eclectika

Getting direction

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 01:15:00 +0000

“Head down this road until you come to street with a large metal sculpture on the corner,” she said with a comforting sense of certainty in her voice. “Don’t turn there but keep going about two more blocks and you’ll see it on the right,” she finished with a smile. I repeated the directions to her and began driving down the road looking for what turned out to be a three-foot bronze piece obscured by a newspaper box—truly a marker for where not to turn. We’ve all received or even given directions like this at one point or another: clear and simple directions based on what not to do. It got me wondering about all the other types of journeys we convolute in a similar fashion. How does one find their way physically, emotionally and even spiritually in a world where tangents are easier to follow than the road itself?

I was headed home from the printer (Colorstep) after approving poster designs for Madcap Theater. The air was crisp with Fall and the sun was beginning another glorious dance across the late afternoon sky. I had the windows down just soaking up the last moments of the sunset with Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” playing in the background. Everything was perfect the day I banged up my car.

To this day, I’m not sure what I hit but I will never forget my ability to slow time in order to memorize everything at the moment of impact: posters suspended above the passenger seat, the view out my windshield being nothing but sky and the look of fascination from the driver next to me at my car’s newfound ability to hover in mid-air. It was in this bubble of suspended time that I reviewed all of the alternate paths I could have taken to avoid the current situation. The moment ended when my car slammed back down to earth and dared me to wrestle control back from gravity’s whim.

Much later, with my car repaired and my adrenaline normalized, I revisited events in the “time bubble” to further explore this introspective flash. The posters were still floating above the passenger seat as the sounds of bending metal played out in slow motion. Staring at myself in that moment, I saw more time spent worrying about the choices not made instead of focusing on the situation at hand. I began to wonder how often I’ve wasted valuable time and effort preparing for the unseen or focusing on things only tangentially related to the task at hand.

Perhaps I’ve asked the wrong people for directions or advice. Maybe I ask the right sources for guidance and only pay casual attention to the important details. Either way, I’ve often found myself so caught up in tracking a landmark that I fail to look ahead far enough to see where I’m actually trying to go.

As I write this, my life is once again at a crossroads. Before me are several creative and career directions to choose from. My social life is healthy, my family life keeps me happily coming back for more and I want for nothing when it comes to entertaining diversions—perfect conditions for banging up the status quo. I’m ready to head down a different road but the directions I’ve written myself are becoming distracting. I’ve told myself to watch out for so many different things that my end goal is getting harder to see. I’m now running the risk of mistaking an intermediate ‘landmark’ for my final destination.

Perhaps I need to spend less time looking for indications that I’m headed the right way and simply keep my eyes on the road.

If not now. . .

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 10:57:00 +0000

Christmas is often described with many extremes—the happiest time of the year, one of the most emotionally difficult days for many who suffer depression, a controversial affront to the politically correct and even a giant commercial ploy to extract cash from all of the aforementioned. My Christmas day is finally coming to a close and I’m sitting here thinking to myself, “If today isn’t the reason for being…what is?” Perhaps I should elaborate the origins of that last statement before rambling forth with incoherent drivel about The Season, Holiday cheer and other such clichés…

As evidenced by my lack of activity here [on this blog], my life has been filled with many competing demands for my time. During the past few months, I’ve become very involved with an Improv comedy club called Madcap Theater, helped my wife design and establish GreatIdeasForKids.com and enjoyed watching my children grow up into precocious little challenges. It has also been a time of soul-searching. I’ve been spending a great deal of time thinking about my personal beliefs, spirituality and the example I’m leaving for my children. The month of December has also been host to a minor bout with depression as I’m reminded again how I will not be spending this festive season with my Mother who passed almost three years ago. In all my introspection, however, one thing seems to be ringing true:

“There is a reason we’re all here and defining that reason isn’t it.”

I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to pin down the purpose for my existence and have, quite frankly, managed to assign greater meaning to simple things with little or no feeling of satisfaction. I have credited God with guiding me toward some higher purpose, blamed the fates for many misfortunes and even claimed foresight and planning as the reasons for my successes. The plain truth of it is that whatever plan, divine power or fate got me to this moment will only matter if I play my part in the grand scheme of things.

During this past month, I have slowly become more conscious of my place in the Universe—insignificant but infinitely influential. In the master plan for everything, the decisions I make each day mean very little. The choices I make, however, influence the choices of those around me and, in turn, those around them—my decision to lighten another’s load empowers them to lighten someone else’s. Like ripples in a pond, our choices ultimately return after having changed the Universe around us.

Throughout this Holiday season, I found myself thinking, “If today isn’t the reason for being... compassionate, thoughtful and filled with goodwill...what is?” Thinking about it further, I suppose the real question is, “What isn’t?”

A net for flutterbys

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 08:14:00 +0000

“Life’s too short” is a phrase often used to begin arguments for seizing some opportunity or another. I know, I’ve used this well-worn phrase myself on numerous occasions. The most curious thing to me is how often opportunities flutter past me un-seized. It isn’t until the moment is well beyond my grasp that I notice how beautiful it would have been in my collection of life experiences. Each time this happens, I promise myself that I’ll catch the next one as I set my gaze firmly on all the things that could have been—this myopic perspective setting me up to miss another dozen or so opportunities most efficiently.

Recently, I rustled the neat and stagnant rhythm of my life only to be surrounded by many new choices. At the end of each choice I could see exciting and frightening new directions for my life. Some of the opportunities, while beautiful and enticing were impractical for my current role as a husband and father. Others, however, danced ahead of me in tempting circles of reason. There were so many choices, so many directions to explore that I ran the risk of losing them all in the paralysis of indecision.

So I prayed.

Yeah, I side-stepped the casual ‘Fiddler on the Roof’-style conversations I prefer to have with God and chose, instead, to engage in the formal act of prayer. I suppose the desire to pray came from a need for some sort of ‘scrapbook’ marker in time—that moment I would point to from the future and say, “this was when my life changed.”

I learned something interesting about the ‘flutterbys’ known as opportunities: they’re not nearly as rare as you might think. In fact, the only reason they seem to be isolated moments is a result of how intently we focus on the few we notice. I was so wrapped up in studying all the options on the horizon that I wasn’t paying any attention to the choice which landed softly on my shoulder. It was during my formal and fervent prayer for guidance that a gentle voice spoke to me . . .

Startled by the simplicity of the suggestion, I reevaluated my situation. I had been squinting to focus on the distant future so intensely that it was difficult to see at first. There before me was the very thing I’d been chasing in various projects, locations and other distractions—a sense of purpose. I’ve since grabbed onto this new direction for my life with both hands. It is still uncertain whether or not I’m holding this new flutterby too tightly but that’s a subject for another time.

For now, I’m trying to keep my mind open to all possibilities. Near and far, it seems the world around me is wholly composed of opportunities simply waiting to be noticed. What did that gentle voice whisper to me during my formal and fervent prayer for guidance?

“Open your eyes.”

Piecing it all together

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Sun, 11 Mar 2007 08:36:00 +0000

Life, especially for me, is full of surprises. I’d like to say I was one of those amazing people who have it all figured out. I’d love to say that my life has turned out exactly the way I planned but I can’t. The honest truth is that the closest thing to a plan for my life was the vague and arrogant thought that I was meant for something more than whatever I was currently doing. Looking at it now, I suppose you could simply call it restlessness. While the reasons for my current situation span the gamut from “dumb luck” to “divine providence,” I can only testify to the results—two beautiful children, a wonderful wife and the luxury of being able to spend as much time with them as they’ll tolerate.

Most of my life, I’ve managed to just ‘get by’ on the bare minimum of effort. As a result, I also mysteriously managed to reap the bare minimum of success. All my life I have been told by friends, teachers, pastors and parents that I wasn’t living up to my true potential. Somewhere in the midst of all this encouragement, I bought into the hype. I began to believe that I was destined for something great. I bought into the idea that one day I would leave a legacy behind which didn’t simply mark the world but somehow change it for the better.

With this new life goal in mind, I set about taking inventory of the talents, knowledge and tools at my disposal. I had to first organize my strengths and weaknesses into tidy rows so that I could better utilize them for success in the grand design that would be my life—I think I was about 12 years old when I began the project. I quickly identified my skills and talents and the list was populated with some good earth-changing abilities. Unfortunately, for every powerful gift, each had an equal and nearly greater harbinger of failure. I was young, discouraged and tired of the game. I would simply hand it over to God and let it get sorted out that way.

Before you are mislead, let me clarify something. This ‘handing it over to God’ business was anything but a leap of faith. Unlike Samuel of the Old Testament, there was no, “Speak Lord for thy servant heareth.” There was no coming to Jesus in search of reason and purpose—no road to Damascus for me. Instead, it was simply a throwing up my hands in the air saying, “God definitely can’t do any worse with me than I’ve already done.” Oddly enough, however, it was around that same time that the many seemingly disparate pieces of my life at that time began to make some sense.

I found myself getting lost and frustrated but talking to people who found the answers they were seeking while helping me find direction. I began to bumble and stumble my way into situations I normally would have avoided only to find comfort when I needed it most. For almost 20 years, I ‘Forest Gumped’ my way through life. When I needed a job, one found me that taught me things I never knew about myself. When I needed friends, I would discover chemistry with people I might never have given a second look. Like so many scraps of construction paper and snippets of pipe cleaners, my life had been a random series of occurrences. I never found rhyme or reason for the pinball machine I was being bumped about but I never felt the urge to ask for it either.

Even after marriage, settling down in our home and feeling the contentment borne of a good home life, I felt challenged to claim my life so far was due to any overarching plan on my part. It wasn’t until my son arrived and my daughter two years later that the pieces began to reveal their pattern. Like a diorama, I couldn’t see the pattern because I was focused too heavily on the pieces. Looking through the lens provided by my children, I now see myself as they see me—the complete persona known as “Daddy.” In their eyes, I have all the answers worked out. Through their eyes, I am the one to teach them how to plan their lives. This, of course, leads to mild panic as I realize I’ll never be able to explain all my actions and choices as deliberate acts lifted from the 'master plan.'

Then I remember that late night when I gave up trying to figure out the rest of my life and simply decided to blame God for how it turned out when it was over. Looking at the diorama of my life today, I hope and pray my children will be able to one day blame God for the way their lives turn out they way I thankfully lay blame today.

While they aren’t set out the way I would, I think God is pretty good at making the pieces fit together the way they should.

Still here . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 10:12:00 +0000

My son and I were playing yesterday and, as often as I can, I had music playing in the background. We have a wonderful device called a Sonos which allows me to select and play my MP3s anywhere in the house. I remember that, as a child, there always seemed to be music playing somewhere in our house. I also remember the house not feeling like home unless there was something playing: Calypso, Classical, Air Supply, Hall & Oats, Neil Diamond, Barbera Mandrell, Earl Klugh or Chet Atkins. Of course there were many other artists, many other musical genres and no matter how little we had, I distinctly remember feeling 'richer' for it somehow. Music is a gift I can't give to my children enough.

Yesterday, we were listening to a playlist I created featuring Jazz piano performances from various artists. At one point in the playlist, an arrangement of the Beatle's song, "Blackbird" began to play. My son stopped in the middle of our little game, looked at me and said, "I think this song is 'Blackbird' Dad."

"Yes it is," I responded. "Do you know who really loved this song?"

He thought about it for a minute and then furrowed his brow and said, "Who?"

"My Mom, your Grandma," I said.

He seemed satisfied with this bit of trivia and returned to his game. Looking at him playing I began to think about all the things my Mother would never see in my children. I began to well up inside at the thought of my kids never having the chance to know her. I felt deep regret that my Mother never got the chance to meet the granddaughter who seems to have inherited her sense of humor, curiosity and will power. All of these things washed over me yesterday as I watched my child play, oblivious to his loss.

Two years ago on this day, my Mother passed away. After several years struggling with Multiple Myeloma, my Mom was gone. Part of me still hasn’t forgiven God. Part of me feels guilty for not being there when she died. Part of me is beginning to move on as if it’s no big deal. Part of me wants to sleep—a lot.

As I write this, however, I’m reminded of her smile and the way she enjoyed getting into trouble. I look at my daughter who, even though she’s barely a year and a half old, has the same devilish look of mischief in her eyes my Mom would have. My child can’t speak yet but communicates worlds of trouble by simply flashing my Mother’s trademark smirk.

As I do various things with my family, even on this day, I can’t help but imagine what my Mother would be doing, how she would be reacting to the scene in front of me. As I prepare to cook some of the dishes she used to cook, I see her smiling at me with pride and it hits me. . .

She’s still here.

In my son’s laughter, she’s still here. In my daughter’s eyes, she still looks at me. In the food I eat, in the games I play with my family, in the projects I’m trying to complete . . .

She’s still here.

For those of you who knew her, you know what I’m talking about. Those of you that haven’t had the pleasure stop by and I’ll introduce you to her. . .

She always enjoyed company.

The power within

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 06:12:00 +0000

I saw this swami once. He told me that my life would shape the world. I hadn't thought too much about that flattering moment until today. I met a very interesting young woman this evening at dinner. My wife and I decided to try a new restaurant which recently opened and, much to my wife's delight, our server was someone she knew. It turns out that my wife and our waitress are both currently enrolled in the same Improv class. At this point, you're probably thinking that I was either entertained or annoyed by the spontaneous comedy brought forth by these two women. The truth of the matter is that I found the conversation engaging and refreshing. Rather than attempt dinner theater, our server offered intelligent conversation and witty banter. Each drink refill, course delivery or clean up brought more opportunities to explore the nature of idealism, social conventions and the never ending quest for purpose.

While our waitress provided thoughtful points to ponder, it was in reaching for answers to her questions that I found myself remembering aspects of myself which I'd allowed to collect a bit of dust. Seeing this young woman so full of belief in her ability to change the world reminded me that I once felt the same way about my own contributions to society. Oddly enough, I was confiding to my wife on the drive to the restaurant that I was feeling rather ineffectual lately and wasn't happy about it. I was feeling as though the whole, "your life will shape the world" thing was one of those cheesy sentiments—the one where 'shaping the world' means that some off-handed comment or wrong turn changes the life of the person who eventually does the actual world shaping. Almost as if in answer to this feeling, I end up in a conversation where a young mind eagerly stares at the limitless horizon of her life.

I have to admit it was inspiring. The concept that we all have the power to change the world within us is something I've recently filed under high-school platitudes. Perhaps it is time to dust off my idealism and forge forth into the world armed with creative spirit and dogged adolescent determination. Maybe, the answer to changing the world can be found right here in this very blog? Ok, maybe not. The point is that after this simple conversation it dawned on me that no matter how routine I've allowed my life to become, no matter how choreographed my emotional and intellectual responses might be, there is always room for big ideas and bigger actions.

What legacy will I leave behind? So far I can proudly point to my two amazing children and my supportive wife and this blog. One day, perhaps, you'll be able to say, "You've seen the movie and read the book but I read the blog that started it all!"

Perhaps I'm destined for the greatness I always envisioned growing up. Maybe I'm changing the world as I type these very words! Maybe I am somebody able to instigate paradigm shifts. Maybe great power truly lies within me! Maybe, just maybe . . .

I saw this swami once. He told me that my life would shape the world to come. Maybe I'm the real deal. Either that or he might have just have been called "Tricko" for a reason. I suppose the world and future history will ultimately tell the tale.

'Till then, I'm going try to live up to the swami's expectations.

The more things change . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 30 Jan 2006 08:47:00 +0000

So I've spent quite a bit of time away from here. While there is a giant gap in content since my last post, I thought I'd offer up this post as a form of explaination. I've been going through a lot of changes lately. You might say I've been evolving. Yeah, I think evolve is a good word to use here. Now that my children are running the house, I have been forced to re-examine my purpose in life. It turns out, after all, that my function is to wait. To help better explain how rewarding I find the act of waiting, allow me to first define the term—wait: to assume a form of stasis whereby one remains open to additional instruction while maintaining an active queue of established tasks for prompt execution after stasis has been terminated but before anyone notices that nothing was accomplished during the time stasis was being observed.

I find it interesting that as primitive beings we were physical creatures of action. Almost as if we were sharks—the ceasing of movement proving fatal. As we evolved further, life became more complex but our need for constant physical activity seemed less necessary. Many versions of human passed before we could call ourselves 'advanced.' Now, we're actively trying to find time to manage the complexities we invented as an excuse to build machines designed to simplify our lives. More interesting to me, however, is how the very tools we created to help us have become our greatest captors—the act of finding the remote control being life's greatest punishment.

As I wait to help put my son's coat on or carry my daughter's car seat to the minivan, I find myself looking around the house at all the little gizmos and toys collected over the years. I think about the new gizmos and toys out there and how badly I want them. My mind drifts off into fantasies about the latest whatsit when I'm suddenly pulled back to reality by my son's request for his jacket, my daughter clammering for attention and my wife rapidly approaching with the ever-expanding list of errands and requests. . .

It seems as though our world has changed from one of much movement and frenzy to one which requires us to hurry up and wait. I don't mind the waiting either. In fact, I rather enjoy the stillness of being a human coat rack. It's the 'doing' that bothers me of late—I'd rather remain physically still while reinventing the universe in my mind. Could my becoming a virtual entity be called evolution? I hope so.

I'm telling you about my 'evolution' now because I'm not sure if I'll get the chance to share it again. You're reading an entry from the new and improved me! No longer am I the knuckle-dragging ape haunched over the physical tasks set before it. I'm sophisticated now! I know about free will and the subtle art of alchemy. I know where to find the 'phat lewt' in World of Warcraft! Life is good and I'm finally high-level...er...evolved enough to enjoy most of it. . .

While waiting on my next 'real world' assignment, I think I'll log into my favorite online game and excercise my character's agility stat—it will make it easier to dodge future errands. My family is mobilizing and I'm still looking for an armorsmith to repair my leggings. My son is sliding down the stairs and will be asking me to help him with his shoes any second now. I don't have much time to prepare. . .

I do find it odd, however, that I'm sitting here haunched over a computer thinking about how tired I'll be after the long journey ahead for my virtual persona. Meanwhile, my wife is standing at the door waiting for me to get the kids loaded up and out the door for another adventure in grocery shopping. I'm ready for it though. But first . . .

... has anyone seen my pants?

Machinations, madmen and mercy

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Thu, 29 Sep 2005 18:55:00 +0000

I’ve always tried to keep things simple. You could say that my gift to the world was to simplify the many things we’ve made so complicated. When a family member or a friend had trouble with one of their gizmos, gadgets and whatnots, I’m usually the one that fields the call. Most of the time I can decipher where their problem is and explain the solution clearly and generally quickly—it really all depends on how well they listen.

Imagine how difficult it must be for me now to relay the events of the past few months to you, as they have been anything but simple.

I’m sure you’ve heard by now that I am somehow responsible for the giant purple ‘hole’ in the sky that now looms over Denver or the strange glowing orbs now present all around the Flatirons. Though I will explain these phenomenons, I can assure you that neither was directly caused by me. The strange reports of the creature now referred to as “The Gravel Man” is, I assure you, greatly overstated and not at all indicative of the truth—though I’m sure the gentleman in question would find his new moniker not only amusing but also oddly fitting. One day, when your children are telling bedtime stories to their children, I believe that my name will no longer be mentioned alongside the tales of Green Cavern, the inhabitants of the abandoned silver mine or the disappearance of the corner antique shop on Pearl Street. You haven’t heard the one about Pearl Street? Though I’ll explain it further in the course of my defense, I can tell you that when the Barbonez Antique Shoppe vanished from Pearl Street, the remaining hole was more than adequate payment in the exchange. The widow Barbonez literally made off like a bandit in this particular deal—all parties were more than satisfied.

I suppose that if you have the time, I should start at the beginning and not stop until I reach the end. After all, you are the only brave enough to visit me in this time where most fear what oddity or trouble may be close at my heels. Perhaps it is fitting that you carry my tale to the rest of the world as I have long since lost any credibility earned, loaned or otherwise purchased.

When you’re ready, I’ll begin…

Dark Disease

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 26 Sep 2005 11:27:00 +0000

My Friend,

Warm, yet I remain cold.
Calm, yet I grow upset.

I long to be around you.
I wish upon you happiness.

I know you've always brought me bliss,
But friend, I now must tell you this:

Something now between us comes;
I fear 'tis all because of me.

The things which bring you happiness,
leave for me the sad.

The things which bring you trauma,
tempt to make me glad.

"Oh God I pray to be a friend--
to cherish and to hold,
The person who to me shall be
the purest of a mold!"

But something grows from deep within--
It strives to blur my vision.

You see my friend, I've not been me.

For I've contracted...

...Jealousy.

An accurate account

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Sat, 17 Sep 2005 23:00:00 +0000

i think i am dead. i believe they killed me but i can still feel it. i can feel its heartless beat, gaze, and breath upon my carcass. It did this to me—it's what left me here. It's what calls the shots, watches your moves and pronounces judgment. i hate it, but i obey its call anyway . . .

George Larmer stared into his square mirror on the morning of Public Festival. He studied his face. It wasn't as if he expected to see anything new, but he couldn't help but hope. Form his hairline, past the bridge of his nose and down to his chin his eyes would follow. George found nothing more than a long overdue zit, which was of no consequence to him.

George's facial self-examination could have well lasted throughout the day if it had not been for the uninvited entrance of his phlegmatic dog Camus. Camus did not stay long, but simply eyed George for a minute and sauntered off. George always felt uneasy in his dog's presence, as if he were being scrutinized but it was simply that Camus just enjoyed fatiguing his master.

What is that fool dog up to? i believe it sent him here to torment my life. You can see me can't you? Not for long . . .

With this thought in his head, George picked up his dog and tossed him onto the bed. Removing the shoe from his bony foot, George hurled it towards the mirror sending shards of glass in the many different directions his life could have taken.

Meanwhile the cheers of the crowd outside his window grew louder. Public Festival was well underway, and the Festival Parade was drawing near to George's apartment. George glanced out of his thirteenth story window to catch a glimpse. It was as it was last month: The Lesbians marched at the front of the line followed by the socialists. George could also see from his window marching units of Prostitutes, Christians, Environmentalists and Prohibitionists. Good Lord, he thought, all the radicals are out this morning.

George remembered all too well where he was supposed to be at this moment—with his union. He knew that his unit was already marching without him. Nobody was carrying his sign, "The Proud, the Accurate, the Accountant's Union." The usual feeling of guilt invaded his sole as George headed for the door. On his way across the room, George cut his left foot on a piece of the broken mirror. George was about to berate himself for not putting his shoe back on sooner and started to head to the bathroom for a band-aid to dress his wound. Each step hurt. Stopping in his tracks he thought don’t feel it. The trick is not to feel it. George still felt it.

It's trying to hurt me now. i won't let it hurt me--it's done enough damage already. Where did i put that band-aid?

George found a band-aid and put it on his foot. Oblivious to the obvious parade drifting through the streets below the apartment complex, George left his apartment and ambled his way towards the elevator. As he pressed the button for the lift to come up he thought, Hey! Why don't i break the Routine! Waiting for the elevator to open and beckon him to enter, George imagined how he would break the city's incredible control over his life through its secret weapon of routine.

DING! The elevator doors slid open and beckoned George to enter. Thinking quickly (so as not to alert the city to this new mental development) George stepped inside the elevator, pressed all the buttons, and jumped out as the doors began to slam shut--signifying the new course of the elevator as well as the life a man who thought himself dead.

With a smug look of contentment on his face George turned around only to jump back in the horror of surprise. One and a half feet away from George stood his amazingly leggy blonde neighbor, Cynthia. "I hope I didn't scare you, George."

"No, Cynth..ah..i mean the blasted elevator is out of order. It doesn't work, try it, it won't work for you either. Glancing at Cynthia’s athletic body wasn’t helping George come up with anything clever to say so he simply mumbled, “Well, thank you, i mean i’m late for line-up. Have a day!" and vanished into the stairwell. George raced down the stairs as if Cynthia would follow him. George didn't like the idea of Cynthia following him. He didn't feel comfortable with the idea one bit.

George reached the street level and staggered over to the main entrance to his building. Panting, George leaned against the door with his back and pushed it open. The bright light nearly blinded him. His eyes were use to the dark. George put on his shades. Some like it darker, he thought, and i like it dark.

And a dark day it was to be for George. About the time he had stepped outside, the parade was in full swing in front of his apartment building. With a sense of guilt and dread, George saw the Accountant’s Union marching around the bend toward his side of the street. Trying to be nonchalant, George slipped into step with a few Christians and then started working his way through the marching Lesbians toward his union. Finding his place in line, George noticed that his line buddy Julian had brought along an extra sign for him wave. George picked up the chant, “It all adds up when everything’s accounted for!”

Meanwhile, across town, a robbery was taking place at the local computer store. Fingers Mahoney and Lefty Grouch were loading the last of the Apple Macintoshes into their nifty environmentally friendly e-Van—the latest in green vehicles powered by evian( water. You may care about this now, but as this robbery will probably have no affect on George today, it might tomorrow.

Cynthia remained outside the elevator doors, and quite incredibly leggy on the thirteenth floor of the apartment complex she shared with George. On the day which was to be amazingly dark for George, the elevator managed to complete George’s complex order of floor visitation and had returned to the thirteenth floor invigorated from the workout. Cynthia was about to enter the lift when she noticed a small device with many buttons laying just in front of the door.

George's line buddy, Julian, was in a chipper mood. “Got another raise today. God I'm lucky! I love my life! I could be one of those environmental lesbian fascists like Bruce Binsby over there but I’m not! I'm Julian—the accountant! My life is wonderful. I've got three children—one of each. Oh yeah! I just got another tax return yesterday. I'm just so keen on life I’m even thinking of doing something totally unexpected. Maybe I’ll go on a vacation, give money to the Christians or even take up art!”

"Julian no. You can't be serious about the art.” George winced at the sudden shrillness in his own voice, “I mean a vacation is one thing, but to take up art? That's such a fool’s errand. Let’s don't forget your three kids either. What will they think?" George had always been annoyed by Julian's enthusiasm for life, but art was just the last draw. George had to try to shove some logic. "You know what they say, Julian, 'Take up art, cut off your ear.' I've read studies. It's true…"

Cynthia, George’s amazingly leggy blonde neighbor, broke George’s train of thought. "George!” she yelled waving an grayish object in her hand, “George you forgot your pocket calculator." Cynthia's cries caught his attention and George looked over to the side of the road. "George, your pocket calculator fell out of your pocket when you ran away from me in the hall this morning."

“You ran from that?” Julian gasped, “and without your calculator?”

George felt a cold sweat burst form the little bitsy pores of the back of his neck. George knew that if he had been caught without his pocket calculator the consequences would be negative. If anyone had asked him to add anything of great length together, he might have failed to be completely accurate. To an accountant, you see, this is of grave importance

Other things seemed to be adding up in George's life as well: the two crooks were driving across town toward the parade, his incredibly leggy blonde neighbor was giving him his calculator and some seductive looks and his line buddy Julian was feeling God-awful lucky. While the problems were adding up rapidly in George’s mind, he could not solve them—Cynthia, after all, had his calculator.

George stumbled out of the parade, and into his office complex. He was still reeling from the morning’s events when he was greeted in his cubicle by his severance check. It turns out that Julian’s new raise required cutbacks elsewhere in the company. As one of the few accountants who was rumored to prefer calculating in his head instead of using a calculator, George was let go. George tried to explain that his lack of calculation hardware was an accidental occurrence but the decision had already been made and filed in triplicate—the only thing to move quicker than rumors in his office were cutback recommendations from the consultants hired by the company to improve performance.

How could the consultants have prepared the paperwork based on a rumor so quickly? i thought they were all marching behind our union?

In a tizzy, George caught taxi home with his entire career contained in the cardboard box sitting next to him. i suppose it could be worse, he thought, they could have kept my stapler…

The elevator in George’s apartment building was working on its 57th trip from the basement to the penthouse—the joyride George sent it on had apparently inspired the elevator to great heights. Forced to climb the stairs to the thirteenth floor, George was completely winded by the time he stepped into the hallway outside his apartment. At the end of the hallway was a broken window. George could hear the remains of the parade being hurried by a loud horn. Looking out the window, George saw a small e-Van trying to get past the parade while the driver alternated between leaning on the horn and leaning out his window shouting unkind things. Turning away from the window, George noticed the smell of cigar smoke coming from the other end of the hall past Cynthia’s apartment. Trying not to think about it, he fumbled with the apartment lock a bit before opening the door.

Setting his box of career memorabilia on the kitchen counter, George decided it was time to break the rules completely. He would, in fact, begin by deciding to never make another rule again—after that one of course. As he congratulated himself on this newfound freedom, George noticed a small note had been pushed under his door. Bending over to pick it up…

...WHAM!! SMASH!! THUD...

Someone hit me! What did i do? Oh God! i don't want to fall on the glass! i thought that i had . . .

THUD.

...i won't feel it. . .

As George drifted off into oblivion, The City laughed. The parade went on. The world continued to turn and George…

…didn't feel it.

Lost and found

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 12 Sep 2005 06:05:00 +0000

In the mid-sixteenth century, there was a ship commissioned to bring fear to those traveling to the West Indies. Armed to the teeth, the galleon was said to be capable of cutting a vessel in half with a single volley of cannon fire. The hull’s exterior was coated in a tarry pitch that gave it a black shimmer when slicing through the waves. To match the hull, the rest of the ship was finished in black lacquer. It was rumored that the Queen herself had secretly requested and funded this operation to protect her interests from colonists tempted to forget their governing body. Setting sail with a skeleton crew of 30 men it left Spain known only as the “Xiphias.” It was never heard from again...

Fifteen years ago, the bow of a 16th-century ship was found buried under a coral formation near the eastern coast of Barbados. Samples from the ship’s bow revealed high traces of a chemical also found in tar. As a coral reef had grown around the find, excavation rights were denied and study of the bow came to a grinding halt. The reef soon became a tourist attraction for scuba divers and all the usual curios having to do with ghost ships and pirates began to surface.

Several years ago, the remains of three divers were found in the reef. Investigations pointed toward a shark attack but others suspected foul play. The reef was closed to tourists for almost two months while professionals searched for the shark or sharks responsible. When no evidence of sharks could be found, the reef and the case involving the three divers were reopened.

The unsolved mystery surrounding the three divers resurfaced when a rash of shark-like attacks hit the reef in the spring of 2002. While the sharks themselves were never found, their handy work left behind four widows and two orphans. There was one victim, a Marcus Fisher, who survived long enough to scream incoherent ramblings about losing time before dying in the ambulance—his left arm and leg were missing. After Marcus, the reef was closed to the public indefinitely…

Following hurricane Francis last year, scientists who had been studying the reef returned to find nothing but a trench where the reef once stood. Sonar images of the ocean floor revealed the imprint of a ship’s hull along one side of the trench. Divers also found what is now believed to have once been the entrance to a cave. This cave was found near what would have been the ship's rudder. Unfortunately, the cave and its opening were collapsed—most believe due to the storm.

Two weeks ago, following a storm off the coast of Papua New Guinea, a glass-bottomed tour boat failed to report in. Search and rescue teams found the boat abandoned several kilometers off course near an uncharted reef…

A good friend of mine works for that glass-bottomed boat company and said it was very creepy how the boat wasn’t anchored but simply remained near the reef without drifting away. He’s also a bit of a scavenger. When tourists lose something on one of his boats, he usually helps himself or gives his finds away to friends as gifts. Knowing how much I like watches, he sent me a very nice Tag Heuer. On the back of the watch was an inscription that caused me to sell the watch and stop writing this story:

To my son Marcus,May you never lose time.— J. Fisher II

Ignorance is bliss

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Sun, 11 Sep 2005 11:14:00 +0000

Not being what one would call an ideal student, my report cards were usually less than impressive. So under-whelming were these progress reports that the bonus toy surprise in each package was a day’s worth of queasy feelings. Report card days were when I had to own up to all the schoolwork I had not been doing that semester. Often I already knew how bad the report would be long before receiving it. Sometimes, I’d even disappoint myself with lower-than-expected performance. Even though my low grades were disappointing to my father, our true conflict centered on honesty—my complete and total lack of it. Every morning and evening up to and including report card day, my father would ask me if I was keeping up with my schoolwork. My responses were varied but always full of assurances that things were on the up and up. The unease I felt riding my bike home with a report card was not dissimilar to what you might feel handing your executioner his axe.

Remember the first time someone told you how glue was made? How about the day you discovered what was really in a hot dog? While the verdict is still out on the terrestrial origins of a chicken nugget, are you truly interested in the answer? In this age of free information, we may find there may actually be too much of a good thing. Some mysteries were best left unsolved.

This line of reasoning deterred my father’s interest in my scholastic performance as much as, “no expectations yield no disappointments” brought him comfort. That I had falsely elevated my father’s expectations all semester made things even less comfortable. My comfort, it turns out, was directly tied to the report card that exposed my dishonesty. Somehow, you always end up having to sit after a spanking. In my case, it was sitting (or trying to) at his desk, breathing in staccato and tasked with the completion of all the schoolwork I lied about doing in the first place.

Each semester in my early elementary experience would be a repeat of the one before: many weeks of smooth (dishonest) sailing and then report card day when my house of cards would tumble painfully onto my backside for telling lies. It wasn’t until I discovered the ability to hide the truth in other people’s assumptions that was finally able to get away with anything. Life was good.

Many years later, my father and I were in Hong Kong together. He was teaching some classes there and his students decided to take us to an ‘authentic’ Chinese restaurant for dim sum. I found myself enjoying most of was brought by the table. As my hunger gave way to curiosity, I began to ask what everything was made of. Ninety percent of the time, I was asked what it tasted like in response. Somewhat surprised that it was just chicken, I’d wolf down each dish with gusto. As I was leaving the restaurant, an English fellow gently grabbed my arm. “You know,” he whispered and leaned in closer, “that wasn’t chicken.”

I never did find out exactly what I had consumed and at this point I’m not sure I ever really want to know. Since that time, however, I hold the truth in very high regard. Every time I’m tempted to mislead someone I can’t help but think:

If it tastes like chicken…

Shrink-wrapped opinions

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Fri, 09 Sep 2005 09:50:00 +0000

Every once in a while, as I stand in some supermarket checkout line, I’ll glance at the tabloids: The National Enquirer, The Weekly World News or The Star. Often, I’m satisfied to just laugh at the paper right there in the stand. Sometimes, the headlines catch my curiosity enough that I’ll actually purchase the rag and take it home for a few laughs. While there may be some that consider these papers to be the only true news, most (myself included) think of them as comic distractions. Every week it’s some new sensational headline about Elvis, aliens, governments, Nostradamus, the end of the world and Jesus. Sometimes, the headline manages to contain all of these things at the same time. Whatever can be said about the tabloids, no one can deny that the reporting style is designed to wow you into buying their paper.

Apparently threatened by the tabloids, news agencies have decided to fight sensationalism with even more sensationalism. News items are now events complete with their own theme song and flying logos. Gone are the days of facts laid out to dispel rumors and misunderstanding. These days, human-interest pieces masquerade as information while misdirection and showmanship are what keeps viewers from changing the channel.

It used to be that you could turn to the media, find facts and establish an informed opinion all by yourself. These days, opinions are shrink-wrapped, sponsored and force-fed to the public at large. The sad part is that most are happy to consume the party line and regurgitate it whenever the opportunity comes around. News is now massaged and marketed for optimal response—a ‘message’ to be adopted and evangelized.

In the Dark Ages, the church managed to control the masses by restricting access to their source material. The “Word of God” was doled out in carefully prepared sermons designed to emphasize the church’s intent. Without access to the source material, commoners simply had to take the church’s opinions as fact. Today’s new temple is the media and its emissaries are putting more and more distance between end product and truth.

When I look at the tabloids, I sometimes wonder if they really believe they're fooling anyone. Of course, when journalistic integrity now means opinion delivered as fact, the trick is going to be finding that needle of truth in the editorial haystack. If perception is reality, we should soon be seeing branded disasters or sponsored coverage … oh wait

The devil inside

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Thu, 08 Sep 2005 10:00:00 +0000

Victor was one of those children with an overdeveloped mean streak—if there was a fly to lose its wings or an ant to be burned, he was the chief executioner. Victor was also one of those kids always being sent to the principal’s office or running laps for the coach. Most parents had Victor’s parents on speed dial. When it was time to learn a new dirty word, we’d all go to Victor for our next lesson—the boy was the professor of profanity. Victor had the first collection of porn any of us had ever laid eyes on. He was also the one that showed us how to decipher breasts and other parts of the female body squiggling in and out on scrambled cable channels. Eventually our parents branded Victor a ‘problem child’ and his underground popularity grew like kudzu.

As we got older, we saw less of Victor as his punishments began to involve authorities with a little more clout than the school principal. It was Victor who tried to shoplift some candy from the local drug store. When the school playground was vandalized with spray-painted obscenities, Victor’s name was first to circulate. By now, most of us realized that affiliation with Victor could lead to blemishes on our ‘permanent record’—that file which the police seem to keep on all children everywhere.

No one could quite figure out why Victor did the things he did but soon most of us kept our distance. What used to be fun, exciting and dangerous to be around became uncomfortable and annoying. As Victor began to lose his fan base, his antics took on a more sinister hue: stealing from the teacher’s lounge, slashing tires or tormenting small animals. Initially giving voice to all the things we were afraid to say or do, Victor had now become a thug—the bastard child of our curiosity with doing wrong. It wasn’t long after banishing Victor from our social circles that he disappeared from school as well. Assuming he had been sent to juvenile detention or worse, we continued to go to school, grow up and move on without Victor.

Several years ago, I heard that Victor was married with kids and holding down a decent job in the town where we had all gone to school together. Curious to see if this was indeed true, I looked him up the next time I was in the old neighborhood and found everything to be as reported. Victor is indeed married, holding down a steady job and has 3 well-behaved young children. When I asked what happened to him all those years ago he told me...

It turns out that his parents decided to move Victor away from us because we were a bad influence on him. After moving, Victor settled down, focused on his studies and made new friends. It wasn’t until many years later that he felt comfortable returning to our small town where he ultimately met his wife and settled down.

While most people have their own inner demons, Victor apparently had a classroom or young devils waiting to see what he would do next. He had somehow fallen into the role of “bad boy” with an entire community unwilling to let him live it down. Victor had become the manifestation of the things all of us were afraid to do. We, in turn, became his muse for mischief—the devil inside.

Shaping the human tree

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Wed, 07 Sep 2005 08:35:00 +0000

When I was roughly six years old, my father took me to track and field day at the college where he was teaching. There were events taking place all over the field: the high jump, the long jump, throwing activities and some assortment of gymnastic events. Surrounding all of these was a giant ring of dirt where runners were warming up for different track competitions. My father needed to do something for the day’s events so he found me a seat where I was to stay until he returned. From where I sat in the stands, I could see the runners getting prepared—their legs stretching, muscles rippling and faces grim with the determination to win.

It wasn’t long before my dad was back with couple glasses of water for us to drink. It wasn’t the cold soda I was hoping for but it quenched our thirst just the same. As the day wore on, I became convinced that I could hold my own against these college runners. They seemed to be taking quite a bit of time to cover what seemed a relatively short distance. I begged my father to let me compete. Diplomatically, my dad tried to talk me out of it but I had already spent the morning observing the competition: they had already run a few races and I was fresh—there was just no way I could lose.

Seeing there was no way to convince me, my dad went down to the field and talked to one of the men organizing the event. They pointed at me as the other man smiled and my father obviously tried to downplay my athletic abilities. After what seemed an eternity, my dad came back with the gentleman who asked my name and age. I told him and he asked which race I would be running in. “Any race they don’t mind losing badly,” I said with a big grin. The man looked at my father and then gave me a big smile.

“Alright young man,” he said shaking my hand, “follow me and we’ll get you in the next race.” The man led me across the field to a line of runners setting up at various starting blocks. “Pick a lane and try to stay in it until the finish line,” was the gentleman’s final remark as he headed back to his station shaking his head in sorrow for the other runners. I picked my lane and prepared my entire body for speed…

There are pivotal moments where one’s growth is shaped. Some events in life will nurture while others prune for more drastically guided evolution. Ultimately, it is through these defining moments that we grow into the adults we’re one day to become. Most will point to a harsh or traumatic event as such a pivotal moment. The reason I speak of this now is because the following moment in my life shaped my growth in the most gentle of ways—it wasn’t until recently that I became aware of its influence.

When the starter pistol fired, I became a blur of arms and legs. I was moving faster than I’ve ever run before. I was so far ahead that there was no one coming up behind me. I wasn’t running, I was flying. After crossing the finish line, I joined the other runners at the judging booth to see just how much faster than everyone else I really was. After a short while, one of the judges called me over to his table and whispered, “your father’s calling you.” I looked in the direction he pointed and saw my father motioning for me to come join him.

The crowd was laughing at something that must have just happened on the field but I was too excited to tell my dad about my run to care. Smiling from ear to ear, my dad patted me on the back and said, “You ran a good race man! I didn’t know you could run like that. Why don’t we get some orange soda to celebrate?” As we headed for the concession stand, they announced the winners from my race. I never did hear them call my name but it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t until recently when my son began to show me things he had done when I realized my father taught me how to truly appreciate a child’s view of the world. There are pivotal moments when one’s growth is shaped. Almost thirty years ago, my father helped shape my growth with a bottle of orange soda and a loving smile.

The prickly pear

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Tue, 06 Sep 2005 10:31:00 +0000

Once upon a time there was a pear. This pear was quite plump and all the other pears aspired to be as juicy. On sunny days, the pear would make sure to find a leaf or two that could provide adequate shade. No one knew exactly how the pear had become so plump and juicy. Some of the other pears speculated that it had retained all the water intended for some of the less fortunate pears on the branch while others simply reckoned it was blessed to be that way. One thing everyone could agree upon was that the pear was destined for something great. The pear itself knew the other pears were jealous but it couldn’t be bothered with such petty affairs—it was, after all, destined for greatness.

Summer was coming to a close and all the pears were busy making their final preparations for the harvest season. Some would be chosen and others, if they had not grown enough, would be left to the birds and the fall frosts. Most of the pears were busy drinking up as much water as they could and spent their afternoons ripening in the sun’s glow as they turned in the warm summer breeze. The plump and juicy pear became so ripe that its branch began to lower itself to the ground—being picked first was almost guaranteed.

As you would expect, the plump and juicy pear was the first to be picked and it was very proud indeed. That night, the farmer’s wife decided to make a pie from some of the pears and began to look through the baskets her husband had harvested earlier that day. One by one she removed pears from the basket. Each pear she removed was pleased to have found a purpose so quickly. Each pear, that is, except for the plump and juicy one.

“I’m too important to be mixed up in some pie,” thought the pear, “I’m destined for greater things than this!” Frantically looking around, it noticed a loose nail sticking out of the basket and thought, “If I embed this nail in me, the farmer’s wife will not use me in the pie and I’ll be able to fulfill my greater destiny.” With that, the pear rolled into the nail just as the farmer’s wife reached to pick it up.

“Oh dear,” said the farmer’s wife, “what a shame this pear has a nail in it. Do be more careful when you toss them in the baskets dear.” Her husband mumbled his agreement from the other room as she set the plump pear aside. “Such a plump and juicy pear too,” she muttered to herself, “I suppose you were destined for other things,” and tossed the pear into the garbage.

The pear was so caught up in this latest development that it didn’t notice the farmer’s son had picked up the garbage can and had taken it out of the house. Dread soon overtook the pear when it realized that the farmer’s son intended to feed him to an animal. Quickly, the pear rolled around inside the garbage to acquire more defenses and managed to embed several toothpicks, some broken glass, a bottle cap and a twisted paper clip. The boy set the garbage down outside the stables and picked the pear out of the can. As he did so, he cut himself on the embedded shard of glass and dropped the pear into the mud. Before the pear could celebrate its near miss, the boy promptly kicked it into the nearby grove.

As the sun came up, the pear could see that it was now at the base of the very tree that had given it life. Because of all the rubbish embedded in the pear, not even the birds would pick at it. The other pears still in the tree looked down at the once plump and juicy fruit and shook in the wind. Their fallen comrade had become so untouchable that the only destiny left was to rot.

“At least,” thought the pear, “I wasn't prepared the wrong way or eaten by the wrong people.”

One more walk on the beach

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Mon, 05 Sep 2005 22:09:00 +0000

Labor Day has always been a time of rest and relaxation for me. It was also a big holiday for my mother who might spend up to a month prior to this weekend pulling together an amazing event—a massive family gathering. Our family would rent a beach house for the long weekend and gather as many relatives under one roof as possible. The kitchen was constantly in use—sometimes hectic but always enjoyable, we were never short of food or people to eat it. Out on the beach, my cousins and I would divide our time between swimming in the ocean, building sand castles or just taking long walks and catching up. At night, we’d go into the little town nearby and have ice cream and re-stock the groceries. Some evenings we'd play board games or just sit around retelling stories of our younger days. Once the ‘older folk’ went to bed, the young and young-at-heart would watch late-night movies or take a moonlit walk on the beach swapping the stories not fit to share with parents. As we got older and started our own families, it became more challenging to round everyone up for the beach but we always seemed to manage it somehow—it was a time of being together as a family.

Last year, the family vacation was cut short by a hurricane. While I can’t begin to compare my experience to what just happened in New Orleans, it was still quite an ordeal for all of us. For two days and nights, we weathered the howling winds and torrential rain. Even though our beach house was up on stilts, there was flooding from the rain being blown through the seals of the windows and sliding glass doors. I spent most of my evenings changing towels around the different windows and doors to sop up all the gathering water. When the storm had subsided, everyone decided to leave the beach and head back inland. I see that storm now as a prelude to the whirlwind of changes forthcoming in my family.

This year, I’m not at the beach. This year I’m home with my wife and kids. I’ve used all sorts of weak excuses: the new baby is too young to travel, we just want to stay at home this year, I have to do my hair (see my picture?) The truth of the matter is that my mother passed away this year and this is the first Labor Day of many to come without her. I wish for nothing more right now than to take a walk on the beach with her and talk about all the things that have happened since we last spoke. Since I won’t be at the beach this year, I’ll have to settle for seeing my mother’s joy in my daughter’s smile.

An affair of convenience

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Sun, 04 Sep 2005 19:32:00 +0000

I have a confession to make. I’ve been having an affair now for the past several years. I've known her since we were kids but grew distant in high school. It wasn't until many years later when standing in line at the DMV that I bumped into her again. Having her with me in that line reminded me how much I enjoyed her company. We saw each other quite regularly after that until I met my wife a few years later. During the first year of my marriage, I couldn't maintain the affair but would often wonder if I'd ever see her again. It wasn’t until the second year with my wife that I started to rekindle the affair and found that things would go better at home after each encounter.

When my son was born, of course, there were a few months when I didn’t make the effort to keep up the affair and lost touch with her entirely. These were dark days of stress and unhappiness. Eventually, I started sneaking her into the house and became less frantic. Looking back, it's a wonder I never got caught—while always discreet, my affair still left signs for those who knew where to look: changes in my habits, smiling even when things were falling apart around me or remaining calm in the face of normally aggravating behavior by my family.

How could I not be affected? Whenever she comes around, things just seem to go better. I’m less likely to say something stupid while in her company. I’m always at my best with her at my side. Life is much less stressful when she visits me. Why, then, is she not the one I’m with before all else? Because I could never commit to a long-term relationship—my thing with her has always been more an affair of convenience than a true love.

Now that I’ve got a brand new baby in the home, I’m afraid my fleeting romance is in even more jeopardy than ever. Between the lack of sleep and constant care for my children, I haven’t made much room for this other relationship. Lately though, I’ve been missing her calming presence. I suppose I’m writing this confession hoping that my wife will see how much I need this relationship and allow my affair to become a more permanent part of our lives. Sounds a little radical but it could happen. I know that it would be great around the kids and might even help smooth out some of the rough edges of my marriage.

I know my wife has always suspected I’ve had this secret affair but it’s only right and fair that I come clean about my desire to see and have more than passing encounters with the one called…

…Patience.

Getting ahead

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Sat, 03 Sep 2005 06:56:00 +0000

During my elementary and high school years, my father and I spent quite a bit of time discussing my future. I was of the opinion that school was simply a waste of my time and true potential. He thought I was going to be homeless. I say that my father and I discussed this during my elementary and high school years but the debate actually chased me into college. Eventually my dad gave up the fight and I dropped out of college. Armed with my low earning power, I ventured out into the world to prove my old man wrong. You know, it's really surprising how much employers care about a diploma. You could, in fact, show up for a job wielding the ever useful 'Bachelors of [the dead language] Latin Philosophy' and become the company's next big thing. I had to depend on my charm and good looks to achieve gainful employment.

After the 3rd summer of living with my parents, losing my girlfriend and floating enough credit card debt to make M.C. Hammer look more like Charles Schwab, I began to worry that my master plan of 'everything will work out' had a flaw. The flaw, as it turned out, was no one actually received the memo that things were supposed to be working out for me. I decided it was time to reinvent myself. I would be faster, stronger and more expensive—I had the technology. I would become a web artist!

Eventually my little web design business was doing well. As luck would have it, back in 1995, you were considered a good web site designer if your creations contained fewer than 20 animated gifs per page. By mostly designing epileptic-friendly sites, I managed to land a job with a large corporation willing to give my non-educated self a chance. The master 'things working out' plan was back on track. Now plugged into the system, I could begin my corporate climb and re-apply for the world domination I'd always wanted. What did my dad know? I was making more money than my father was when we first argued about my future. I was finally getting ahead...

Funny thing about marriage...it has a way of pointing out just how behind you can be. I suppose being ahead or behind really depends on how you look at it. Now, with two kids, I want to make sure they get into school, make it through college and land a good job. When my kids need motivation to do their homework, will I be of any use? I'm realizing that I've got some serious catching up to do with my father—he's been so far ahead of me I foolishly thought he was the one behind the times.

It could be worse

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Fri, 02 Sep 2005 17:00:00 +0000

My wife has secretly replaced her breasts with methane cannisters. Every time she feeds our new baby girl, it isn't long before my daughter sounds like the trombone section of my high school band. While amusing, it loses its charm at 2am. I spend most of the evening between burping her and fearing the diaper change. Why fear change? Changing this baby's diaper is much like taking the cover off a cannon. I once saw a documentary about some birds in Africa that seal themselves up inside a tree leaving just a tiny opening through which they receive food and dispose of it. My daughter's range and accuracy reminds me of these birds.

When the trumpeting and projectile pooping settles down, my little baby girl then decides that sleep is overrated and proceeds to stare at me. This is not the "are you my daddy? I think I love you" kind of stare. It is the, "I'm going to chew up your mind, body and soul before sunrise" look. No blinking, no smiles. Just two huge shark-like eyes peering at me as I hold her. When it's time to eat, my daughter acts like she's at a wine tasting. First, the bottle must be allowed the 'breathe.' After some time has passed, she then tastes the milk and allows it to swirl around her mouth before spitting it back out. She may take several more samples before finally attacking the bottle in earnest. Did I mention my daughter is a narcoleptic feeder? Well, she falls asleep after a few seconds of drinking but wakes up the moment I remove the bottle. Eventually, she finally falls asleep in time for "Gas II: The Return." By 5am, I'm staggering into the bedroom in the hopes of sleeping myself. By 6am, my son is awake and running amok through the house...loudly...

When I haven't had enough sleep, everything sucks. The weather, the mail, my computer, this blog—everything—in a word, sucks. Then, I look at the picture in this post and think, "it could be worse." If it's unclear what you're looking at, click it and [after wincing and/or laughing] realize that your day can't suck like the one belonging to this image—unless, of course, this image belongs to you. So while I might be easily annoyed at my day, I've got reminders like this picture which keep me from feeling too sorry for myself.

Is it really fair for me to use another's misfortune to dampen my own experience? Should one laugh at another's circumstance in order to feel better about they mess they're in themselves? Good questions to which I've answered, "yes." If you can't laugh at your own situation, laugh at someone else's to remember how. When I first started writing this post, I intended to unleash my frustration and anger on the world. Looking at this picture, however, forces me to rethink my definition of pain and discomfort.

This little light of mine...

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Fri, 02 Sep 2005 06:20:00 +0000

When I was a much younger child than I am now, there was a song we used to sing called, "This little light of mine." I think the words were something along the lines of, "this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...all around the neighborhood, I'm gonna let it shine...hide it under a bushel? NO! I'm gonna let it shine...let it shine, let it shine, let it shine..." The lyrics were about sharing one's beliefs with the world so that others could benefit from the blessings given you. While something gets lost without the music, the lyric's message to me have recently been found.

I believe that each of us has a part to play in the shaping of our world. Some influence the course of events in grand, sweeping strokes open to the scrutiny and criticism of all. Others simply keep the wheels turning my maintaining status quo—both are equally valid forms of social participation. In the last several years, however, I've noticed a trend both in myself as well as our community at large which seems to be taking over without much resistance. Rather than utilize the full extent of our abilities, we seem content or even motivated to curl up in the fetal position in order to establish and maintain a common standard for the social machine. These days, it seems as if we are more interested in who's feelings will get hurt than by where we're headed.

The inner workings of a clock are a collection of many different gears, springs and various mechanisms. Each, while vastly different in scale, importance and function are vital to moving the clock forward through time. If each piece of the machine were to suddenly be the same as every other piece, things would grind to a terrible halt. I have found that in recent years I have done little to realize my true potential—my main excuse being that of wanting to share the joy of discovery with those around me and not before they're ready to take on the adventure with me. I realize now that this is merely the ultimate stall tactic. It will be in my actions that I will finally share my adventures—not my coaxing, pushing or waiting around for others.

Recently, I've come across this passage which has moved me emotionally and intellectually. Written by Marianne Williamson in her book, "A return to love," the text deals with our ability to sell ourselves short. Entitled, "Our Greatest Fear," the passage reads as follows:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light , not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of god.

Your playing small doesn't serve the world.

There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make and manifest the glory of god that is within us.

It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

I've started writing again because of this text. I may not be the brightest in the world but I intend to let this little light of mine shine.

Rabbit rabbit

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Thu, 01 Sep 2005 06:01:00 +0000

It's now September. More importantly, it is the 1st of the month. What, you might ask, is so important about the 1st of the month? It is an opportunity to gather a little extra luck for the month ahead. If you don't believe in luck, that's ok too because for those of us who do, there'll be more to go around. At this point, most people figure they've got nothing to lose and ask, "alright, how can I have more luck this month?" Because I'm so helpful, I'll spell out all the steps and complex rituals needed in order to generate extra luck the first of every month for that entire month. Here is how this works:

1) When you wake, the first words you speak must be none other than, "Rabbit, rabbit." note: this is doubly important if your birthday occurs during the month as you will receive double the luck for your birthday month.

2) If, for whatever reason, you've forgotten to utter the words, "Rabbit, rabbit" before any other, all hope is not lost. You can say the phrase backward as the last thing uttered before falling asleep that same day. The phrase, as we all know, is "Tibbar, tibbar."

There are some who believe that 'tagging' another person with the "Rabbit, rabbit" phrase will actually steal that person's luck for the month and give it to you. I have had some hectic episodes of calling people across time zones just to say "Rabbit, rabbit" first—stealing their luck and, more importantly, hearing my victim cry out from the agony of being 'tagged' again. While this last modification to the rabbit rabbit movement can be fun, it can also lead to heated debates when it comes to time zone disputes or even if the luck-stealing can be accomplished via an Instant Message or telephone call. To these debates, I feel the rule of thumb is to simply decide on the rules of engagement with those you intend to 'tag' or be 'tagged' by and deal with the coming storm of luck-stealing.

Oh, by the way, if you're reading this today (September 1st, 2005) then I've just stolen your luck. Please come back on the 1st of next month so that I may add your luck to my growing collection again...muwhahaha!

The Shrine of Trivia

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 21:21:00 +0000

Just off the well-traveled road of life is an interesting detour through a field of tidbits that surround the mountain obscura—its highest peaks cradling the Shrine of Trivia. Many have made the trip but few have done more than gather at the mountain's base for a spell before finding something useful to do. Guarded closely by irrelevance, the mighty walls of this great temple allow passage to a select few—dedicated monks who have taken the solemn vow of mediocrity. Those who have clawed their way up through the mountain's chaffy forest will soon find themselves caught up in a series of trials.

For the first trial, one must successfuly negotiate the garden maze of minutiae—many who enter this maze become so caught up in the garden's intricate distractions that they never leave. Should you look away from the garden long enough to notice the threadbare rope of timely quips, a quick social climb will bring you to the platau of disappointment. It is here that most decide the Shrine of Trivia is too great a detour and their travels along life's road soon continues. For those on a true pilgrimage, there is a winding stairway made from poor excuses and fragile justifications leading upward. Many have found that their justifications don't hold up or that there are impassible holes in their poor excuses. For these unfortunate souls, falling back into life's journey is quite jarring and often painful—to reach the top, one must pick their excuses and justifications carefully. Should you make the summit, you will find yourself staring at a gigantic door carved from the best promises. In the middle of this great door is a loop hole with a little man standing in front. His name is Caveat...

Only a most dedicated disciple of procrastination will be deemed worthy of the loop hole by Caveat. While I am not allowed to discuss the trial of Caveat in detail, I can tell you that I am fortunate enough to have been granted passage through the loop hole. It is said that those here in the Shrine of Trivia never truly appreciate the beauty and wonder that exists around them because there is always the lure of something else just around the next corner. I am thankfully not as easily distrac...

Looking for a good wrench...

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Tue, 30 Aug 2005 21:14:00 +0000

Something is wrong with me. I no longer seem able to reconcile every aspect of my tidy and organized life. Somewhere, somehow, someone or something has sabotaged the simple order of my world. I'm not sure exactly when I first noticed it but things aren't working the way they're supposed to anymore. The many pieces of my life no longer fit together as perfectly as they once did. Like an old clockwork, some of my favorite excuses are worn and missing teeth. New components I thought could replace old or missing ones don't fit quite as they should and the idea of adding new machinations to the delicate balance of my routine fill me with dread. For someone who's prided himself on a deep self understanding, these latest malfunctions are quite alarming—there has to be a clearly defined point of corruption.

Perhaps it's my relationships? We all know that getting married can change things. Maybe I married prematurely? What if I married the wrong person? Is there such a thing as the right person? I suppose I could get caught up in this loop for a while but I fear it is nothing but a wild goose chase. You see, the order of my world was beginning to show signs of decay long before I met my wife. In fact, thinking on it more now, I believe that it was my marriage (a new, more powerful and complex mechanism designed to replace my bachelor systems) that made it possible to support the children peripherals I'd always wanted. While some may argue that my core systems were not designed to support the family component—the additional load forcing me to route energy to either original or the new family system but not both at the same time. To be honest, I think there was quite a lot of energy wasted before starting up my family. The amount of effort used now is much more focused and efficient. My life hasn't changed. Instead of fewer and older cogs and gears, I have newer more efficient systems in place to help me continue doing things my way.

I think that the malfunctions are being caused by an external force acting on the system. Could it be that I'm simply not investing enough time maintaining my routines? Is the very attempt to try and run a machine (which has changed over the years) as if no modifications were made causing these breakdowns? Perhaps it is simply time aging and wearing on things? What if there is no malfunction at all but simply my inability to accept that my life has changed? That would explain a lot of things. I suppose I'm not a 12-year-old boy any more. If I could allow myself to see that there's more to each day than video games and comic books...

No. That's not it at all.

Somewhere, there's a saboteur missing a good wrench.

Download this

noreply@blogger.com (Nabih) — Tue, 30 Aug 2005 06:48:00 +0000

I saw this cheerful image (courtesy of the RIAA) and found myself smiling. "When you pirate MP3s, you're downloading COMMUNISM"—the very thing erroding our fine society today. The U.S.S.R. didn't dissolve, they simply became hackers and have secretly been uploading 'communism' to the internet. What began as a 'hippie' open-source mentality was really communism striking back at our capitalist way of life. Linux was really developed in Siberia as guards with AK-47s paced above the programmer's cubicles. Use FireFox and take a bite out of that big anti-big-business pie with all yer other red friends.

Remember that each time you download that pirated copy of Gigli we're one step closer to having our own 'Checkpoint Charlies' between states. Seriously though, the various industries out to protect their gifts to the world (music, film, software, etc.) are kind of going about things the wrong way aren't they? If you look at the little guys in software, there's a practice known as shareware or 'try before you buy' employed. While this doesn't stop pirates from hacking or cracking their software, it's still a deterrent to some of the more 'casual pirates.' As for companies whining about a loss in profits, when a piece of software starts to require a second mortgage, people tend to look for alternative methods of software 'evaluation.'

As for movies, music, games and the like, these works are harder to explain away. Perhaps it's the 'getting away with it,' or simply that some people are too cheap to pay $12.00 for a CD. Movies too expensive at $20 while games even more so at $50 a pop? There are rental services like Netflix or Gamefly that allow you to have an infinite library of media sent to your mailbox.

Is pirating wrong? Sure. It's stealing. Are the peasants forced to resort to desperate actions? Sometimes. I'm sure, however, that regardless of how things ultimate play out, the communists will be the ones smiling in the end.