The voice echoed from behind my right shoulder and I was surprised to hear my name.

“Uncle D.J. is going to read you a bedtime story. Go pick one out.”

I stopped and spun around. My friend Justin was walking his youngest son Jude to his bedroom. Not knowing much about four year olds, a bunch of questions raced through my head. How long do you have to read before a child falls asleep? Can’t they read themselves? I couldn’t recall a memory from my childhood where someone read to me. My earliest memories of life start at six years old, and I had been reading on my own for a few years at that point. My mother brags that I taught myself how to read at age four. And I guess now I’m bragging to you. Anyway, since I couldn’t recall a personal experience of being read to, what came to mind was Peter Faulk reading to that boy in The Princess Bride. And that movie was two hours long, for chrissakes. I can’t read aloud for that long. As a self-centered adult without children, if I spend more than ten minutes with one, I get nuts.

I sighed and followed Jude into his bedroom. He told me to shut the door and to climb into bed. He was rifling through a series of books strewn about the comforter. I went to shut the door and when it latched I noticed my discomfort. Not only was I not used to being around kids, but I had never climbed into one of their beds. It’s funny because, albeit innocent, I felt like I was doing something wrong. It was too intimate. Remember when Michael Jackson talked about sleeping in bed with kids and how we all retched at the news? But this is my close friend’s son and I’m a good soldier. I climbed into bed into the space that he had made for me.

The book Jude chose was a series of short stories about zombies who live among us. Except in this version the undead were just like you and me except they looked different (rotten flesh) and didn’t murder humans for their succulent brains. In these stories the public treated these zombies as if they were real pieces of crap. It was an attempt to teach tolerance of people who looked different. Which is just what a four year old understands – subtle metaphors about discrimination.

About halfway through the first fable I realized that stories about zombies are pretty energizing. It’s not exactly the literary equivalent of chamomile tea. Try to put a child to bed reading aloud a story about teenage dracula figuring out how to get his blood fix halfway through the senior prom. That’s a thrilling narrative! Nobody falls asleep during the last ten minutes of a Walking Dead episode, you know? I should have picked one of those Berenstain Bears novellas. Those bears never did anything interesting.

And, no, I spelled it right. It’s Berenstain. We all called them the Berenstein Bears growing up but we were wrong. They don’t celebrate Purim and I don’t recall the bear son ever getting Bar Mitzvah’ed.

Back in college I became obsessed with hypnosis. I read dozens of books on the how and why, and started hypnotizing people for fun. Over time I realized that what I said when putting someone under was irrelevant. All you have to do is slow down your voice, deepen it, and talk with a sleepy cadence. A subject fall in seconds if you do it right. As I read to Jude, I applied a hypnotic tonality and pushed my voice into the ether. My goal was to get him unconscious before I got to the end so I wouldn’t have to read a second book.

While I kept my eyes on the book’s pages I could feel that Jude was about to interrupt me. He tried to ask a few questions about the stories (Why does the mummy call his mom a mummy?) but gave up when I answered his question with a question. “Well why do you think that happened, Jude?” Sure, I could have explained the joke, but explaining jokes usually results in the person going, “Uh, that’s not very funny.” So, he gave me his thoughts on the mummy-mommy thing. Whatever his answer was I would just pause, nod slowly and say, “I think you might be right.” This is one of the more effective strategies I have developed when dealing with other people’s kids who ask questions. Earlier that day Jude had asked me if there were monsters in the sea. I asked him what he thought about it. He said he was pretty sure there were. I looked around pretending to check if anyone was within earshot and replied softly, “That makes sense to me.” His eyes grew very wide. I walked away smiling.

As Jude was falling asleep against my right arm I realized that this was a first experience for me. Before this moment I had spent a collective thirty minutes of my entire life in the presence of children. I only have one sister, and if she has any babies she’s keeping them secret because I haven’t met them. I live in Chicago and most of my friends have moved to the suburbs after they started having kids. Which means I rarely see anybody because the suburbs are like way out there and there’s 25k more things to do in the city. When I do trek out to their homes (with yards!) I exchange a few pleasantries with their offspring but I’m there to hang out with the adults. I didn’t drive forty-five minutes to play Thomas the Train Engine with a three year old. Plus, that Thomas face freaks me out something fierce.

I would estimate 40% of the population does not like cats. Which is an oddly high number because I’ve never heard of even one cat-mauling. Dogs chew up babies all the time, but 98% of people still like dogs. I believe that most cat-haters like the idea of hating cats and also like to tell the world that they hate cats. I’ve owned four cats in my life and they were all awesome. Well, one sucked. But batting .750 in cat coolness is a decent average. My suspicion is that people that dislike cats have never spent any quality time in their presence. My current cat is as affectionate as my dog. Plus, she bathes herself which I appreciate.

When girlfriends would ask me why I’m not into talking with my friends’ children I’d say, “Because kids aren’t funny, they say nothing interesting, and they’re sort of gross.” But the truth was I didn’t arrive at these beliefs from real world experience. So reading to Jude was my first actual intimate moment with a child. And, like holding a kitten for the first time, you can’t help yourself loving it. Even if you’re one of those assholes with an intense cat allergy.

So, I guess I’ve changed. I loved the experience of reading to my friend’s child and I did honestly connect with that little guy. It was a real moment, and I made him happy. He hugged me at the end and thanked me for my service. I walked out of the room and felt honored to have been there. Later that evening when I was going to sleep I told my girlfriend about the experience. I teared up while telling her. I was so moved I blurted out that I wanted to have a child someday. Through the tears I said, “I mean, I’m not going to change diapers or anything. I’m firm on that issue.” She assured me I’d make a terrible father.

Since my dog is with me at both the office and at home, I’m rarely not in her presence. But my cat stays at home during the day. As I arrive home from work, the cat races over to greet both me and the dog. She rubs up against both of us while purring. It’s a special moment I get to experience daily. Several of my friends have said the best part of their day is that walk from the car to the house where they know the kids are awaiting daddy’s arrival. I experience a version of that with my cat, but I assume the joy would be stronger with a child screaming my name.

But, who knows? I could end up siring a whole litter of dickheads. That would be a bummer, but if it happened, I’d just refocus my energy to the pets. They’re a sure thing.

Author’s Note – After this was published my mother wanted me to know that she read to me every night. I believe her. She also said that I taught myself to read at age three, not four. Not sure I believe that one.

A friend of mine passed away last month.

And while there’s plenty of humor about dying and being dead, I thought I’d take a short stab at writing something less sophomoric that my usual nonsense. Not a full seven-inches-in-stab, like the murderer in the song Blood on the Dance Floor. Michael Jackson wrote some dark lyrics. But boy could he move like the wind. Anyway, I’m drifting. Back to the topic at hand – my friend’s death.

The deceased is named Bill Flynn. I met him in an AA meeting seven years ago. After the lead (the main speaker), the meeting opened up to comments from the peanut gallery. Bill said something like, “Once you’re sober the real work begins. Like figuring out why you needed to escape through drugs and alcohol in the first place.” Bill had been sober for 25 years by the time I met him.

A year into knowing Bill he invited me to a group he had just created that met on Wednesdays. It had nothing to do with addiction and anyone was welcome to attend. The idea was that you could bring in your truth – something you were struggling with in life, and there would be processes to help you overcome the obstacle. He didn’t call it a support group because, well support isn’t always necessary. All sorts of people attended. Once a woman came and revealed, “My step-father raped me and now he’s dead and I’m angry about it because he was never punished.” So, Bill would set up a scenario where she could confront the memory of her father and get angry. Another woman  cried because she said she didn’t think she any man could ever find her attractive. Turns out her mother wasn’t complimentary about her robust physique as a child. It takes time to unpack that kind of damage, and she kept showing up and doing the work. Three years later she announced she had met a man and they started dating. A year after that they got married. All of us went to the wedding. That’s the kind of group it was. People worked through stuff.

In 2013 Bill announced he was leaving the group. He had taught us how to do the facilitations and his goal was always to resign as soon as everyone became competent at helping each other. I stepped in and became the defacto leader.

What I’d like to do is share a few of Bill’s most important teachings. They have helped me immensely and I find myself quoting Bill more than any other person in my life. I even referenced him in my sister’s wedding speech last fall where I was the officiant. So in no particular order here’s some of my favorite Bill Flynn wisdom.

The hardest thing in the world to do is tell the truth. – Bill Flynn

No, we’re not talking about lying to the police about how 70 lbs of illegal bath salts found their way into your trunk. If that ever happens, go ahead and lie. You’re kind of screwed regardless. Telling the truth is about telling the whole truth. The ugly truth. The dark truths about yourself that even you don’t want to acknowledge. Because if someone saw ALL the ugliest parts of you, they’d run screaming, right?

Let’s say your best friend suffers a miscarriage and you feel no sadness for her. Maybe you’re even a little happy she’s suffering because she flaked on dinner plans a few weeks before. Try admitting that to yourself. Then, imagine telling someone. That ain’t easy. Or maybe you’re about to get married and you know your future bride is the wrong partner but the wedding is a week away. Bill never suggested you should tell the truth at all times. It’s impractical and, in many cases, downright stupid. His point was that it’s hard to be honest.

We once had a guy named Jason come into the group who had been molested by a relative. He had never told anyone. He couldn’t reveal this to his girlfriend because he was afraid she would see him as broken. He couldn’t be there for her sexually because of the trauma. He couldn’t focus and was in and out of college and jobs. When we heard his story, by the end, everyone was crying. Except Jason. He looked stunned. His biggest fear was that we would see him the way he saw himself. We all have fears about revealing the hard stuff. The irony is, by revealing your truth people fall in love with you. Which leads me to another Bill maxim.

The only way to build intimacy is through sharing vulnerability. – Bill Flynn

When I first started in therapy years ago, my shrink asked if I had any close guy friends and I said I did. She asked if I ever talked with them about my own issues. I laughed and said, “Guys don’t do that.” She laughed back and said, “No, D.J. – guys do that. YOU don’t do that.” I was terrified that I would burden my friends with my problems, or that they’d see me as damaged. And then, they would want to leave and I’d lose the friendship. What Bill taught me was that if you have the courage to tell the truth (see above), your friends will bond tighter to you. And by sharing yourself you’ve created the space to allow them to share their own stuff. As soon as I started talking about my fears, they immediately shared their own struggles. I couldn’t believe my successful and happy friends had troubles just like me. Plus, by knowing someone’s struggles, you can better support them. In short, it’s how you become a better friend. Bill never said this directly, but the bottom line was if you don’t want to be lonely, have the courage to share all of you with people you trust.

All roads lead back to mom and dad. – Bill Flynn

Bill was convinced that most of our problems as adults are because our parents screwed up. Now, this is a difficult concept for some to get on-board with, especially if you like your parents. If your folks were obvious shitheads, this is a no-brainer. But what if they paid for your college, told you they loved you, and tried their very best to make sure you had everything you needed? Can you really say that you have low self-esteem because dad traveled too much for work and missed important events in your youth? Yes. You can say that. Bill taught about the difference between blame and telling the truth. He would say, “Our parents did the best they could. And it wasn’t enough.” Then he would pause and say, “…and it’s okay.” It’s a massive disservice when we make excuses for others’ bad behavior. It’s okay to acknowledge their imperfections and the resulting ripples in your psyche. That’s not blame. That’s just the truth. And speaking of acknowledging the truth…

You cannot forgive someone until you hold them accountable. – Bill Flynn

So, back to our previous example of a jetsetting, absent father. You’re a thirty year old woman and don’t trust men because you never got Dad’s affection or attention. Your relationships are suffering because of the damage your father did to you as a child. Did he mean to screw you up? Probably not. But it happened. Your dad did other wonderful things, so it’s okay to praise him in your mind for the good. It’s also okay to condemn the bad. People are complicated and imperfect. But, how do you hold Dad accountable? Actually, you already did. By telling the truth to yourself. Dad did some things perfect, some things just okay, and some things that crippled your mental health. That’s not blame. That’s honesty and accountability. It happens in the mind. And once you hold that person accountable, it opens up the ability to forgive. In fact, it often happens automatically. It’s a cool trick that I was never taught in school. I was too busy taking stupid classes like civics.

Anger is the best way to protect a boundary. – Bill Flynn

Anger is a healthy emotion. But it scares us. I know I’m not entirely comfortable with my own. Growing up anger is condemned and shamed. In reality, anger is just a feeling that naturally arises from the body and mind. And it’s a damned good tool to have in case anyone tries to violate a boundary. Bill used to say, “If you can’t get angry, you’ll be fucked because some time in life you’ll need it and it might just save your life.” If you’ve ever had to protect someone physically, you know how important anger is to summon. It’s the only thing bullies understand. If you want to defeat a bully, defend your boundary. Anger protects us.

The healthiest relationships are in which two people are free to leave. – Bill Flynn

I just had someone end a relationship with me. It was the most painful experience of my life, moreso than even my divorce. However, the reality is that you cannot control someone’s decisions. You fight like hell for them, and you give them all of your love, but ultimately you honor their choice to leave. And if you “can’t live without them”, well maybe it’s time to pick up a book on co-dependence. Of course you can live without them. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care whether someone stays or goes. You will care. It will level you when someone disappears from your life. It’s loss and it’s supposed to hurt. Or as Bill used to say, “It’s the risk of love. And it’s worth it even if they leave.”

Bill’s Favorite Poem

I could write a dozen more Bill expressions, but the reality is I’m no biographer. And most people don’t have interest in this kind of stuff. But Bill did. I do. And hundreds of other people who were helped by him. the reality is that I’m a healthier person because of some of the stuff Bill taught me. I’m a better person, too.

I’ll wrap up with Bill’s favorite poem. I’ve read maybe seven poems in my life and the only one I remember is “To the Virgins, To Make Use of Time” by Herrick. Probably because I was a virgin when I read it. Anyway, Bill said this sanskrit poem out loud so many times, I damn near have it memorized. It perfectly sums up what he was all about.

Look To This Day

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn.

– Kalidasa

As a child fireworks were illegal in Illinois. If, in high school, you wanted to shoot bottle rockets at your friends while running around a golf course drunk at midnight, you needed to travel out of state to procure the armament. The statutes must have been repealed because this weekend I came across a tent on the way to my parent’s home chock full of China’s best. Google Maps was navigating me through a rural part of the state when I saw the fireworks stand. It was situated in a cornfield with a huge sign revealing that that tent had the “best prices guaranteed.” I almost didn’t stop, however.

What got me to pull over was a phone call. My parents had planned a white water rafting trip for this weekend. This would be a test to see if, as a family, we enjoyed it enough to book a more intense rafting excursion . The word was that this place in Illinois, halfway between Chicago and Peoria, had decent rapids. I didn’t get to find out because the owner called me on my drive to Peoria to let me know that the river had dangerously low water levels and that all rafting trips were canceled. His voice had a thick country accent and he used phrases like, “Shoot!” and “Dawggone it!” while relaying the bad news. As I hung up I saw the tent. Since I had never bought fireworks, and our weekend plans were ruined, I pulled over.

Inside the tent I walked straight to the owner and asked for the best option if I wanted to blow up some dorm toilets at the local all-girls college. Not the best icebreaker, I confess, but she laughed. I said I would need a variety pack and that it would only be for me and my parents. She pointed to a massive pack and told me it was what I wanted. Nay, what I needed. Since I trust most everyone, and also I had no idea what I was looking at, I commanded her to ring it up. $160 later my car was stuffed with a 6 ft box of explosives. My dog rode on top of them in the back seat. She didn’t mind.

Because July 4th fell on a Monday this year I wasn’t going to be able to stay in Peoria the night of the actual fireworks event. I have to work on a Tuesday, and, I have a perfect vantage of the fireworks here in Chicago from my apartment. And, I’m assuming the Chicago fireworks budget is a smidge larger than the Peoria coffer. Huge Chinese lobbyists in Chicago, you know.

Speaking of Chinese – my former girlfriend and I would play ping pong at a real-deal Chinese ping pong club all the time. This place was straight out of the movie Balls of Fury. I’m about the greatest caucasian ping pong player you’ll ever meet, and she and I would rent out tables there. I bet your town has one. Look in the yellow pages under “ping pong.”

So, last night, on the eve of the 4th, we decided as a family to light off my cornfield-purchased fireworks. Since I had bought some heavy duty stuff the question now became, “Where do we light this stuff off?” I suggested the backyard but was quickly voted down as my parents had just re-bricked and landscaped the back patio and there were trees and grass and other things that could catch fire. Also, it’s a neighborhood so you didn’t want to land a stray roman candle onto someone’s roof  (but seriously, what kind of asshole builds a home with a wood shingle roof?). My father, the great problem solver that he is, reminded us that there was a church a block away with a huge parking lot. He scoped it out and said there weren’t any cars there at the present. I told him that certainly there would be a security guard patrolling the perimeter. My dad shrugged.

I won’t bore you with too many details, because, well, it’s fireworks. You light the fuse, run away and then stare at the sky for a few seconds. Then, repeat ad infinitum. And that’s what we did. Nobody came out of the church to shoo us away. Back when I was nineteen I was a security guard (at a Jewish retirement home) and, if this guard was anything like me, he was inches deep into a Dean Koontz novel, not paying any attention to the flashes of fire or gunshot noises outside. Remind me to tell you about the three times I found dead people that summer at the retirement home. Not hilarious stories, per se, but a few decent chuckles apiece.

After lighting ten of the big cylindrical fireworks, we got busted. A woman in a minivan (why is it always a woman in a minivan?) was driving by, saw our shenanigans, and pulled into the lot. I was busy lighting fireworks so I paid no attention. In between one of the fire-showers I heard her yell, “This is private property! You are all trespassing!” She grumbled another sentence to my mom and then drove off. To her credit she didn’t threaten to call the police, but we got the message. We packed up the remainder of the booty and headed home.

After we got home it occurred to my father that the church coincidentally was of the same denomination as our family. My mom should have said, “No, it’s okay, we’re Presbyterians, too.”

Okay, fisticuffs are an exaggeration. I haven’t ever participated in a true, punch-throwing fight. Once in my youth I jumped on top of a guy who was trying to hurt a co-worker of mine and I tried to choke him out. It was fifteen years ago and seemed like the best option at that moment. After the incident (which lasted ten seconds) my co-worker said, “I’ve never seen anyone use a strangle move before.” I must have appropriated that technique from all of the 1980s buddy cop movies I watched as a child. I haven’t been in a fight before or since.

While I am capable of getting charged with anger, I don’t let other people bug me to the point where I need to separate their nose from their face. It’s too much energy. Also, I don’t want to know what the inside of a bail bondsman’s office looks like. I’m guessing stained shag carpeting with a heavy stench of stale Merits.

To prove of how cool under pressure I maintain, I offer this anecdote. Just yesterday while driving to the vet I looked over and a guy was flipping me the bird. Instinct took over and I belly laughed. I don’t know why he was upset since I drive like an old lady, but somehow I had offended his sensibilities. My laughing agitated him and he intensified the speed of his finger-wagging. This made me laugh harder.

But I did find myself ruffled this past Friday at the orthopedic office.

For the first time in my 39 years I have a body ache. Somehow I made it this far in life without a broken bone or dislocated rotator cuff. I’ve never had back pain, tennis elbow or shin splints.

When I’m at the gym and the trainer has me doing the ultra-manly standing squats and lunges, every so often my left knee hurts. It’s uncommon but when it comes I have to stop the exercise. Since I pay good money for health insurance, I booked a consultation with a knee specialist. My personal trainer, no joke, suggested it was all in my head and not real. I didn’t get upset with him because he’s kind of a dummy. He suggested, “Maybe you got a placebo going on. You know, in your head.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him on the definition of “placebo.”

At the orthopedic’s office, before the exam room, a technician was assigned to check my height, weight, and blood pressure. I had to stand on a scale and a measurement thing lowered onto to my head.

Okay, you’re 5’11”.

Wait, did you say 5’11”?

Yes.

Oh, that’s wrong. I’m 6’2″.

That’s not what the scale says. [Points to screen] 5’11”.

Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, but I’m 6’2″.

Do you want to have the machine test you again?

Sure, unless it is going to show 5’11”. Because then we’ll be right back here and I’ll be telling you I’m 6’2″.

[Points again at screen]

Okay, let’s give the machine another chance at doing its only job. [I step back on scale]

Oh, you’re 6’1″.

No, I’m 6’2″, actually just a few millimeters shy of 6’3″, but in the interest of compromise I’ll go with 6’1″.

[Blank stare]

—

Next he tested blood pressure and I scored a 190/94. That’s high and I’ve never in my life measured anything outside of normal range. It’s possible this was an accurate reading since I was reeling from the height debate I had just lost. I learned that when someone challenges a fact about myself, I do not handle it well. I would bet that my frustration notched up the blood pressure reading a few points. I’m not sure what scam the tech thought I was attempting to pull. I’ve heard women tell me that men lie about their height on dating profile websites, so maybe he thought I was gay and flirting? If I was into orthopedic-male-height-and-weight-techs-with-scary-tattoos-behind-their-right-ear, maybe he’d have a point.

Later in the exam room I joked with the doctors about what happened. I made it a point to make it seem funny because I didn’t want to get the tech in trouble or make him look incompetent to his bosses. I mean, he is incompetent, but everyone needs to earn a living. But I also didn’t want the chart to be wrong. I mentioned that since the machine was off on my height, maybe my blood pressure reading wasn’t accurate either.

They remeasured the blood pressure and this time it was a perfect 180/20. Regarding my pain it turns out I have something called Runner’s Knee. This would be a badge of honor if I placed in Ironman competitions. It’s less cool since I run only three miles on a treadmill twice a week. It’s fixable, however. I have to strengthen a few muscles around the knee and even a tiny muscle in my rear end. They scheduled me for some PT sessions where I can learn the exercises and bring them back to my trainer.

Later that day at the gym I attempted to tell my trainer about the meeting with the doctors. I believe he was offended because he cut me off with, “I could have told you all that. I’ve been training you a year, so I know what is going on with you.” It’s an odd choice to get defensive over getting some x-rays and talking to a doctor, but again, he’s dopey. Maybe he felt I was blaming him or something – which is insane because I never blame him. My trainer got fired a few years ago for threatening to beat up a client in the gym. Then, he filed a suit against the gym and they gave him his job back. This is not rumor or exaggeration. This is the exact story he told me on our second ever training session. Since then I have been very careful to agree with everything he says.

“Yeah, I know you know more than those doctors, but I just wanted to make get the x-ray, make sure I didn’t have arthritis. Or the placebo.”

photo credit: TRX Personal Trainer via photopin (license)

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I’ve been into New Agey crap for twenty years. Most of it is BS but I’ve always found spiritual practices entertaining. Back when I was nineteen I was introduced to the idea of chakras. Whether they’re real or not (probably not) I can still feel all seven of them simply by putting my attention on those areas of the body. Which to me, if they’re not real, is even more amazing. That the mind is so powerful that one can create feelings in certain spots of  one’s physical being.

For years I’ve read about the Law of Attraction which has been popular ever since  The Secret hit. This was a best-selling book that millions embraced because it introduced the idea of daydreaming. Yes, you can have what you want by merely thinking of it! Of course, the real world doesn’t work that way. You need to bust your ass to get what you want.

Or do you?

I’m currently reading a book on manifesting. I won’t mention the name, but all these types of books are pretty much the same. They claim there’s a force in the universe that, when you align yourself with, will bring into reality that which you desire.

The easiest way to defeat this philosophy is to think of all the starving people in the world. Maybe they just didn’t think about food hard enough! Clearly nonsense. However…

What if it is possible to attract certain things just by thinking about them?

In this book you’re supposed to put your attention on what you want (the author said to pick something small that you believe is possible but unlikely to happen) and give it a due date of forty-eight hours. You’re to literally command the universe to produce your wish within two days.

I like bossing things around so I figured I’d give it a try. Nothing to lose really.

I won’t mention what I’m attempting to manifest but it is objectively verifiable. In two days I’ll either have this thing or not. One of the points of manifesting, the author states, is that you have to believe that receiving the item is possible. I’m putting aside all logic and reason and changing my belief system for the next few days.

In my experience to bring something into the world requires hard work and discipline.

But then again, I have also had unusual circumstances where things I wanted just showed up.

In an earlier exercise from the book I attempted to manifest that a brand would contact me to do a promotion. Brands rarely reach out to me – it’s not a common occurrence. Two brands tweeted out to me within the next day. Weird. But could also be coincidental.

The worst thing that could happen with this exercise is that I don’t end up with what I didn’t have anyway. Should that occur, I’ll get back to my normal way of manifesting. Putting my head down and working diligently for a long period of time.

But if it does work I’m going to milk this manifesting thing for all I can get. Riches, fame, fortune? Already on the list.

Also, if the universe was really cool it would hook me up with chiseled abs without me having to do any sit-ups.

I COMMAND THEE!

photo credit: Malingering via photopin cc

I called it CelebTweets. After a few posts went live a television producer contacted me with an idea. If I wrote fifty more of these she could pitch it to publishers and get a book made.

She cautioned me, however, to be very selective on what else I wrote on my blog. I did a lot of other styles of posts and she thought that might hurt my “brand.” If I wanted a book deal, I needed to decide if I would be the guy that bugs famous people on Twitter exclusively.

I decided against it. I wanted to do other things.

At the time I was separated and starting to go through a divorce which would become the most painful experience of my life. I had only, up until then, written silly posts. I was terrified to try anything unfunny. Looking back, I don’t know why this was such a scary proposition – I only had fifty readers. If nobody liked the serious stuff I could always go back to comedy.

By the way, my dad’s dick post is still the most popular story on this blog. Can you believe 154k visitors read that last year? Yes, that’s sad. And yes, I’m bragging.

I decided to change up my style. I started to chronicle feelings, thoughts, and perspectives around daily life. Sure I’d pepper in a joke or two, but the overarching theme was honesty and vulnerability. That was my mission.

In 2012 I ended up writing every day.  I published 185k words that year. And let me tell you, not all of the posts were gold. Some were flat out stinkers.

The number one reason bloggers tell me they don’t write more often is that they want each post to be gold. I understand. I do, too. But I have way more singles and doubles in me than home runs. I also have strikeouts.

Yesterday I struck out. I sat at my computer for two hours trying to save a piece of shit. It wasn’t working no matter how many times I edited. But, in a way, I felt okay about it. The piece was as good as it was going to get. I had pride because even though the post didn’t turn out perfect, I had done all that I could. I hit publish.

According to stats 74% of my daily traffic comes from new visitors. Today many people were introduced to my blog with maybe the worst post I have ever written. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t return.

So, why do I publish strikeouts?

One, failure is part of human experience. We all put effort into projects that don’t pan out. People relate to mistakes. Two years ago I dropped the need for my posts to be perfect and the weirdest thing happened. My viewership increased. The comments from readers got longer and more frequent. I was connecting with people at a deeper level than that of just fart jokes.

Also, many kept coming back after a less-than-stellar post. People forgive. I found that the only time anyone got pissed was when I didn’t share something intimate or “real.” Like if I wrote a joke that for a quick laugh I would receive little engagement.

I believe part of respecting and honoring an audience is to show them the truth. The flubs. Times that it doesn’t come together. As long as the writing is honest and in my voice I push it through. Now, I accept the consequences of this behavior, too. I lose readers who expect better consistency.

I guess at the end of the day I just want to feel good. During that marathon session yesterday I put my heart and sweat into that piece. I just re-read it again and yes, it’s cringe worthy. It was also the best I could do. I feel good about it because I see all the hard work that went into the process.

The question is, however – should I subject the audience to a mediocre post?

I’m probably alone here, but I say yes. A resounding yes. I just want to try my hardest and let the chips fall where they may. Were there readers bummed out after reading yesterday? I don’t know – I’m sure some were unimpressed.

So, here’s my deal. I write a lot. I have a boring, normal life and sometimes my posts will suck. Usually they won’t. Thanks for understanding.

photo credit: Plutor via photopin cc

Well, I’ve tweeted about the Squatty Potty. It’s changing my life. Hands down, the best $25 I’ve spent. Actually, I didn’t spend the money. I asked my girlfriend for it for Christmas. How’s that for a trusting relationship? We had only been dating around four months at the time. Anyway, I recommend you check it out. Trust me.

I’ve  written several times about how most evenings I have no idea about what’s I’m going to discuss on the blog. Ideas don’t often pop into my head earlier in the day. Most of the time I’m filled with a low-level fear that I won’t be able think of anything good. I let that fear overtake me for a full year in 2013.

Back in 2012 I participated in the Ultimate Blog Challenge. This is where you motivate yourself to write every day for a month. I pushed through the difficulties and ended up writing four hundred days without a miss. Then I hit a wall and needed a break. I got out of the habit and  only published around seventy-five entries over the past year. I’ve re-committed to posting every day this January. We’ll see what happens after that.

The book that really kicked my ass into gear creatively, is The War of Art  by Steven Pressfield.

In the book Pressfield states there are only two types of creatives – amateurs and pros. He is militant in his beliefs that writers need to write as often as possible. That they’re not supposed to strive for perfection – that will just paralyze and halt the ability to create. He posits that you have to be willing to “turn pro” which means you are no longer a sidelines observer, that you take time every day to do your work.

This book was just the reminder I needed that when I sit down and “do my work” I find the greatest reward. I feel satisfied creatively. People have asked me over the years how to find a blog audience. I tell them to write with truth and vulnerability. Everyone wants to connect through shared experience.

But I also tell them one other thing – write for yourself. Here’s why. It’s not because it’s the noble thing to do – there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find readers. The reason to write for yourself is because YOU get to feel good.

Here’s my process. I sit down at the computer. I’m terrified and doubtful that I have anything to say. Most of the time nothing comes for fifteen or twenty minutes. I write anyway. Something begins to take shape. I’m still doubting the entire way until the last sentence. I re-read the piece three times more and remove extraneous words. I still feel unsure. I finish editing, hit publish, and call it a night.

The next morning, on the way to work (I take the subway) I re-read what I had completed the night before. The strangest thing happens – I start to feel good. Not because every sentence is perfect – I’m probably critical of 80% of the content. But I find a few gems in each post and I feel more pride than just about anywhere else in my life. At that point I don’t care if anyone reads it, comments it, or shares it on Facebook. I’m satisfied with what I wrote and nothing can alter that feeling.

From there anyone who reads the post or comments or shares is gravy. The fact that people want to read this stuff is a very gratifying experience. As such I try to connect back to them through comment replies and reading their content should they be a writer.

I encourage you to read Pressfield’s book. It’s not for the faint of heart. He’ll kick you up and down the creative hall. He takes no prisoners. But at the end – he’s right. You get to feel satisfied when you beat your resistance (we all have it) and sit down to do your work. It’s just about the best feeling in the world.

Last Friday, like a good and dedicated employee, I went into work. There were some appointments I had set up for the early part of the day. On the way home I popped into a Dominick’s grocery store to pick up a few items needed for the weekend. I remembered that all my holiday cards had arrived after Christmas and I was to send them out that weekend.

The bozo working the cashier station had a frenetic energy about him and clearly was new to the job. He had to bug an associate with various questions while I was waiting in line. At my turn I asked to add some stamp books to the order. Of course he didn’t know how to ring it up, how many stamps were in a book, or that he was supposed to actually put the stamps in my bag. I made it home before I realized he had forgotten to give me the stamp booklets.

No matter – I would pick them up on Monday when I went back to work. Yesterday I learned that all the Dominicks had closed permanently on Sunday. The day after I bought my stamps. The day before I was going to show up and get my paid-for stamps. Apparently Dominick’s stores were underperforming and the parent company, Safeway, pulled the plug. I had spent a tidy sum on invisible stamps. I’m going to try to call the credit card company and see if I can get a partial refund on my order. That will be a fun call, explaining that 77% of the charges were legitimate.

For over three hours yesterday I addressed and stuffed dozens of holiday cards. Earlier this month I tweeted out that once again I would be giving away cards to readers and I received a shitload of requests. Apparently there are a lot of lonely people reading this blog. Kidding.

I spend a lot of time designing the card each year, and I had come up with two gags stuffed into each envelope. Well, for just under a hundred of you, your cards are somewhere floating around in the Chicago dump.

I was at work when a sharp pain hit my stomach. It was 9:34am.

The message was clear – I had thrown the cards away in the dumpster of my condo complex.

Leaving for work this morning I grabbed two garbage bags to take with me downstairs. In addition, I had all of the holiday cards stuffed in one of the old-school brown-paper grocery bags. I also had a dog strapped to my back in a backpack. Somehow by the time I made it downstairs (four flights) I had forgotten that the bag in my left hand was for keepsies and the garbage bags in my right hand was for throw-awaysies. All went into the bin.

Now, don’t feel too bad for yourselves. Feel bad for me. Here’s why.

Not only did I have all the holiday cards in that grocery bag, but also my fourth quarter company taxes with forms (including an annual report and checks for the government). I have absolutely no idea what forms were included or the amounts paid. Next are all the thank-yous for gifts received, including one to my girlfriend’s parents. Last are three winning scratch-off tickets worth $34. I don’t play the lottery, but for a goof I bought some for Beth and I as stocking stuffers. I’m pretty sure there was at least one other important item in the bag, but damned if I remember.

Bottom line – nobody’s getting a card from me this year. I apologize. I even had put the extra cards in the bag just in case somebody came to mind that I had forgotten. My mom and dad, sister, and grandmother are not getting their card either. It’s all in the trash. The best I can do is show you what you would have received.

The first is the card itself.

But that’s not all – not by a damned sight! I also included a holiday letter, outlining the family’s accomplishments, moods, and disappointments of the year.

Not my family, of course. Some letter I found online.

From 2008.

I had printed one for each person, folded and stuffed it into each envelope along with the card. I was most excited about this joke. Even though my friends and family would instantly understand the gag, I assumed that many readers would be confused since they might not be aware I wasn’t raised a Lambson.

 I’m not sure what else to say – I’m as disappointed as you. I’ll know you’ll eventually heal and this memory will only slightly affect you ability to enjoy future holidays, but I’ll still feel a little responsible.

Oh, and apparently asparagus is good for hangovers, in case you’re wondering what to do on January first. Just steam up a batch between dry heaves.

For most of my life I wouldn’t let caffeine into my system. I decided at eighteen that it was a terrible chemical to introduce to one’s system and never let it pass my lips. In that same year I became an evangelist against milk and swore off the white. I had read a book which said both were evil and would be the downfall of health. You have to remember that this was before the internet and anything I read in a book was gospel. I fell for pretty much every new-age fad including chakra healing, food combining, subliminal positive messages, and neuro-linguistic programming. I studied hypnosis and moved my furniture around so my bed was in alignment with the earth’s polarity. I bought a juicer and had nothing but freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast. Today we call that an unbalanced breakfast (and probably the onset of a candida fungus). Back then it was the healthiest thing you could do.

So, even though I would punish my system with heroic amounts of fast food I never touched a Diet Pepsi. Oh, and I couldn’t stand the taste of coffee, either. Weird, I know.

I was good with any of the three flavors of Fresca. Simple and clean.

Well, after a lifetime of avoiding caffeine, I took the plunge. I can’t remember exactly how it happened but, in a moment of weakness I tried a Monster energy drink and got gacked to the nines. Oh yeah, I don’t drink or do drugs, so it was pretty exciting.

Caffeine was a real rush. Pure pleasure shot up my spine and into every neural synapse. I could concentrate like never before and a sense of well-being emerged.

It took around a week before I was hooked.

Unfortunately, my body doesn’t understand moderation. As much as I’ve educated myself through exercise, diet, therapy and education, I’m just not wired up to have one drink of anything. I’ve tried coffee (which I hate) and I end up having like four cups in a row. It’s an insane rush and I must have more.

I even switched recently from caffeine drinks to caffeine pills (not the super unhealthy diet pills – just pure caffeine) to see if that would manage my intake better. It did not. I ended up drinking energy drinks plus  the pills.

In short – I was hooked. Correction – I am hooked.

Now, I know people think energy drinks are the devil and all that, but I’ve looked at the research and it’s not all that alarming. I’m not dealing with any health issues that I know of. Of course my adrenal glands are probably burning out, but, who knows?

I decided today to stop cold turkey.

Today is Day 1.

I had a few last energy drinks in my desk at work yesterday. I slammed them in a final hurrah of immaturity.

The reason why I’m giving up caffeine isn’t for a health concern or even that I’m abusing the substance. It’s because it’s yet another example of how I use an external object to take me out of the present. The present consists of my thoughts and feelings. I am so afraid of the tough feelings that I run from them at first sight. We all stray away from time to time, but I’ve remained jacked on the sauce for pretty much every waking hour of the day the past few months. Not ideal.

When I’m on caffeine and not present for my feelings I don’t write well (or at all), I’m not as active with my friends or relationships, and I just don’t get a lot of stuff done. I escape to a fantasy world. It’s a little crazy.

Most people just use a cup of coffee to wake up a bit. I drink 200 mg and start flying around the room.

So tomorrow it’s back to the old D.J. – all of me which includes  fear, sadness, anger, and guilt that that I’ve been avoiding for the past three months.

Oh, I know I’m going to have a massive headache for a few days so I will stay jacked up on ibuprofen. I’m okay with that.

Wish me luck.