Precipitation and digital cameras don’t mix. I know, I have keen insight to the obvious, but I didn’t take any pictures today.

If you’re interested, here’s a map of where I went. It’s called the Siltstone Gap Trail.

Ok, I need to face facts, I’m a…..

(whisper)

foodie.

Yes, that’s right. I love truffle oil, and pine nuts, and fresh flat leaf parsley, and cracked black pepper, and grey salt. It’s sensual and not to mention delicious. My favorite entree to cook for a date? That’s easy.

Take two fresh chicken breasts, and pound them flat like cutlets. Then, in a small mixing bowl, take 2 large tablespoons of good ricotta cheese and mix thoroughly with a teaspoon of chopped roasted garlic, 1 - 2 tablespoons of grated parmesan cheese (to taste), a teaspoon of cracked pepper, a teaspoon of fresh thyme, about 3-4 slices of prosciutto chopped, and one teaspoon of good quality extra virgin olive oil. Once that is mixed into a paste, divide in half and place each amount in the center of the pounded chicken breast. Roll the chicken around the stuffing and refrigerate the breasts for about an hour (this lets the stuffing set up).

After refrigeration, bread the stuffed breasts with Italian seasoned bread crumbs (no liquid needed if the breasts are moist) and heat a good non-stick omelette pan to med/med-hi heat. Coat the bottom of the pan when good and hot with about 2 tablespoons of good olive oil (extra virgin is best) and brown the rolled-stuffed breasts for about 6-8 minutes per side, depending on the size and thickness.

Drain on paper towels when the stuffed breasts are brown and firm. Serve with steamed broccoli or broccolini and a green salad with white or red wine of your choice. Ask your date about what veggies she/he likes and substitute liberally. But the chicken is money.

If you don’t get more than a kiss goodnight, I would be surprised.

I look out the porthole to view the splenectomy as it burbles forth in frothy waves of pink and azure, like a bubble gum ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins. Odd Job asks me if I’d like a Pepsi, but I refuse on the grounds that it might incriminate me. My lawyer, Johnny Cochrane, practicing jurisprudence from the afterworld advises that I plead nolo contendere to the parking ticket, and they will go easy on me.

They are not amused.

Paying my fine in genetic material seems like a small price to pay as I deposit the plastic cup in the receptacle. As I leave the courtroom on quail eggshells I fall into a narcoleptic fit on the tighly woven floor covering in the hotel lobby. Busboys shuffle by with various articles of confederation and clothing. Waking suddenly, I’m overcome with the urge to sing, but my shyness gets the best of me and I hum until my lips itch with the vibration. As I emerge from the courtroom hotel lobby into the brightly lit dreary rain, I realize that water is wet, the sky is not blue, and all is not right with my checking balance.

Note to self: Call your accountant

Thoughts zip across my frontal lobe with annoying speed.

If Seinfeld is a sitcom about nothing, is According to Jim a sitcom about something else?

What the fuck is this Rudy?

I hail a pink carriage and long for the days of Yellow Cabs. As the carriage beasts skid to a stop, the bulbous door swings wide and the current occupant spills onto the blood stained sidewalk, looking like a cross between a bipedal sabertooth tiger and a tribble. It squeaks with displeasure at my lapel pin of Joe Dimaggio and I flip it the bird as I jump into the carriage and command the herd to take me to 4th Street and Borat Drive. The herd deftly guides me to my destination with complete inaccuracy. Dissatisfied with the service, I thumbprint the pay screen with my left thumb, signifying only half payment. The herd screems at me in a tongue only a half-wit Indonesian Armenian Jew would understand.

“Fuck him,” I think out loud as he takes further umbrage. He’ll sue me later, but these are the gravy boat times we live in. His carriage lurches into traffic and his herd beasts are immediately struck by a trash hauler, decapitating the lot of them.

“Well done,” I think out loud yet again.

Golf claps surround me as onlookers view the bloody spectacle.

And a few more items to be thankful for…

Louisville Football and the BCS

Domani

Beaches and sunsets

Snorkelling

Panasonic’s Lumix digital camera

Fishing

Jefferson James

Fall colors

The full moon

Great movies

Sifl and Olly

College basketball

Creative Zen Touch MP3 player

Hot baths

Good coffee

Green Tea

Cake

Tool

Ben Folds

It’s that time of year, so, let’s list some things I’m thankful for this year…

Repairman Jack

Lucas Davenport

My family, though they drive me nuts, they are my rock. (And I drive them nuts as well.)

Dexter

Hiking in the woods.

My personal physician for telling me to get off my ass and lose weight.

Entourage

Anthony Bourdain

Beck’s insane genius

The Waiter

TalkNCAA.com

Bill Bryson

Bill Buford

Secret trysts

Rediscovering my creativity, I thought it might have died.

First it was Mel Gibson in a drunken tirade against Jews. Personally, I’m just glad he brought the insult “sugar tits” back into common usage. But seriously, what does an Australian radical Catholic have against Jews? I’m guessing he’s had his fill of Hollywood. But it doesn’t excuse him of course. And drunk he was, as Yoda say would.

But Michael Richards dropping “N-Bombs” at a stand-up club?

Sure he’s apologiized and all, but to me, this little episode screams “STUNT!!!!”

First of all, Michael Richards doesn’t really do stand up, he’s more in the mold of Andy Kaufman’s Uncomfortable Drama School. And let’s not forget he was in the staged fight stunt on the ABC show Fridays with Kaufman in the late 70’s. I know it has him in the headlines right now, but I’d like to bet you this little piece of theater was staged.

Mark my words. 

I’d forgotten how truly disturbing Taxi Driver is. I watched Deniro tonight on the AMC channel and damn if I didn’t get chills once again.

For a movie that was made when I was 12, it is still powerful.

Thank god for the rain to wash the trash off the sidewalk. Listen you screwheads: Here is a man who would not take it anymore.
A man who stood up against the scum, the filth. Now I see clearly.

 A great lyric from the Clash, but just a rehash of a Travis Bickle soliloquy. 

I’m really alone lately.

I’ve quit a lucrative job, and am pursuing a writing career in a world where I have no experience.

Fiction.

Yes, as they said in the movie Twice Upon a Time, I’m attempting the Great Amurkian Novel. Well, not exactly, just a novel I’ve always wanted to attempt and I’ve never had the time or volition to write. I’ve been a technical writer for over 10 years now and suddenly, the creative juices have dried up for me. Techical writing is dry to begin with, but the future I saw ahead of me was a Carthaginian desert, as arid and devoid of life as I could imagine.

Call it a mid-life crisis. Call it what you will, but I have come to a crossroads. A Frostian-fork in the road. One way, a life of reasonable security and boredom, the other way, a rebirth of my creativity and risk.

It took six months to make my decision. And I jumped overboard.

My family has not taken it well. Given the rollercoaster that has been my professional career (more highs than lows, but a healthy share of both) they have questioned my sanity. And I do understand their position. The job I’ve kept for the last 2 years has been steady, the company is outrageously strong, and my future there, although somewhat dead-ended, was quite secure.

I won’t go into what steps brought me to my decision, but I quit. My heart wasn’t in it anymore, and they were very good to me, so rather than get fired, I figured they deserved the respect they gave me.

My last day was Nov 3rd. Since that day, I’ve had virtually every person I value as a friend or loved one question my judgement.

Externally, I concede their conclusions. I might very well look insane. I’m 42, I’ve worked in technology for over 20 years now, and I’ve openly admitted to anyone that wanted my explanation that I don’t want that life anymore.

But it is true. Most of this year, I’ve increasingly found that my work is less and less important to me. And I came to realize, it wasn’t the work, so much as the topic. Writing user manuals for a living is about as rewarding as a cashier at McDonalds. It takes some talent, but really, who cares?

My point is this: One of the driving forces in my life has been to leave a mark. ( For the wiseasses reading this, I’ve left skidmarks, so fuck off ) I’ve been published, and feel reasonbly good about it, but outside of the technical world, I’ve touched NO ONE.

This feeling of impotence is the disease, and fiction is the cure. Or at least I hope.

I hope you get to read my novel one day. ‘Tis my consumation that I devoutly wish.

Starts tonight, but the high point for activity is supposed to be tomorrow (Saturday Nov. 18th), from about 11:45 PM EST to around 1:30 AM EST (Nov. 19th).

Always a cool thing to watch, and the sky is supposed to be clear. Time to break out the digital camera and see if I can get some shots.

I’ll keep you posted.