boats and other large pleasure crafts kept the older boys wound up and excited about all the "giant waves" coming to shore.

After a few hours of this, we made our way back to our car, and my family rested on the grass across from Stickman's house, where we'd parked, as I slowly loaded the trunk once again, and thought about dinner. A little burger join called Paul Bunyan didn't fail to give us greasy burgers, crunchy onion rings, and messy chili cheese fries. All things that I shouldn't be eating, but today was an off day.

Our baby slept on a blanket on the cool ground as we ate our burgers and grease in the fading light in Fort Sherman park. The older boys, eating as fast as they could (and as little as they could), imbibed with impatience, were finally released to enjoy the last thirty minutes of ambient light on the giant playground nearby.

Once the darkness had completely descended on us, and the glow of amber lights filled the park, and the sounds of people recreating started to fade away, we gathered our things, our children, looked at the moon glistening off the water, and said goodbye to Lake Couer D' Alene. We will be back again because, though this lake seems to always be full of people and boats, it is still a beautiful lake, and worthy of visiting a few times during the summer. So, we' will be back again.

sunday groovin'...Sandpoint, Idaho, A.D. 2007...

2007-07-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

We hit one of our regular summer places last Sunday. A place that we feel is a real gem in North Idaho. No run down Subaru Brat's here, that we could see, just nice, laid back, hippie types. We love Sandpoint. We love the beach in front of the Best Western Edgwater Resort. We like it especially on Sunday's when they've got live music.

The sun was warm, the water cool, and the music pretty mellow. Nice mix of violin, sax, and various percussion instruments. Nice groovy rhythms. The crowd was small and friendly, and it made us all happy. Our youngest slept in the shade under a pine tree while the music played, and I had two Coronita's (makes me feel like I'm drinking more to drink two seven ouncers...it's all about tricking out my psyche), and just enjoyed the music, the air, the view, and the release of stress.

Click below for 23 quick pictures of our Sunday trip:
Sandpoint2007

Below is a short video of the band, Sol Jibe, that played the beach that day:
Sunday, July 15, 2007

Here is a lovely song they did live...

were it not for you...

2007-07-18T14:41:00.001-07:00

Were it not for you, I would fall. Were it not for you, my feet would slip, my grip would falter. Were it not for you, my mind would wander too far away, get lost, and never come back. Were it not for you, I would step off the Empire State building, thinking I was dreaming, and that I could fly.

You keep me grounded as I dream, you keep me from falling.

Were it not for you, they would not exist. Were it not for you, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Were it not for you, I would withdraw so completely that my shell would be impenetrable. Were it not for you, my life would be pointless and gray. Were it not for you I would be totally, completely, and utterly, lost.

You keep me grounded as I dream, you keep me from falling.

the secret...

2007-07-17T11:37:00.000-07:00

They would have never noticed it's potential in 1939. They wouldn't have seen it's magic, or felt it's possibilities. The focus would have been elsewhere, up front, or in the back, but never here.

But the faeries waited. They knew. Each year passed, old tires, scrap metal, through which grew tall grasses and weeds unremarkable. They kept their magic at bay, held it in the soil and the walls, until someone saw it and gave it release.

Some people say the universe has secrets. Some people believe that the universe will give you what you want. I believe this also, but somehow I don't think it's quite the same as those who dream of gold. The universe, and nature, keeps things hidden, until you find a way to work its release, then you see all it has to offer. It's wealth of another kind.

A child runs through it without knowing what came before. A child sees the magic better than those of us who have closed it up. Let the child run free, see it like a baby, see it like you've never seen it before, and run through it, no shoes, and free.

acceptance...

2007-07-16T14:17:00.001-07:00

It's nice when someone accepts something you've offered them, like today, when the owner of our house accepted our offer after coming to the table with him only once. That's nice. I can feel the mortgage saddle sliding around my back already.

Now, on to the endless paperwork and signature scribbling.

ying xiong

2007-07-13T16:09:00.000-07:00

Three thousand years ago I went to China because I wanted to learn. I wanted to learn to fly. I wanted to know what it's like to float on the breeze, sword in hand, with no chance of the flying daggers or the millions of arrows piercing my delicate and quiet skin.

I would come back from my sojourn, the Hero, and save my homeland. I would become the one who could lead us into a new millennium of peace, prosperity, and love. But it never happened.

I never came back. I stayed in China. I sat quietly on a mountain top and drank tea with mystics, traveled the frozen deserts of Mongolia, flew over the lofty heights of the mountains, swam in it's deep cool rivers, and loved deeply the land and it's people. I never became the hero I thought I was meant to be, I became something else. I became the sky and the land. I became the fire and the stone. I became the pebble in the stream. I became, China.

peace of ground...

2007-07-13T09:29:00.000-07:00

I've been amazed this week, as we sort through all the myriad of details surrounding this, our first ever home purchase. I've been amazed at how many people, agencies, and other entities, are required, or want to be notified, for us to just take possession of a small, nondescript, and relatively plain, plot of ground with a house. We even signed a document declaring that we were not using the property to launder money in order to fund international terrorism. First of all, I don't think paper money can survive the laundry very well, and if it did, why would a terrorist want crumpled torn up money anyway?

At any rate, here we are, today, making an offer on a house we've already lived in for four years. We know the place well. For our boys, this is the only place they remember clearly. Our oldest remembers a little bit of our year in Laredo, TX, but nothing much beyond that. For them, this is truly the only house they know as home.

So we forge ahead, into unknown territory, for us. We're leaning about "escrow" accounts (I'm still confused about what snails have to do with our house), taxes and insurance rolled into payments, percentage loans, closing costs, negotiations on price, house inspections, home appraisals, and all the people, people, people, all taking their little slice of this transaction. Some of these people, the loan officer, and my buyers agent, I couldn't do without. They are essential for me to even begin to understand this confusing process. I am not a money person. Money is a fluid substance for me, used to get the things I need, I would barter if I could. These people use money differently, calling it an "asset." I suppose money could be turned into an "asset" by giving it away in exchange for something else, but that's just the way I see it....I'm a silly person who just likes to live, not invest or think about tax write-offs. I guess that might have to change.

knighthood is out of the question now, I guess...

2007-07-11T23:14:00.001-07:00

So, it's been a busy week, what with the house deal and all, and I haven't been in the right frame of mind to write anything sentimental, heart felt, or overly hoity toity this week, so I'll leave you with the following...assurance that the queen will not be knighting me any time soon.

This one goes out especially to our good friends, Marmitetoasty and Peanut.

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Just a note, for those of you who may not know (and since nobody in my office knew), that's the ENGLISH flag. The Flag of ENGLAND. Yes. It is. Really. It's better known as St. George's flag. It's not the Swiss flag. The Swiss flag is a white cross on a red background. This is the flag of England. The flag of the crusaders. A very proud and noble flag...that my children are shaking their butts in front of...hence the end of my knight-hood dreams. I'll never be known as "Sir" Toadman, the brave. Oh well...

honesty...

2007-07-09T12:47:00.000-07:00

I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I have this sense in me that hopes against hope that people, specifically, the people I do business with, are being honest with me.

We rent. The owner of our house is ready to sell and has offered it to us first because we have that right written into our rental agreement. The letter from the management company told us that there may be another interested party, and that we need to make our decision soon. Every time I mention to people that they told us there may be another interested party, people tell me that this is likely a ploy, a rouse, a bluff.

I don't want to live in a world where this goes on all the time. But I am powerless to stop people from doing this, and I am powerless to keep from doing business with people who might do this. I have no evidence that what was said in the letter was untrue, and the management company hasn't really given me any reason to suspect that this may be true, but for some reason, society expects me not to believe it.

I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I must be someone who wants to live in a world whose existence is completely impossible. I must be completely out of touch with human nature.

I will continue to be this way, because living any other way would be depressing.

In other news, we're buying our house finally!

the grudge...

2007-07-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we hold on to our anger. Sometimes it's because of something we envision as an injustice. Sometimes, though, it's not an injustice. Sometimes, unknown to us, our anger is unjustified, and our grudge, useless. Most times, in fact.

We let it boil inside. We fight for perceived justice, but sometimes we're blinded. When everyone else has forgotten what we were fighting for, nobody understands what we're saying, or why. When all the parties have moved on, lived on, or passed away, what is the point? Injustice, or justice, it doesn't matter anymore, it just doesn't, does it?

See that sign over there on the left? I see this sign on my way to work every day, and I don't understand it. Do you?

Note: One thing I probably should note about this sign, which I neglected to do earlier, is that it's been around longer than the current Chief of Police. Kirkpatrick took office in 2006 (I believe), but before then, the sign bore the name of the previous Chief of Police of Spokane (whose name eludes me at the moment). This sign is active, live, and maintained. It is obviously a fresh issue in this persons mind.

alien ice cream truck invasion...

2007-07-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

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For the rest of the videos from last night, see here:

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

quiet old things...

2007-07-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

I went on a walk during lunchtime today. It was nice out. The gloomy forecast of dire heat had yet to express itself into reality, and the breeze still hinted at the cool temperatures of this morning.

I found myself in front of the Administration building on the campus where I work, and turned to look at the front of the building. I love this old building. I don't know if its the oldest building on campus, but it's one of the most stately, that's for sure. The trees, whose shade I took advantage of as I walked through this park like setting, rustled in different tones and different frequencies. The low swoosh of the tall pine undergirding the high pitched rustle of the broad leafed trees was a peaceful combination. I paused my walk, and leaned against one of these 100 year old trunks, to rest, and listen.

How many students have done just this? Sat, and looked at their surroundings. This campus, underrated by many, is by far one of the most beautiful campuses in the area. I take advantage of this. I get out of my office as often as I can, and just sit on the grass and think, and listen.

As I leaned my back against that tree, I thought of the students 100 years ago, who passed through these pillars, who learned here, who lived, met, and fell in love on this campus. I saw the long dresses of the NORMAL students, the leather caps of the early football team and the blue uniforms of WWI soldiers. Their ghosts are in this park, living on...you can hear them, if you're quiet, and you listen.

oh, that's rich...part II: the pompasity of prosperity

2007-06-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, there are a lot of wealthy people who like to be around beautiful things. They like to own beautiful things. I don't find this odd, I enjoy being around beautiful things as well. Most beautiful things, however, are out of the realm of being owned by the likes of myself, and the vast majority of the rest of the planet. Perhaps it falls to the wealthy to be protectors of beauty, of art, of magnificent architecture. I wonder if wealthy people understand this as one of their many responsibilities.

Along with the innocence of wealth, as I described in my previous post, I'd like to present another vision of the wealthy that many have. Many wealthy don't understand this image...perhaps it's their innocence showing through again, or their naivete. It's a strange sense of entitlement, or of perceived recognition. The sense that they will be known for their own wealth, and their own collections of beauty, and accorded all the rights that go along with that notoriety.

When I was the box office manager for the art museum in Fort Worth, TX. I had the following experience. It was between exhibitions, we had the museum's permanent collection filling the halls. The Caravaggio collection was out, the one Rembrandt was up, Fra Angelico, Matisse, Goya, and Mondrian paintings were all up as well. The ancient Egyptian and Pre-Columbian sculpture was viewable. The well known Asian collection was in it's regular display hall as well. All was free for the public to view.

As I sat there at the information desk, having no employees that day to supervise I had the distinct feeling that I was the cities highest paid information desk attendant that day. There weren't many people in the downstairs gallery, where the information desk was, that day, when I noticed two suited and dark sunglass'd men walk in the door and look around. A few seconds later, a white haired man walked in and looked around. He said, to no one in particular, that I could tell, "Hello, I'm {insert name of very wealthy and well known Fort Worth person here}." There was silence. He looked around. Unsure about what to do, he walked up to me and repeated what he'd said to the air. I introduced myself and shook his hand. "Is there something I can do for you sir?" I inquired.

"Is there anything I need to do?"

"I'm not sure, is there something you'd like to do?"

"Well, I'd like to see the collection."

I then explained to him where everything was, and gave him a brochure. He seemed confused. I wasn't sure why. About this time, someone from the main office came rushing out to my information desk and introduced themselves to the man, and walked off with him talking rapidly and immediately embarked on a private guided tour of the entire collection. I was still a bit confused.

"When he walks in, we're supposed to notify the office." came a voice. It was one of the security guards. The guards had apparently informed the main office, via radio, that he was in the museum.

"Why?"

"We just do."

"Does he own any of our paintings?" I asked. I knew full well that some of the artwork was on loan from wealthy families.

"No." they said "But he's a large benefactor."

Ah yes, I thought, the benefactor. I immediately thought of the days when an artist would have a benefactor, a person who would simply support them monetarily while they did their art and generally lived out their bohemian existence. I wondered if I could ever have a benefactor, I still wonder that some days. The days of individuals having benefactors, or patrons, must be over, I always assume.

But the wealthy can't keep it to themselves forever, can they? They could become benefactors of the world, patrons of the planet. Having money is a big responsibility. I wonder how many wealthy people understand this?

oh, that's rich...part I: the innocence of wealth

2007-06-27T09:31:00.001-07:00

I was once the manager of the ticket box office at two different museums in Fort Worth, TX (at different times, you understand). The first job was at a science museum, the second was at an art museum. They were both fun jobs, although tedious. It was while engaged in these jobs that I discovered that I really wasn't cut out to interact with the general public on a regular basis. Whenever there was some sort of problem or dispute, I would always just cave in and give away tickets for free, because, well, I'm easy like that.

The job afforded me the opportunity, however, to be the manager of over forty or so employees who were in vastly different stages in their lives. At the science museum, I managed high school and college aged kids, at the art museum, it was mostly retired folks who just wanted something easy to do to supplement their fixed incomes.

This post isn't really about that, however, that's just the background. The seed of this post is from a discussion I had with an acquaintance regarding rich people. Yes, that's right, rich people. I expressed to this person that another friend might not like them because they were wealthy. Wealthy people are sometimes disliked by those of us with fewer means. How does this relate to being a box office manager? Interestingly enough, it does, in a round about sort of way.

You see, when I was managing at the science museum, I hired a few high school kids who came from decidedly wealthy families. Old money families, we called them in Fort Worth. Families who'd been in the area since the late 1800s and had built up so much wealth that they were quite separate from the rest of the city, yet owned large parcels of the city. These two kids were interesting to have around, and interesting to try and manage. They were nice kids though. Their parents wanted them to get "jobs" so they could see what it was like to "work" for their money. Admirable enough, I think, so I just went with it. The little sister of the duo who worked for me was quite interesting (and here's where I relate a little story about her that I find fun). One weeknight evening, when there were very few customers, and the only people working the box office was this "rich kid" and myself, I decided that the time had come to vacuum the box office. The girl said "ooh! can I do it?"

"Uh.. sure" I replied. "Why are you so gung-ho to vacuum?"

"I've never done it before!" she said.

"What?" I said, with some skepticism. "How old are you again?"

"Seventeen."

"You're seventeen and you've never vacuumed a day in your life? Who vacuums your house, your mom?"

"HA!! No no no.. we have maids." she said over her laughter.

"I see." I said, finally understanding. "So you're figuring this is your big chance to learn how to use a vacuum cleaner, right?"

"Yeah! I can't wait! How does it work?"

So, that evening, I taught a seventeen year old debutante how to use a vacuum cleaner. I wondered to myself in silence what it must be like to not know how to do such common place things like this. We talked more into the evening, after her successful cleaning of the box office area, about what her life was really like. Her world was so incredibly different than mine, we discovered. I told her how I grew up, that in the town I grew up in, we were considered wealthy because our house was made of brick. Hers was a world of debutante balls and travel and parties.

I remember asking about what she thought of when she saw homeless people. She really didn't have an answer. She just generally said she was confused about how someone could become homeless. It was an interesting evening. I remember some time after this, my wife and I met the rich kid duo's parents in downtown Fort Worth at a beer/Oktoberfest type festival. They were friendly, and thanked me for being their manager at the museum. They even gave me several free beer tasting tokens.

I don't know what has become of this young lady, she'd be almost thirty by now. I wonder if she's married money and is happy. I hope she is. But what I really hope is that she vacuums her own house.

In my next post, I rub shoulders with the "big boss" of Fort Worth, TX.

coming clean...thing about me number.. whatever...

2007-06-25T12:46:00.001-07:00

I have to come clean folks. There's something about me that has to change. I read this today regarding my height to weight ratio:

Ideal weight range is 160 - 176 lbs. (72.7 - 80 kg.).
You are overweight by 59 lbs. (27 kg.).
You may wish to consult with your physician for medical help.

I don't trust every website out there regarding these measurements, but, to be sure, I do need to lose weight. What this website doesn't ask is for me to evaluate why I have allowed this to happen, what percentage of this is genetic, and what mental processes I need to reverse in order to overcome my incessant need to feed. However, boiling it all down, I've come to the following conclusion. I am fat. My BMI, according to several online resources both dubious and less dubious, is in the "dangerous" range. If you haven't done the math above, I'll come clean and do it for you. I am five foot nine inches tall (give or take..I er on the tall side) and I currently weigh more than I ever have in my life...weighing in at 235pounds or so (that's 16.8 stone for my English readers).

My weight has been growing on my mind (and indeed, my mid and aft sections) for a few years now. I've a few false starts in losing it, but invariably, I lose track, get side tracked, or get too busy, to make it to the gym after a few months. Most recently, I developed plantar fasciitis in my left foot after four months of good exercising, causing me to stop for a time. Before I stopped, I'd lost about ten pounds. Previous to this foot problem, about a year prior, I was swimming regularly. This helped me to increase my endurance and lose about fifteen pounds. But, life being as it is...I wasn't able to keep it up because, well, I'm lame that way.

Also, to clarify, I'm not looking to lose weight so I'll look "hot," or whatever that means. Losing weight, for me, is about not dying. That's all. If I look "hot" after I lose the weight, well, that's just a perk, I suppose.

So there it is, long story short and out in the wide internet open, I am fat. I shouldn't be fat, but I am. I am taking full responsibility for my own enormity, starting today.

Hello, my name is Toadman, and I have a problem.

Do you?

Photo from TrekNature

siblings...

2007-06-22T12:27:00.000-07:00

Did you know that I've only been in one physical fight in my entire life? It was in junior high, I think. We were on a school bus and some kid, I forget his name, said something that made me mad, and I got up to deck him, and was held back. So nope, I've never punched another person in my life. Ah well...I suppose that's life being the youngest of four, naive, protected and sheltered from the bad stuff out there that's bent on "getting" me.

I didn't even have my brother around to punch for very long, but he did do stuff to make me cry when he was home, before he moved out in around 1980, that is. I don't even remember what kind of stuff it was that he did to me that set me to blubbering, but I do remember him shoving my face in the pillows on his bed and saying "SHUT UP! MOM'S GOING TO HEAR YOU!!" and other stuff like "I'm going to tell all your first grade friends that you're a crybaby." Ah.. brotherly love, right?

We have three boys now. What can I expect from this trinity of masculine hormones when they're all teenagers? I don't really know what to expect. I'll have to lean on my wife's experiences, I suppose. She says her older brothers drug her across the carpet by her hair and told her she was ugly when she was a teenager. Maybe this is why she is stronger than me when it comes to sibling rivalry. I just don't get it, I suppose. I'm often at a loss as to what to do when my oldest comes in saying "He punched me in the face!" I often say "Why?" This never works.

So, I hope they don't fight each other too much, as they age. I hope it's just the normal sibling rivalry, and not something epic or disproportional to reality (you know, like my older siblings say about me "He got all the breaks!!!" This isn't true, I just got to enjoy the good years...you got the lean years. It's not my fault I'm spoiled!! HA!).

Oh well, wish us luck I guess!