I am a very vivid dreamer. I wake up every morning remembering one or more of my dreams. It sometimes take a minute or so when I first wake up to decipher what is reality and what was just a dream.
I've trained myself to be a semi-lucid dreamer. Many times I am able to self-realize in a dream ("this is a dream!") and manipulate the course of the dream. It doesn't happen every time I dream. For no known reason, I take the awareness within the dream as an opportunity to fly. Strangely, I fly in my dreams by holding and manipulating my breath. Breath controls my speed and altitude.
For as long as I can remember I've also had two recurring dreams. More recurring themes in a dream than the same exact dream over and over again.
Does anyone knock? In this dream I am with a girl. It can be someone I know, someone I am with in real life or someone I recognize or even someone imaginary. Her and I are hanging out somewhere semi-public (A park, a party, a restaurant or such).
We get to talking and one thing leads to another. It is obvious we are both horny so we sneak off and find a place to be alone (room with a closed door or something). Just as we get started getting started we are interrupted. Someone innocently comes into our space. We are never "caught" but the private place we found stops being private and we flee in search of a new location. We find one and it happens again... and again... and again.
Grab the torches! The dream starts with me doing something in or around a group of people. Somehow (and the how varies widely from dream-to-dream) the people around me decide they need to "get" me. Sometimes they just need to talk to me, sometimes they intend me harm, sometimes they think I did something and sometimes I don't know why the are after me.
I start by getting away from the small group. They appear later and I am unable to shake them ("Who ARE those guys?" - obscure movie quote). As the dream progresses their numbers increase and the feeling of impending danger increases as well. It eventually turns into a full-out chase dream but I am always chased by an angry mob (though they did not start off angry or as a mob.)
So... you being my favorite reader (just you, don't tell the others), what to YOU think these dreams mean and why do I have one or both at least once a week? Why the tie between breath control and flying? Put your small round wire rim glasses on, grab your pad of paper. I am on your couch and paying you $100 and hour. Analyze me...
Day 2 of 7 of the diet Start weight:180 Today's weight: 180
I started my Master Cleanser detox diet today. This is the second time I've done this great diet. It dissolves and cleans your body of toxins and has a weight loss side effect. I lose, on average 2-3 pounds a day.
Normally it is a 10-day diet, I will do it only for 7-days so I can eat like a human when I fly up to NYC to see you-know-who.
The only things I can put in my body (and I mean the ONLY things) are:
The drink is made up of water, fresh squeezed organic lemon juice, grade B maple syrup ($17 a bottle - WTF?) and cayenne pepper. It tastes like really good lemonade with a pepper kick. I don't mind the taste at all.
It is amazing how much energy I have on the diet (I can do my runs and sleep better). It is great for my Crohn's as well. Believe it or not, you still go "#2" through-out the whole diet despite not taking in solids. It is all the toxins from your digestive system and joints leaving the body. Pretty incredible.
The only bad part is the salt water rinse. A few times during the diet you have to drink 1 or 2 liters of salt water. The body does not absorb the salt water (same salination as the body) so it shoots in one end... and leaves out the other. It is the only healthy colonic you can do (colonics from the other side only impact).
The first time I did the diet I had a physical before, half-way and after the diet. My doctor was not crazy about me doing it but was suprised when he checked my again and at the end. He told me not to be afraid of doing it again as long as I am very careful coming off of it (taking in solids again).
If reading this was not enough.. I might start a live web cam streaming here on HALO of the inside of my large intestine... 'cause I love ya.
It is well documented that I love all of you. Though I have nothing to prove on this front, I will still offer yet another gift to my readership.
Last month I offered a Step-by-Step for Dudes on how to make sure your gal brags about you at every girlie pajama tickle fight pillow party she goes to. Today I will help all of you homophobic dudes out there free yourselves from your self-imposed prisons.
Are you a man who feels uncomfortable watching Bravo? Do you giggle and point if you see two men holding hands? If you harbor hate in your heart for hombres that love hombres then this Step-by-Step is for you.
Hofzinser's Step-by-Step for Dudes How to become Un-Homophobic in 6 Easy Steps
Get yourself a six-pack of beer and sit down in your kitchen and drink it all - alone. Once you have a good buzz running, ask yourself this question, "Do I like cock?" Nobody's there so be honest with yourself. Are you turned on by men? If "yes" then you have a lot to think about so I will leave you alone with that (put down the beer and find some vodka, cranberry juice and a splash of Cointreau and mix it up in a martini glass). If "no" then you can move on to the next step.
Take a deep breath, you are well on your way once you establish your own sexuality. You like women and want to do very naughty things with them (and only them). Close your eyes and imagine yourself in your bedroom with the hottest chick you can think of. Now take yourself step-by-step what you would do to her if she was (and she's not, but work with me here) unbelievably attracted to you. Really think about it. Go into detail and run through the scenario from start to finish (I'll wait here until you finish). Back? Ok, does what you just thought about define who you are? Does it determine what type of worker, parent, friend or citizen you are? Unless the scenario you thought of involved violence or a really young girl, the answer should be "no".
Think about your best buddies. If what you like to do with another consenting adult only defines you behind the closed door of your bedroom should it not be that way for everyone? Does what your best beer drinking buddy or poker pal do with his wife or gal decide whether you will be their friend? Is it none of your business? Of course it is none of your bee's wax. What two adults do freely in the bedroom is their deal and only affects and defines them... in the bedroom. Are you starting to get the point?
Think about what kind of girls you are attracted to. What is your type? What is your preference? You may prefer blondes, other men prefer women with junk in the trunk, other men prefer women with big knockers and other men prefer, well, men. The term "sexual preference" means just that. All men have sexual preferences.
Stay focused on what annoys you. Do you find Carson Kressley fucking annoying? You are not alone. Do you find flamboyant drama queers caustic and fake. You are not alone here, either. Your first instinct may be to chalk it up as "I hate fags" but maybe you are smarter than that. Is Carson Kressley annoying because he likes to touch another man's tools OR is Carson Kressley annoying because HE IS A TOOL? Do queens piss you off because they fall asleep at night with another man OR because anyone who is over-the-top, obvious and obnoxious will piss any reasonable person off. Gay or straight has nothing to do with this. Put your disdain in the right place. Annoying people suck because they are annoying; not because of whom they might suck.
Review what you just covered.
You decided you like women so no matter how charming another man may be you are not going to find yourself in the back stall of the men's room playing "now you see it, now you don't". Established: gay men are not a threat to your sexuality.
You realized you don't want other people to judge you based on the craziness you like to engage in behind closed doors. Established: people's fucking is nobody's business outside the people fucking.
You realize you like certain types of gals. Established: we all have sexual preferences. You dig big Mommas that look like Star Jones and some dudes like their partners to look like Brad Pitt.
You realize that they some gay men annoy you. Established: who annoys you has everything to do with a person's personality, intelligence, tact and charm and nothing to do with where they park their pole.
If you went through each of these steps (and thought about them) yet still find yourself hating gay men you need to jump back to step #1. This time don't lie to yourself when you answer it. What we hate the most in others what we really hate the most about ourselves. You don't believe me? No biggie, you are just wrong so keep on lying to yourself about why you hate other people.
When you meet someone as special as A* you are bound to meet many more special people. She has introduced me to so many effing cool people. Dan from The 6th Floor has quickly become someone I can call "friend". He is officially my second favorite person in NYC....
He sent me a great picture of him in the park sporting a hoodie. The darks and lights begged my pencil to hit the paper.
Dan, thanks for letting me "Sketch You Up!"
Dan, I will bring a high-quality print up with me when I come to visit in 10 days.
Really, it was just a matter of time before my cover was blown.
About two years ago I finally cracked the secrets of time travel. More often than not, I was going back 28,000 years to hang with some real old-school bipeds. I did not expect them to immortalize me. I did not expect someone would find the cave I rented by the hour either.
I do. I like to smoke. My mom died of cancer, it makes doing my run in the morning tough as hell and, yet, I still like to smoke.
I like to have a smoke on my deck with a fresh cup of java so I can mentally order my day before I launch into it.
I like to sneak away from a party or get-together with a friend or a stranger and sneak a smoke. It is like getting to smoke between 3rd and 4th period all over again.
I like to talk about heavy shit with a glass of scotch, an informed and thoughtful friend... and a smoke. All the problems of the world can be solved with a bottle of single-malt and a pack of... smokes.
I like to shake off (and settle from) an orgasm with... a smoke.
I am thinking of quitting (again). Maybe starting tomorrow while I do my cleanser detox diet (again).
All of my male readers are to raise their right hand and repeat after me:
(um, you... yea, you with the penis, I am not kidding; raise your damn hand)
I (say your name), swear to never be THAT guy.
I swear to never wear glasses inside or at night unless they correct my vision. This includes sunglasses or any tinted lenses.
I swear to never wear jeans and a linen sports jacket to a formal indoor wedding.
I swear to never start the best man's toast by grabbing the DJ's microphone and throwing out a "Check one-two, yo, yo, yo... y'all listen up. I gotsta sompfin to say." This is especially true if I am not black or if I am over 40 years old.
I swear to never use the phrase "Yer my DOG, B." when referring to the groom during the toast.
I swear to never invite any friends to my wedding that will show up in shorts and T-Shirts (especially if I consider them 'in my posse').
I swear to never grow hair so I can style Farrah Fawcett wings even if I wear a tangly earing that I found in Tommy Lee's donation box on the way to the salvation army.
I swear if I do go for the "lost lead singer of Winger" look (see above), I won't give my hair blond highlights in case you don't notice my style.
Ok, now for my women readers. Raise your hand and repeat after me:
I (say your name), swear to never be the subject of a sentance like "You will not believe her at the wedding yesterday."
I swear to never wear a blouse that exposes my belly button to a formal wedding (especially if it also shows the top of my tatoo that runs from my belly button down to my naughty bits.)
I swear to never bring a date with gold plated teeth even if he has caterpillars for eyebrows and looks like he got to take the costume home after being Tubs' stand-in for the new Miami Vice movie.
I swear never to get a "look at my nose job" nose job that makes pinocchio's nose look dull and stunted.
I swear to never have a priest with "pass the bong" eyes that does schtick do the ceremony.
I swear if I look like I lost my earing at the bottom of the bottomless cheesecake pit and found it without wasting any of the creamy goodness, I will not come to wedding dressed like Stevie Nicks.
Yep, A* and I went to a wedding yesterday. She thought she invited Hofzinser yet apparently took HofSnark instead. I will say that the bride was breathtaking and wearing an magnificently simple and elegant dress. The groom wore a smart, sharp and classic suit instead of a rented monkey uniform. I am a Big Fan of a nice suit and tie vs. a rented monstrocity. They looked stunning.
(yes, the above paragraph officially means I am a butt pirate who watches reruns of Sex in the City - especially the ones that make me cry. SHUT IT... I have to be nice after basting their damn wedding.)
Nobody told A* and I, but we figured that last night must have been "Bring your daughter to a romantic dinner" night. Given, the old-as-dirt dude dating a hot (and much younger) piece-of-ass is very South Florida but they were out in droves last night.
I took the lovely A* to a nice restaurant last night so we could be all kissy-face while looking over the intercoastal and wolfing down some fresh seafood. Dinner was great but we were the minority in the place.
I am 6 years A*'s senior. We love our age difference and I've always believed women mature ahead of men. So 6 is cool... how about 10, 15, 25? When does it get creepy? Is it really creepy and can you fall in love with someone your daughter's age or your Dad's age? Was I being a bigot with my disdain? Was my reaction intolerant? Is disgust over age differences the same as the disgust someone there may of had over A* and I being a being of different races/ethnicities? What if it was tables of older women and much younger men? Would the reaction be different? Should it be? Can I ask you one more question? Can I? Annoying? (I'll be over here if you need me).
Travel became a regular part of my job over six years ago. For many years I traveled three weeks a month. Now I only hit the road for work every two months or so.
At first, the travel is great. Each city is a new place with things to see. San Fran, Vegas, Chicago, LA, San Diego, NYC, Philly, DC, Houston, Dallas, City, City and one more city. Eventually they start to stream into each other.
You find yourself looking for the button for the 28th floor in a 15-floor hotel because your room last week was 2835. You find yourself becoming obsessive about your routines for packing, unpacking, settling into your hotel room, setting up your bathroom because you find comfort in a routine when you live out of a suitcase. You find that all hotel restaurants suck.
You find hotel bars are, by far, the most depressing places on the planet. You find that hotel bars are where bad bartenders go to die. You find that hotel bars are filled with nomadic souls searching to either hook-up, connect or desperately hoping to be left alone in their numbing.
What slowly starts happening is you find yourself spending more and more time in your hotel room. You find yourself spending more time watching limited hotel channel choices or spank-o-vision. You read a lot of books.
So it is Friday night. I am in my hotel room. I've not left the hotel in 30+ hours. I ate alone, I've read every blog on my blogroll. IT IS FUCKING FRIDAY NIGHT! Damnit. I want to go home and I want my girl there.
I will be home tomorrow night but my house will be empty.
As kickers... I get to go to the IRS for an audit on Tuesday and my Dad is not talking to me because he is pissed about something I should be pissed at him about. (I am not even sure that sentance makes sense.)
It is almost 9pm and A*'s free minutes start then. She will be calling me for another Friday night phone date. Thank God for her. I need some cheering up right now.
Your Uncle Hofzinser thinks he's lucky to have you and he doesn't appreciate you as much as he should.
Bathroom Reader accused Mr. Drinker of having terrible taste in movies. Seeing I am the only person around that has actually gone to the movies with Drinker, I feel the need to step into this fray before it escalates and is featured on CNN as the latest blog controversy.
I understand where BR gets the idea that Drinker has bad taste in movies. I must dispute the label, though. It is not that Drinker has bad taste, he is just a Cinematic Optimist. Drinker sees the best in even the worst of movies.
Some examples; I saw Hulk, Daredevil and Constatine with Drinker. All three of these movies are just bad (as in bad, bad, bad, bad). I walked out of the theatres with the "um, not so much" feeling. Drinker liked them. He backed his thumbs-up by pointing to one scene or one aspect that was, in fact, done well. I could not disagree with the micro part of the movies he liked. He then extrapolates this out into the movie being "good" or, at worst, "not bad".
I need more before a movie is raised from the BADlands. Drinker sees the best in people, and movies and I can't fault the guy for it. I thought Fantastic Four was a BAD movie but had some good stuff in it. I will see it again next week with Drinker. I promise he will like the movie.
What we need now is for Drinker to post the 10 worst movies he's ever seen AND the 10 movies he loved that nobody else did. Challenge set, Drinker...
[WARNING: the following post may lead to a trip to your dentist]
On April 1st I met the woman I will spend the rest of my life with. I did not know it then but figured it out pretty quickly. Why do I love A* so much? It's not just for posts on her blog like this one. No, there are so many other reasons:
She loves me for the reasons I want to be loved. She loves my mind, how I think and what I say. She loves me for my creativity and artistic antics (which I pass off as art).
She is so thoughtful. She knows what to say and when to say it. She does little things that make no sense but mean the world to me ($12.00 to fed-ex $1.50 boxes of Jelly Belly Beans 'cause I love them).
She is so fucking smart. What little she doesn't know, she loves to learn about. I can talk to her about anything. I don't have to explain what I am talking about. When I give her a book (Like PJ's Parliament of Whores) she consumes it. When we disagree about things political or social, I am OK with her opinion because I know it is thought through.
She thinks I am a good writer. You all know better so keep your YAPPER SHUT.
Good LORD, she is stunning and sweet on the eyes. A Venezuelan/Cuban cocktail with soft amber skin, lips that start wars, a figure the masters would lop off ears to paint and eyes that see what you are (not what you show yourself as).
She is so generous with her feelings, thoughts and affection. She indulges my silly passions when they only deserve to be laughed at.
She loves what I love. She appreciates what I love that she doesn't understand. Why? For the sole reason that I love it.
Make no mistake about it, she is a lover that even my deepest imagination was unable to conjure. (Damn the distance, now I have to take a break. I'll be back in about 10 minutes)
(back) She makes me a better person by being the one she loves. I don't deserve her, she is WAY out of my league.
She is so talented. She writes with a rhythm and voice that makes you feel like she's in the room with you when you read.
When you talk, she listens. You feel like you are the only person in the room with her.
Sometime early this morning this silly lil' blog broke 5,000 hits. Started on April 3rd of this year, that is gosh-darn groovy traffic. I'm pulling two old stories from the archives that feature my brothers, Youngest and Craftsman. I'm off to teach some seminars but will hopefully post again later tonight.
Never forget your Uncle Hofzinser loves you and thinks you're underpaid and not appreciated at work.
After a heated conversation with his mother, he slams the phone down and stomps into the kitchen. She's reading the morning paper and heard it all. "Honey?" "What?" "You OK?" "I'm fine." "What are you feeling?" "I'm fine" "Seriously, sweetie, I want to talk about it." This is met with THE LOOK as he makes a 180 and heads to the garage to work on the car.
This is the fifteenth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments onthis post.
The alluring WordWhiz asked: Why do men... refuse to talk about their feelings? What are we, mind readers?
Once we men get past the cute toddler stage, moving clearly beyond the baby stage into the little boy stage, there is shift in how we are meant to deal with our feelings. It varies from dude to dude, but this transition happens around age 5 or 6.
In 1953 Kellogg's Cereal released Sugar Smacks. This cereal contained (and thus was aptly named) 56% sugar. In the 80's the "Sugar" was dropped and it was called just "Smacks". It kept the Dig'em frog mascot and, despite dropping "Sugar" from the name, it kept the same sugar content. Why this digression? Read on!
Sometime around the age 5 our little boy (after eating two bowls of Sugar Smacks in chocolate milk, three pop-tarts and a piece of toast that hosted a mountain of Smucker grape jelly) is running through the house making airplane noises with arms outstretched. As the sheer nutrition of his breakfast begins to turn into unrestrained energy, he swoops by Dad who is getting dressed for work. After another circuit around the abode, he makes another run past Dad but something is wrong. The German Luftwaffe Ace on his tail gets a lucky shot and hits the left wing. The boy is unable to control the plane at these speeds. MAY DAY, MAY DAY.
Crash! The door jam of Dad's closet meets the forehead of Dad's first son. The ass of Dad's first son meets the floor of Dad's bedroom. Silence. Slowly the little boy's eyes raise to meet his father's.
"You're fine. Get up. Come on, tough guy, suck it up. It didn't hurt that bad."
This is the moment the tool of our childhood, the cry, is stripped. We spent all of our years utilizing the cry to guarantee parental reaction and attention. In one fateful moment it is made abundantly clear the cry is no longer available. This is not the last "Suck it up" we will hear growing up.
Couple this with how men's feelings work in general. Our feelings are not universal within our mentality. Specific feelings are isolated to specific things - everything in our minds are compartmentalized (holy crap that is a big word). You women have feelings ("how are you feeling?") where as we men have feelings ABOUT things ("how do you feel about this?").
Now, you readers that are also mothers raising little boys, don't take this explanation as incentive to stop the "Suck it up" training. You don't want to raise emasculated men - chicks don't "Dig'em". (how cool is that? I tied the cereal reference back into the post! Look, Ma, I'm a writer, a real writer!)
Solution: You need to do a few things to help extract the feelings your man is having. Be sure you create a safe environment for him to express himself without making it too soft, warm or fuzzy. Let him express his feelings while maintaining his veneer of masculinity. Be sure you are specific. Don't throw out ambiguous questions ("What are you feeling?", "Are you OK?"). Remember he has feelings about specific things, not feelings in general. Another tip - replace "feeling" with "thinking" to get the ball rolling. "Honey, what do you think about the whole thing with your mother?" will get the conversation started. Without ever using the "F" word you will end up getting our "F"eelings.
If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.
Dinner was wrapping up and it proved to her to be a good first date. He is well spoken, attractive and made her laugh more than once. The plates were cleared and they continued to chat as they finished off their bottle of wine.
"So, you travel a lot with work?"
"Yes. I think I've stayed in every hotel in every city. If I see another Marriott I might flip!", he answers.
"So you've been to New York"
"I love that city. I have several clients there and make it into the city several times a year."
She smiles and says, "I love it there too! I love the feeling that anything can happen. It seems like everything happens in New York."
"I hear ya! One night I was working out at the hotel gym and I ended up having a threesome with two personal trainers after it closed. It was WILD!"
This is the fourteenth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments onthis post.
The groovy WordWhiz asked: Why do men... think we want to know about their past conquests??
[Because you need to know how high the bar is set and who you are competing against, damnit! Now shut it and kneel before me! -HofSnark]
Thanks, HofSnark... now for a real answer to another great question.
The answer to this is tied to the well known Stud/Whore double standard. We men are socialized to believe our sexual self-worth is tied to the number of women we've bed and what we did with them. You women are socialized to believe sex is bad and is only done by women of less-than-acceptable moral standard.
Believe it or not, somewhere in out heads we think because these stories impress our buddies, they MUST impress you as well.
If you encounter a man who seems to constantly ring in past sexual conquests into conversation you are facing a man that is insecure about his virility and potency as a sexual male. If you encounter a man that is comfortable with his sexual history (does not skirt the issue) BUT does not turn a conversation that starts with "what is your favorite color" into "Did I mention the asian twins I banged in the study cube in college?" you are facing a man who is comfortable with his own sexual persona. It is kinda like the guy who hates anything or anyone "gay". He has yet to decide which team he plays for and thinks that pushing away lifestyle (b) will eliminate it from contention. He's the guy trying out the glory holes at your local peep booths.
Solution: This is a nice litmus test for you ladies to use to measure the sexual mental state of your man. Is he happy with himself as a lover? Is he sexually healthy? People with a little money talk about money all the time. People with A TON of money never talk about money. Get the idea?
If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.
The recent move to put free wireless access in airport terminals is a sign that there is a God and he loves us. I am waiting to board to Chicago as I type this.
Imagine; I could, while sitting waiting to board a plane, write and publish the most enlightened post you've ever read. In one post I could make you laugh out loud, then cry, then offer something so profound it caused you to rethink your basic moral foundations.
Sitting at the gate I could reach out and present you prose worthy of Melville or Dickens. Characters that you identified with in situations so familiar you questioned if I was writing your life story.
I could do this while in an airport connected to the internet through the thinnest air. I honestly thought about writing such a post and then realized you would prefer a post about sex. Always wanting to satisfy...
My favorite part of you is where your back melds into your hips. I want to outline your shape with the light touch of my finger. I want to kiss you there, softly, as I explore every muscle in your back. I want to.... and I will when I see you again.
I had a great night of chatting with Mr. Drinker and BR last night. Apparently Drinker finished the night praying to the porcelain throne. We discovered all you need to solve the problems of the world are pints of super-yummy pulled draft beer and three guys who really sound like they know what they are talking about.
I am in Chicago for work this week. I leave in the morning and will be back late Saturday night. The posting may be sparse as a result.
Just remember that Uncle Hofzinser loves you and he thinks you look good in those jeans.
Several years ago I was in a very bad place and did a very stupid thing.
At the time there were over forty employees in the department I ran. All of them were road warriors, as was I. They flew out on Thursdays and returned on Sundays. Week after week traveling to a city then home only to fly out to another city the following Thursday.
I had just broken up with my live-in girlfriend at the time who cheated on me. I did not like myself very much and liked her even less. I had been living here in South Florida for only 14 months or so and had made no new friends. My travel schedule made "getting out and meeting new people" a tad tough.
Often I would do unscheduled "drop ins" on a city. One of my teams would be at a city, working, and I would show up unscheduled to audit their performance. On one of these trips I decided to take the team out for dinner which turned into drinks. One of the team members was a very friendly and attractive Columbian woman a few years my junior.
We all proceeded to get trashed at a piano bar in the hotel. Her and I proceeded to flirt more as the glasses got emptier. Flirting and making googly eyes rolled into deliberately excessive touching. I got up and went to the bathroom which was located outside of the bar and in the hotel lobby. As I left the restroom she was standing there.
Before either of us knew it, we were in my hotel room doing very bad things. The kind of things an employee and a supervisor are not supposed to do. She spent the night and fabricated a story to her coworker/roommate about staying at an old friend's house in the city.
For several weeks, when I was in the same city with her team, we would sneak off to indulge in our affair. People got suspicious and someone sent an anonymous email to the CEO. He asked me to come to his office and confronted me. I did not lie.
Once it was clear the affair was consenting sans any prid-quo-quo, I was reprimanded, handed a lower salary and allowed to continue in my role as the department head. She left the company a few months later of her own accord.
We caught up with each other a few months after she left and dated for several months. Being a complete asshole, I ended up getting back together with the ex-live-in girlfriend.
How did I break up with the never-did-anything-wrong ex-employee?
I stopped answering her calls and never called her back.
Because, at that time, I was less than half the person I should've been.
Yesterday on the phone A* and I were laughing at ourselves and our quirks. This spun into a silly conversation about, in light of our senses of humor, how our children may end up.
So I take you into the not-so-distant future....
Where the DNA of two brilliant bloggers have combined...
Creating a miracle of modern science and creative cleverness spun out of control...
I present you the continuing adventures of Little HofzA!
Miss Smith had taught the lesson to her fourth graders so many times she no longer needed her class notes. Division is a concept little ten year olds had trouble wrapping their little minds around. Experience told her that a lesson followed by practice problems and strategic prompting was the best way to let the idea sink in.
After finishing the lesson she writes a problem on the chalkboard.
"248 / 2 = ??"
"Who can answer this one for me?", she asks as she lowers the glasses on her nose to see the faces of her class clearly.
As usual Little HofzA shoots his hand into the air. Not sure if she was up for what could emerge from the clever little devil, Miss Smith surveys the class for another choice. No one else had their hand up. Her choices were limited to one. She says a little prayer and points to her smartest student.
"HofzA, what do you think two-hundred and forty eight divided by two equals?"
She could see the wheels turn and turn. In typical HofzA style, he rose his hand out of instinct and had yet to calculate the answer. After a moment of wheel-grinding, HofzA bursts out, "128!"
The little evil part of her smiles inside, "Um... look at it again, HofzA. It's not 128."
His little eyebrows crunch on his little forehead before he quips back, "122!"
Her hands drop to her hips and she leans forward a bit, "No... and now you're just guessing."
His lips purse and his eyes close. A flurry of numbers and ciphering speeds through his mind.
"Is there anyone else, class, who actually paid attention during the lesson?" Miss Smith breaks eye contact with her too-clever-for-his-own-good pupil and scans the faces of the other children.
I hope you understand that the bastards that hit London today think the Brits will fold and turn tail like you did. You cannot react and fold to terrorists, it only validates their methods. Appeasing only leads to more attacks.
We can all criticize or even hate President Bush but no one can say he has appeased the fanatics. The only solution is what is happening in Iraq already... democratic governments and societies with more liberty. Fanatacism does not breed well in those conditions.
"Fuck you..." she says clearly and a bit louder than she expected (half-wanting him to hear).
It really is a rare day. A Chicago summer is the nicest three days anyone will see. Despite being a Thursday and despite it being two o-clock in the afternoon, it seems like the entire city has taken the day off. Young couples are playing with their newborns under the shade of the park trees, dogs are finally getting the workout of a frisbee thrown by their owners.
Lisa falls back on to her elbows but keeps her knees pointed to the sky. The flower falls loosly from her grip and she watches a cloud drift. Had it really been three years since they met? When he was holding her hand last week on the way to the movie it seemed like they had been together for a decade. Today three years seems like a month.
Even in her anger she loved him more today than when he left last week.
"You selfish son-of-a-bitch", she thought. She is still looking up when her cloud slides under another, much bigger, cloud. He just laughed. That's how they met. She slipped on an ice cube flat on her ass and he stood, at the bar, and tried to hold it back. It was too much and he burst. Of course, she was embarassed and pissed (embarassed for herself and straight-up pissed at the cute stranger laughing).
"I bet we would have never met if that ice cube wasn't there. I was on my way out anyway. Today would be just a sunny Chicago day if not for one fucking ice cube. Instead, it is the first of many anniversaries. One week without David and the fucking sun is shining and the wind is warm."
"I hope you're happy now. I hope you found whatever you thought was missing. Just so you know, it sucks here. The wind is too warm and the sun is too bright."
She forgot to bring a blanket and she thinks the ugly green towel was last left at his place. The grass was already staining her skirt. All she could think about was what he said when he came over from the bar and offered her his hand.
Don't get me wrong, I am all about intentions. I am all about good intentions but less we forget that is all they are... intentions.
"Hell is paved with good intentions, not with bad ones. All men mean well."
-George Bernard Shaw
Live 8 is being lauded as a "huge success". Really? Why?
Have you noticed that we've seemed to move into a mentality where intentions are good enough and results are, at best, glossed over?
Live Aid happened twenty years ago. Africans still starve.
"BUT it raises awareness!"
Correct. It raises awareness for Coldplay's new album, Madonna's aging voice and Bono's expanding ego. It allows good intentioned people to listen to good intentioned artists play (sometime) good music then go home all warm and fuzzy. Measuring Live Aid based on intentions; it was a huge success. Measured based on results? Ask some kids in Kenya that question.
Thinking the G8 can somehow solve the problems of Africa in its 31st conference is more than ludicrous, it's borderline racist and definitely class-ist (and classless). Did the G8 start the last conference by voting to fuck over Africa? The United States ALONE has sent over $30 billion dollars to African nations in the last decade. As with most things, throwing money at a problem eases the minds of the throwers and solves nothing. Sorry, that is not entirely true, it does solve the liquidity problem for many dictators and their Swiss accounts.
Madonna gets on stage and says, "Are you ready, London? Are you ready to start a revolution? Are you ready to change history?" which is hard to hear over the jingle-CLACK of the stones around her neck and on her fingers. She got to go home that night in the glow of her good intentions.
We don't need to reunite Pink Floyd to know there is suffering in Africa. We knew that without hearing "Comfortably Numb". It is the market economies that make the G8 the, well, the G8. Why does anyone think that market economies and more freedom won't bring wealth to Africa? The closest thing to a success in Africa is South Africa. The less social and facist that country becomes, the more successful it, and ALL of its people become.
Drop the intentions and focus on results.
Want to see the corrupt governments fall in Africa? Don't SEND money... cut it off. Stop. Watch the people rise up, as they always do, once enough truly becomes enough. Will there be suffering? Yes. Will CNN get some juicy "the US hates Africa, see the proof" footage of starvation and violence? Yes. Guess what? The suffering and violence is already there but CNN isn't covering it.
Have faith in the people. Every successful nation has the same story; oppression, revolution and upheaval leading to a more democratic state. When the French STOPPED funding the colonies, the revolution started with some tea. When the Brits STOPPED funding the revolution in France, they finally cut off some heads and did something.
She stroks the petals of the daisy carefully so not to pull one out. Immediately she remembers the childhood "he loves me, he loves me not" ritual. A smirk emerges from the corner of her mouth stretching her lips far enough to catch the salty tear as it runs down her cheek.
Wiping the tear away she can't gather the nerve to toss the flower to the ground.
"How the hell could he do this to me?"
She is sitting with her feet close and her legs tucked in front of her. She rests her chin back on her knees. Normally a day like this in a city like Chicago would have her walking with him through the park. He would blush as she caught him checking out the view from the neckline of her tank top. She would have a book like "The Prophet" and he would have a magazine like "Sports Illustrated". He would have the ratty green towel over his shoulder so they could sit on the ground without getting too dirty.
Her knees support her chin and she gets lost in the soft center of the flower. "Are daisies weeds?" She says it out loud and half expects him to answer. He knew all that science shit. He loved to correct her when she lumped tomatoes with vegetables or called a whale a 'big fish'. Then it was annoying and made her feel stupid. The thought of it now makes it hurt that much more.
"Fuck you..." she says clearly and a bit louder than she expected (half-wanting him to hear).
I was married in 1997 and seperated a year later. Her and I still talk. It was not a messy divorce and I got to keep the dishes!
Why did we get married?
We met in college and dated for much of our illustrious college career. She was a person I could spend endless hours with. We were in love. We were young. We believed you graduate from college then you get married. We read somewhere that is what you do.
Why did we get divorced?
She figured out she was gay.
Yep, you read it right. Go ahead and tee-up your best Ross jokes.