The Trouble With Ashes to Ashes

Once again the state of California has proven that its label of liberal is nothing more than window-dressing and urban legend.

or

It's the damn Mormons, don't you watch South Park?

There are fingers and there are pointers, and excuses are thrown against walls and heads are smashed in alleys lined with blood and bottles sharp with anger and stupidity.

It's not about politics. It's not about religion. It's about doing the right thing. You'll hear people say otherwise and they are wrong. There are few things in life less grey. This is black and white. This is right versus something far from it.

Freedom for all should not be contingent upon the fears of the some. Glass ceilings are meant to be shattered. Dreams are meant to inspire and mountain tops only remain unreachable to those without the will to see beyond the rocks that fill their mind.

Love is not unconstitutional. Civil rights are not wrong. Families are not supposed to be broken. Nobody gets left behind.

Isn't there enough hate in this world?

Will my children grow up in a world where love grows hungry, left to starve in open closets while government rations are thrown into the masses, kept straight and narrow by the sight-line of their blinders?

Do we need to paste the words of Gibran and Lennon on every street corner? Should the ebb and flow of Neruda's heartstrings be our ringtone? Must a Browning be tattooed upon every shoulder to whisper a constant song of poetry across the stream of our conscience?

Even Foreigner must know what love is by now, and it is not what passes for law in the state of California.

There will be those that disagree, which is their right. They will fill comments and message boards trying to justify the unjustifiable and their every word will prove us right. They will waste both time and space with letters to the editor, pungent with blunt ignorance and the pocketed scent of posies.

We all fall down, but only some of us will have rings on our fingers.

Of Mice, Men and Murder as a Lullaby

Driving through Salinas, CA is like driving through a memory - assuming your memories include the collected works of John Steinbeck, which mine do. It is a trip through prose and the scenery springs to life from so many paragraphs.

So it was that Tricia and I stopped at the Steinbeck museum and upon leaving I purchased the classic Of Mice and Men. Tricia had never read it. It became our narrative - an audio book without the tape and an aroma reminiscent of a French Dip sandwich and a couple of beers.

I read as she drove that lonely highway with the sun burning bright and the pages dancing all around.

I told her about the rabbits.


There is a murder in my yard. A murder of crows. Alfred Hitchcock is sitting on the bench under the mulberry tree and he is tossing them bread crumbs and forgotten lines.

They are loud and they have us surrounded. They talk and gargle and sing and yell and the sound of their wings echoes through our now empty home like the pending arrival of helicopters promising napalm in the morning. They are black birds and they sing in the dead of night.


Our house is bare but for the random can in the cupboard and assorted condiments in the icebox. We have two weeks left before we walk away forever and it will be spent on hardwood floors covered in quilts and children.

Our beds are gone. Our TV is packed. Our chairs are broken laundry baskets and forgotten boxes. Our clothes are on repeat.

We have been working hard. We get up early and stay up late. There is heavy lifting and dirt and sweat. We work until our backs cannot and then we lie upon a pallet of discarded blankets and the give of oak.

It is Salinas in a memory. It is broken wings and all my life.

It is only waiting for the moment to arise.

Two Ear Infections and a Microphone

That was a good drum break.

If you've ever read this blog, or any blog written by a parent, you would know that some things are understood- things like sleep is a myth and all restrooms are public.

We didn't sleep last night. Granted, we never sleep. Our bed is too small for the ark that Jacob said to build upon it (see below) and a good rest is seldom had.


Yes, we co-sleep. I don't care what you think. Unless you're okay with it, then by all means think away. Our decision to do so is based loosely on the fact that we sold the kids' beds on Craigslist. It's a recession, people.

Plus, the move and all that. They'll have beds soon, put the phone down.

Anyway, last night there was little sleep had by anyone with a pillow (see above). It was a night of cries, screams and whimpering. Yes, whimpering. And whining.

Thing Two (top center) has been sickish for a few days. We assumed it to be allergies. The air here is disgusting and everyone is coughing, itching and feeling like crap. We figured that was the case with Thing Two, or possibly Swine Flu.

About, oh, 4am, he declared that his ears hurt. Not one ear, but ears. Then he continued to cry, scream and whimper, without even missing a beat. The kid has talent. Eat that Susan Boyle.

Six in the morning found me and the boy in Urgent Care. Double ear infections. Antibiotics. A donut. A nap.

Now he's sitting at my feet eating ice cream and whimpering noticeably softer. And I am more tired for it.

Of Memes and Public Relations

This post is a hybrid. Perhaps it is the first of its kind. Perhaps it is an epic fail or the beginning of a beautiful friendship. We'll play it by ear.

My inbox runneth over with opportunity. It used to be that I would receive the occasional offer for male enhancement and perhaps a letter or two from my dearest, lord bless their soul, Nigerians who wish the weather in my atmosphere well and please to help with teh money, but that was about it. I rarely heard from anyone in the world of public relations. When I did it was a moment of zenish "I'm somebody!" But like Navin R. Johnson before me, I have found that success carries with it a price. That price is my soul. Also, your time.

In other news, I was tagged for a meme. So there's that.

Everybody's favorite messiah on ice, Mr. Black Hockey Jesus, was kind enough to tag me with a meme. Sure, we'll go with kind. The meme is below. The PR stuff is integrated. Don't worry, you won't notice it AT ALL.

WHAT ARE YOUR CURRENT OBSESSIONS?

I'm currently obsessed with breathing. Seriously. I cannot get enough of it. I'm even breathing in my sleep.

Speaking of obsession, that's still my favorite Calvin Klein stink. It smells like summer and lust. Reminds me of my teenage years when my biggest problems were acne and the wooing of women, but mostly neither of those.

WHO GAVE YOU THE BEST ORAL SEX OF YOUR LIFE?

This is something that James T. Kirk and I have in common, although I thought it was great and he thought it was tribble. I met her at Wanderlust during the Spoon set. She's from Canada. You don't know her.

WHAT'S FOR DINNER?

I'm on a strict whatever my wife makes diet. Wednesday night is Fillet Mignon or sometimes cereal. The dogs are having Dogswell brand dog food as part of a the bow-wow bailout and a nutritional breakfast. The cats are having whatever they catch.

In other news, anyone want a cat? Seriously. I'll ship.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR AT THE MOMENT?

I'm a little nervous that we'll lose the Battle for Terra. And swine flu.

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

Gipsy Kings and sighs of discontent. Some kid rock is on deck, that's rock for kids not the country/rap redneck.

IF YOU WERE A GOD/GODDESS, WHAT WOULD YOU BE?

Is this a trick question? I'd be a god. Duh. Probably the one you worship. Sacrifice or big, hot mountain go boom, bitches.

And if the false gods of science are more your thing...

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE HOLIDAY SPOTS?

Directly under the mistletoe. I spend every Easter there. At Christmas I go to Easter Island of Misfit Toys.

My favorite Mother's Day spot is Jackman's Flowers who are currently celebrating 100 years in the biz. Enter the code "honea15" and save 15% - nobody loves a deal like Mom!

WHAT ARE YOU READING RIGHT NOW?

Funny timing on this one as the next group of PR emails are all publishers and authors wanting me to give away and/or review books. I might read some of them. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I'm not reading anything - despite the 10+ books on my nightstand in various stages of completion. I'm too busy writing (IOUs and bad checks).

WHAT ARE FOUR WORDS THAT DESCRIBE YOU?

Tall. Scented. Sell-out.

WHAT IS YOUR GUILTY PLEASURE?

I live guilt-free. Also, oblivious. For the record, I've never been convicted.

WHO OR WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

Usually something pretty funny, like comedians or the misfortune of others. NOT DANE COOK.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPRING THING TO DO?

Spending hours of my valuable time on memes, taking long walks on the beach and collecting memories like so many ladybugs.

WHERE ARE YOU PLANNING TO TRAVEL NEXT?

I've got a full itinerary this summer: Tucson, Chicago, L.A. (I'll live elsewhere by then), and possibly Africa. I use UpTake for all my travel needs and so can you!

WHAT IS THE BEST THING YOU ATE OR DRANK LATELY?

My wife made some tasty enchiladas the other night. The beer was good, too.

Yes, I'm out of links.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE TIPSY?

At Gatsby's party. It was great.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE EVER MOVIE?

Man, I can't pick just one. My favorites include: Star Wars, Cool Hand Luke, Princess Bride, Iron Giant, Il Postino, Pale Rider, Shawshank Redemption, When Harry Met Sally, Peter Pan, and anything with porn.

WHAT IS THE BIGGEST LIFE LESSON YOU'VE LEARNED FROM YOUR KIDS?

This should cover it.

WHAT SONG CAN'T YOU GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD?

I really love this one. What can I say, I'm a softy.



Thanks for playing!

And The New York Times Said Blog Is Dead

"I see you wrote a post," said my wife as I entered the bedroom.

"Finally," I said. "It's been over a month and I finally felt enough of something to put it out there. I doubt anyone will get it. I don't think I get it."

"It's good to practice," she said.

Practice? What the hell, woman. I'm a professional writer. I don't practice.

But I should.

I hear it makes perfect.

She spent a few minutes trying to explain what she meant, but I was already playing the ancient game of sudoku on my iPhone - that might be irony, and I didn't really care.

And I didn't care about the post. That's not to say that I didn't care when I wrote it- I needed that release. I had tangents in my head, and then they were published and my mind could rest a little. They needed to get out, random as they were, and it felt good to do it. I don't miss them at all.

But I'm over blogging. You may have realized this by the fact that I haven't been doing it.

Sure, I've been blogging professionally - it pays the bills and it allows me opportunities I would never have in a more traditional occupation. I'm far from over that.

But it's a job now. I work long, long hours doing what I used to do for fun and now when I want a break the last place I want to turn to is blogging. I play with the kids. I stare into space. I sleep on my floor.

That is why I walked away. This is why I returned: I need a place to clear my head and you're standing in it.

No Rhyme. No Reason.

I turned my cell phone off for a matinee movie and turned it back on nearly 12 hours later. The world went on without me. There were unread text messages that implied debauchery and missed calls that promised salvation. I answered none.

I have missed some things and I've been gone too long to care. Everything will come around again, especially if we wish it wouldn't. And it's easy to get lost while standing still. Clichés. Fortune cookies. The scripted wooing of reality TV. The view never changes and damn, your eyes are beautiful.

There are riddles beneath my fingertips and a warm, neglected beer on my bedside table. There are children sleeping sound and safe in the room across the hall and there are troubles wide awake in the fold and pinch where brow meets bridge. My face grows deeper beneath scars and memories. I am unshaven and I laugh too much. I spend the day in constant squint just trying to figure out what the fuck I'm looking at.

There is a soundtrack behind me and the words have been lost and forgotten. Tonight I decided to hum a few bars.

Perhaps tomorrow we'll dance.